Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Louis knew he should’ve moved out from his flat ages ago.

Yeah, the location was great—a safe omega neighborhood, close enough to everything. But the flat itself? Ancient. Held together by peeling paint, stubborn ghosts, and Louis’s sheer optimism.

The water heater, though. That bastard had it out for him personally. Which is why, at seven a.m., Louis was standing under a drizzle of arctic misery, teeth chattering while he tried to wash fast enough not to turn into an ice sculpture.

He cursed Martha, his landlord, for the hundredth time. Martha was nice, sure. Lovely, actually—if what you wanted from a landlord was banana bread and unsolicited advice about essential oils. But every time something broke, her answer was the same: send her creepy son.

And that meant Louis had to spend an hour pretending not to notice an alpha gawking at him, while also having the joy of being explained how water works. Like he hadn’t been bathing himself since he was three.

Louis stormed out of his flat already in a mood. He didn’t even have time for tea, so now he was trudging to work on fumes and rage alone. The tube was late—of course. Twenty whole minutes of staring at a flickering timetable while some teenager next to him chewed gum like it was a sport. By the time he finally arrived at the OneHeart Amputee Rehabilitation Center, Louis was half-convinced the universe had it out for him personally.

He skipped the nurse station completely and headed straight for the break room, made himself a cup of tea, and held it like it was a newborn child. The first sip unclenched something in his soul. He should honestly track down the inventor of tea and mail them a gift basket. Or a statue. Maybe both.

“Tough morning?” a voice asked.

Louis nearly spilled scalding salvation down his shirt. He turned to find Niall, one of his best friends and also the best physiotherapist in the center, grinning like the smug little gremlin he was.

“Tough life,” Louis groaned, sinking deeper into his cup.

Niall chuckled. “Someone’s grumpy. Save it for your patients. You’ve got a good one today.”

Louis squinted at him. “Do I? Because last I checked, Liam didn’t mention a new patient.”

“Maybe the hospital decided to unload him on us this time,” Niall said cheerfully. “And I heard him first thing—screaming at the night nurse to ‘get her paws off’ when she tried to help him bathe.”

Louis rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they came back down again. Fantastic. Just what he needed: a feral patient with attitude. If this one turned out to be another alpha who looked at him like he was a bug on their boot, Louis was going straight to Liam’s office to demand a raise. 

Six years at OneHeart had taught him this much: hospital work was a sprint, but the rehab center was a marathon. They didn’t just patch people up and send them home. They took in the tough cases—the ones who needed prosthetics, therapy, the works. The ones trying to relearn not just how to move, but who they were.

It was hard. It was also why Louis loved it. Most days, anyway.

Today, though? He had the sinking feeling the only thing standing between him and total despair was his cup of tea.

Louis groaned louder, dragging his hand down his face. “Brilliant. Just what I needed. Another feral alpha with the bedside manners of a rabid raccoon.”

“Think of it as part of the job description,” Niall offered with a grin.

Louis leveled him with a look. “Pretty sure the job description said rehabilitate patients, not wrestle wild animals.”

“Details,” Niall said, already halfway to the door with his own mug. “Besides, I hear this one’s a real charmer. War hero, all scarred up, brooding in the corner like a painting come to life.”

Louis snorted. “Wonderful. Nothing like a moody alpha with trauma and a superiority complex to brighten my day.”

“Don’t worry,” Niall called over his shoulder. “He only bit the night nurse a little.”

Louis choked on his tea. “What?”

But Niall was gone, and Louis was left clutching his mug like a shield, wondering if “hazard pay” could be retroactively negotiated.

_____________

Louis didn’t have to wait long to discover the new patient. The moment he reached the nurses’ station, he spotted Brent and Natalie whispering in low voices. Brent looked like he was about to faint—though that wasn’t unusual. The new hires, fresh out of university and straight into the center without ever setting foot in a hospital, were always awed and unsettled by what they found here.

Louis arched a brow. “All good?”

They froze, snapping their heads up, both nodding far too quickly to be convincing. Louis had always been good at sniffing out when something was off, so he lifted his brow a second time. That was all it took for Brent to shrink under the weight of his stare.

“We… we’ve got a new patient,” Brent stammered, eyes dropping to the floor as if he was afraid to say more.

“Yeah, I heard. So?” Louis replied, unimpressed.

An uneasy silence lingered until Natalie broke it, sliding a file across the desk. “He’s… something else.”

Louis flipped it open and scanned the page.

Patient: Styles, Harry.
Age: 24.
Designation: Alpha.
Background: Six years of active duty, Special Forces officer. Injured in an ambush—threw himself over a grenade to save his team. Sustained head trauma, severe burns on the right side of his face, right leg amputated after delayed extraction.

Louis’s eyes lingered on the words longer than he meant to. Ouch. That was… brutal.

He handed the file back to Natalie with a soft, “Poor thing.”

Natalie gave a weary nod. “Yeah, he’s not in the best shape—”

She didn’t even get to finish before the shouting started.

A door slammed across the hall, followed by a bellow loud enough to rattle the charts on the wall.  

“Get lost, will you? I don’t need your fucking help!”

Every head in the nurse station swiveled as one.

Liam emerged a moment later, looking like he’d aged twenty years in five minutes. He shut the door with exaggerated care, then spotted Louis and made the universal get in here before I throttle a patient gesture.

Louis trailed after him into an empty room. “Was that Harry Styles?”

“Yep.” Liam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bloody hell.” He dropped his hand and fixed Louis with a look that carried both desperation and command. “I need you on him. Mornings are yours. Nights… we’ll divide later. He’s refusing everything. Treatment, food, even conversation.”

“Can’t blame him on the food,” Louis said, sliding onto a chair. “It’s been dire since Dan quit. Have you tried bribing him with something edible? Like the chocolate pudding?”

Liam gave a humorless laugh. “I did. He told me to stick it up my arse.”

Louis winced. “Charming. Bet you didn’t find that in any rehab handbook.”

“I’ve spoken with his mum and sister,” Liam went on. “Same behavior at the hospital—shut everyone out. No visitors, no team, no treatment. Barely sleeping. He won’t even let me draft a plan. Just growls, shouts, and hurls the odd insult.”

Louis let out a groan fit for a Greek tragedy. “Okay, so: nightmare patient. My specialty. Do you honestly think he’ll listen to an omega?”

Liam arched a brow. “Probably not. But you live for that, don’t you?”

Louis pulled a face. Annoyingly, he wasn’t wrong. He had a reputation for breaking the unbreakable. That one patient who once muttered, ‘why do omegas even have jobs?’—practically sobbed when Louis handed him over to Natalie two months later.

“Fine,” Louis declared with dramatic resignation. “I’ll give it a go. But I expect payment in the nicest lunch you could buy me. The good curry from town, not that watery cafeteria sludge.”

Liam chuckled. “Done.”

Louis rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the twitch of a grin. Humor, sass, and a zero-tolerance policy for bullshit—that was his brand. Patients loved him for it. Staff adored him.

But Harry Styles? The grenade-diving, scar-faced alpha with trauma stacked higher than the files on Liam’s desk?

Louis closed his eyes and muttered a prayer to the universe.
Please let Harry Styles be less of a disaster than those charts. I cannot do this today.

_____________

Harry Styles was not nice.

When Louis walked in with the treatment kit, he was greeted with a growl and a pair of stormy green eyes glaring at him like he’d just kicked a puppy. Harry sat hunched on the bed, arms locked tight across his chest, blanket pulled up like armor. The curtains were clamped shut, the room so dark Louis half-expected bats to swoop down. All very tragic, very coffin-chic.

Even from a distance, Louis could see the exhaustion in his eyes. The right side of Harry’s face was swaddled in bandages, hiding the burns Louis knew lay beneath.

“They send the omega now?” Harry muttered, dripping disdain.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Louis replied cheerfully, stepping closer to the bed. “Not the omega, thanks. I’m just Louis. You’re not the alpha, are you?”

“I can be the alpha if you insist,” Harry shot back curtly.

Louis raised a brow. “What are you, a savage? Our parents gave us names for a reason. If you’re feral, I’ll just let you loose in the wild and save everyone the trouble.”

That earned him a startled look. “Are you even allowed to speak to patients like that?”

“Eh.” Louis shrugged, flipping Harry’s chart open and scribbling down his vitals. “They only send me to the nightmares. Management turns a blind eye when those same nightmares walk out of here on a prosthetic and a popsicle.”

Harry just stared at him like Louis had grown a second head. Louis let him. He had a nice face, after all. Patients were welcome to admire it while he worked.

When Louis finished jotting in the chart, he turned to find Harry looking even grumpier than before—an achievement in itself.

“Right,” Louis said brightly, “now for business. I’m your nurse. Your designated one. Meaning I’ll also drag you to the treatment rooms—”

“So you’re my chauffeur,” Harry cut in, dry as sandpaper.

Louis tilted his head. “If that makes you actually accept treatment, sure. Call me Jeeves.” He flicked the chart closed. “Here’s the deal: when Dr. Payne—yes, the alpha you kicked out half an hour ago—finalizes your treatment plan, you’ll attend every session. I don’t tolerate laziness, and I don’t have the patience for bad moods, so please, be cooperative.”

Harry frowned, and Louis caught the flicker of surprise that anyone dared talk to him like that. “And if I’m not?”

“We sedate you,” Louis said sweetly, smiling. “But really—you don’t want to rot in here forever, do you?”

Harry shrugged, his voice flat. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.”

The words were low, but Louis recognized them instantly: that hollow note of powerlessness he’d heard from too many patients before. The ones who believed their lives ended with their injuries.

Louis softened, laying a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You will,” he said quietly. “You’ll have somewhere to go. There’s always hope.”

Harry’s eyes flicked up to him, disbelieving, like hope was a language he didn’t speak anymore. Louis didn’t push, just switched gears. “Anyway—how’s the pain?”

Harry blinked, thrown by the sudden change. “Fine.”

Louis squinted. “Fine as in ‘I’m a tough alpha who can power through excruciating agony,’ or fine as in ‘it actually doesn’t hurt’?”

Another shrug. Nothing else.

Louis exhaled through his nose. “Alright. I’ll give you something for the pain, and something to help you sleep. You look like you haven’t closed your eyes since you were injured.”

That was when Harry’s whole body tensed, his green eyes flashing wide with fear. “Don’t. Please.”

Louis froze, brows furrowing. “Why not? You don’t want to sleep?”

Harry shook his head, looking at Louis almost pleadingly.

Louis studied him for a long beat, then sighed. “It’s best for your treatment if you sleep, Harry. I’m sorry, but sleep helps me do more than clean your wounds without you wanting to punch me. It also helps your appetite. And I’m guessing you’re not eating because of the pain?”

Harry’s shoulders slumped. “Constant nausea.”

“Yeah, that tracks,” Louis said gently. Then, brightening, “Alright, how about we make a deal?” He waited until Harry’s wary green eyes lifted to him.

“I’ll crank up the pain relief until you feel properly floaty. Then I’ll slip in a little something to help you sleep. While you’re under, I’ll treat your wounds so you don’t have to see or feel a thing. And we’ll start you on tube feeding—tiny doses, so your stomach doesn’t riot. Just for today. Sound fair?”

Harry’s jaw worked. “But… the nightmares.”

Louis’s chest pinched, but he forced calm into his voice. “I’ll be here. Alright? You won’t be alone. The nightmares are something to tackle with your psych sessions later, but right now—your body needs rest.”

Harry looked so sad it almost broke Louis, but eventually, he nodded. His gaze didn’t waver as Louis drew the meds into a syringe.

“You’re going to feel really good,” Louis promised with a crooked grin. “Best pain meds on the market. Only the finest for my grumpy patient.”

Harry didn’t smile, but his eyes stayed on Louis as the meds slipped into his IV. A moment later, he exhaled, tension softening from his face.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered.

“Told you,” Louis chuckled. “Alright, sleep dose going in now, okay?”

Harry gave the faintest sigh of surrender and nodded.

Louis pushed the sedative through and watched as those sharp green eyes finally fluttered shut. The room went quiet, calmer than it had been since Harry arrived.

He scribbled a note to himself on Harry’s chart and thought, Liam owes me the biggest bloody lunch of my life.

_____________

As Harry slept peacefully, Louis slipped out of the room, having finished rebandaging the worst of his injuries. His hands still ached from the careful work, but his brain craved one thing: gossip. Preferably from his favorite patient—the one person guaranteed to drag him out of his bad mood.

He wheeled a chair into Larissa’s room, plastering on his brightest grin. “Hello, trouble!”

On the bed, Larissa sat with her prosthetic arms already clipped in place, looking bored out of her mind. The second she spotted him, her eyes lit up.

“Thank God you’re here! I was just about to launch myself out the window for a little drama.”

Louis snorted. “Such a drama queen.”

Her gaze dropped to the wheelchair. “What’s that supposed to be? You know I can walk, right?”

“Yes,” Louis said, smirking as he parked it beside her bed. “But the night nurse wrote you had a new sleep med, and the side effects include dizziness. And correct me if I’m wrong, but these—” he tapped lightly at the sleek metal of her prosthetic—“aren’t exactly at the ‘break your fall’ stage yet.”

Larissa gave a theatrical sigh before plopping into the chair. “Fine. You win, Florence Nightingale.”

“Always do,” Louis replied, steering her toward the door. “Now, brighten my morning. Got any gossip?”

Her face split into a grin. “Do I ever.”

As Louis wheeled her down the hall, she launched into a dramatic retelling of her night: the nurse who confused her meds, the couple in the next room arguing about whether chocolate pudding counted as soup, and the tragic downfall of the breakfast jelly (again). Louis found himself laughing so hard his cheeks hurt.

Larissa had a knack for that—turning even misery into a comedy set. Which was part of why she was one of his favorites. Her case had been brutal: a car crash with a drunk driver, hours trapped in the wreck before rescue, both arms lost and pain that sometimes ate her alive. But through it all, she met every setback with that same sharp humor, that stubborn grit.

Of course, not every day was easy. He’d seen her at her lowest—sobbing in therapy, raging at her own body—but Louis had made it his mission to remind her there was more to life than pain. On her worst days, he’d sneak her out for fresh air, maybe a bite to eat, and they’d laugh until her spirits lifted. She’d become family to him in a way patients weren’t supposed to.

“So,” Larissa said suddenly, tilting her head back to glance at him. “What’s with the new guy?”

Louis blinked. “Which new guy?”

“The one screaming bloody murder all night,” she said, eyebrows raised. “He kept half the wing awake. Messed with my beauty sleep. What’s his deal?”

Louis’s smile faltered, just for a second. He knew exactly who she meant. He shrugged lightly. “Tough injury. Still in the anger-and-refusing-treatment stage.”

“Oh, my favorite stage,” Larissa said, smirking. “Did he lose both arms and a couple of organs, or am I still winning?”

Louis huffed a laugh. “No, but he was a soldier. Took the worst of it, unfortunately.”

She sobered for half a heartbeat before quirking a brow. “Fine. He can be King of Misery, then. Which means…” Her grin sharpened. “Dr. Pain stuck him on your schedule, didn’t he?”

Louis laughed, the sound bouncing down the hallway. Larissa was the only person alive who could call Liam Dr. Pain to his face and live to tell about it. “Yup. Apparently my ‘cheery self’ is the cure for everything.”

“Please. More like you insult people so much they get better just to escape you.”

Louis gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me, Iron Man. Have I ever insulted you?”

“No,” she said sweetly, then grinned wickedly. “But only because I beat you to it, Devil in Disguise.”

Louis narrowed his eyes, lips twitching. “Careful. That’s how patients end up with extra laps around the physio ward.”

“Ha. Empty threats,” she shot back. Then her eyes glimmered with mischief. “Anyway, maybe me and your new soldier friend will become allies. Conspire against you.”

Louis wheeled her into the therapy room, shaking his head with a grin. “Bring it on.”

______________

The rest of the day passed in a strange hush, almost too quiet. For someone terrified of sleep, Harry seemed to manage it fine—slipping in and out, his vitals steady under Louis’s watchful eye. He even looked peaceful at times, almost boyish, like a child who’d run himself ragged on a playground and finally collapsed.

Louis found himself checking more than he needed to, lingering at the bedside with a kind of reluctant protectiveness. The alpha was a storm bottled up in scarred skin, yet here he was—silent, harmless, human.

So it was a surprise, really, that the quiet shattered the moment Louis clocked out. He’d barely made it two steps into wondering if he had the energy for grocery shopping when a roar split the corridor.

He froze. Half a heartbeat was all it took to recognize that voice.

Then he was running, trainers slapping linoleum, adrenaline lighting his veins. When he burst into Harry’s room, the sight nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

Harry was a storm on the bed—thrashing, drenched in sweat, face contorted in anguish. His cries, low and guttural, shook the air. The nurses in the doorway hovered uselessly, staring like they’d stumbled across a wild animal tearing itself apart.

“No, no, NO!” Harry bellowed, grappling with some invisible enemy. The bedframe groaned under his weight.

“Brilliant,” Louis muttered, elbowing past the gawkers. One poor nurse made the mistake of grabbing Harry’s arm; the next second, she stumbled back clutching a bloody nose.

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Louis didn’t hesitate. He clambered onto the bed like a cowboy mounting a bull, pressing his full weight across Harry’s chest and shoulder. Every muscle in Harry’s body bucked and fought, raw strength fueled by terror.

“Harry—stop! You’re safe!” Louis’s voice cracked, but Harry wasn’t there. His eyes were open, but vacant, glassy, locked in some battlefield nightmare.

The monitor beeped frantically, a perfect horror soundtrack.

“Fantastic,” Louis gritted out, wrestling one of Harry’s arms down while fumbling for the emergency kit with the other. “Try not to kill me while I save your stubborn arse, yeah?”

From the doorway, Liam called, “Louis, be careful!”

“Yeah, thanks for the tip, Liam,” Louis snapped, jamming the sedative into the IV.

Harry kept thrashing for a few brutal seconds, strong as ever, and Louis clung on, heart hammering. Then, at last, the fight drained out of him. His cries ebbed, his body slackened.

His gaze flicked to Louis—wild, desperate, and fleeting. And then, like a candle snuffed, he was gone, collapsing back into deep sleep.

Louis sat back, chest heaving, hair sticking every which way, shirt plastered to his skin. He glanced around at the frozen staff. “What?” he snapped. “Never seen a nightmare before?”

That broke the spell. People shuffled into motion. Louis crouched beside Sandy, the nurse with the bloody nose. “You okay, love?”

She sniffled a laugh through her tissues. “Guess I’ll live.”

“Good. Let’s get you patched up.” He jerked his chin toward another nurse. “Bren—treatment room. And the rest of you—unless you’re planning to sing him lullabies, clear out.”

Only Liam stayed behind. Together they fastened soft restraints around Harry’s wrists, enough to keep him safe if another storm hit. Louis hated restraining anyone, but tonight it wasn’t a choice—it was survival.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering, “I’ll tell the nurses to do thirty-minute checks. I’m off the clock, and I intend to drown myself in tea.”

Liam gave him a long look. “You alright?”

“I’ll live,” Louis echoed with a tired smirk. But when he stepped out into the hall, the weight in his chest didn’t ease.

Not fear, exactly—just the image of a too-strong alpha unraveling in his sleep, and the stubborn ache of having caught him right before he broke.

______________

Louis dreaded coming in the next morning. Facing Harry was at the very bottom of his to-do list, somewhere after “alphabetize the supply closet” and “stab self with a blunt pen.”

He stalled. Read the night reports twice. Making sure Marta send in a an actual repairman for his water heater. Chatted with Natalie about the patient in room six who swore the food was trying to poison him (“Honestly, if the mash doesn’t kill you, nothing will”). Relief flickered when he saw Harry hadn’t had another episode. Small mercies.

Eventually, though, he had to face it. The alpha. The nightmare machine. The man who’d probably already heard he’d decked poor Sandy.

Harry was wide awake when Louis walked in, the room still dark and sulky.

“Good morning,” Louis chirped, yanking the curtains open. January light was pathetic, but better than brooding in a cave.

Harry didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him.

Louis arched a brow. “It’s polite to say good morning back, you know. Just two little words. Won’t kill you.”

Silence.

“Oh, we’re doing the silent treatment? Excellent. You should know I’m a professional at talking nonsense until someone cracks. I once made a dentist laugh mid–root canal. Don’t test me.”

That earned him nothing but a throat-rasped, “Why am I in handcuffs?”

Louis waved it off, undoing the restraints. “You were a bit wild last night. No biggie.”

Harry’s eyebrow shot up. “No biggie? The nurses won’t look me in the eye.”

God help me.

“You just had a nightmare,” Louis said breezily. “Spooked the soft-hearted, that’s all.” He handed Harry some water, which the alpha took while glaring over the rim like Louis had personally betrayed him.

“Who did I hurt?” Harry asked flatly.

“No one,” Louis said with a roll of his eyes. “Sandy’s nose got acquainted with your fist, but she’s fine. Tough cookie, that one.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I told you I shouldn’t be sleeping! Are you believing me now?”

Louis didn’t flinch at the yell. “What’s your plan then? Stay awake forever? Brilliant. You’ll be Freddie Kruger by Valentine’s. And darling—this isn’t Elm Street. You deserve to sleep.”

“But I’m hurting people!” Harry’s eyes burned. “What will convince you? When I stab someone because I dream they’re a terrorist?”

Louis just blinked at him for a long beat, then said sweetly, “Fine. We’ll handcuff you every night. Safety first. Very secure, very kinky. Everyone wins.”

Harry scowled. “I could break out of these.”

Louis snorted. “Oh, sit down, Hercules. You’re an alpha, not Captain bloody America. Keep puffing your chest like that and I’ll start selling tickets.”

Harry’s mouth opened, ready with some scathing comeback, but the door swung open. Liam stepped in, eyes flicking between them, the tension still sparking in the air.

“Everything okay?” Liam asked, eyebrow arched like he already knew the answer.

“Why is he in charge of me?” Harry barked, pointing at Louis. “He doesn’t take me seriously!”

Louis gasped theatrically. “Excuse me, I take you very seriously. You’re the highlight of my day. Right between my burnt toast and stubbing my toe.”

Liam fought back a smile. “Louis is excellent at his job, Harry. You should’ve seen him last night trying to sedate you—you looked like a feral walrus fighting for territory.”

Harry scowled. “Not funny.”

“Little bit funny,” Louis muttered, jotting down Harry’s vitals.

“Have you eaten?” Liam asked, steering the conversation elsewhere.

Louis answered before Harry could grumble. “Tube feed, yes. Breakfast, no. I’ll fetch him something from the cafeteria.”

Harry sat up straighter, suddenly invested. “Don’t bring jelly. I hate jelly. If you bring jelly, I’ll puke on purpose. Everywhere. Like, Exorcist levels.”

Louis arched a brow. “Noted. No jelly.”

“And don’t bring porridge either,” Harry added quickly. “Or I’ll strangle myself with the spoon.”

“Dramatic,” Louis said dryly. “Anything else, Your Majesty?”

Harry considered it, dead serious. “If you bring me an egg, it better not be runny. If the yolk jiggles, I swear—”

“—you’ll declare war?” Louis cut in.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “I’ll think of something worse.”

Louis flashed a blinding smile. “Got it. No jelly, no porridge, no jiggly eggs. Only meals fit for a sulky alpha prince.” He patted Liam’s shoulder on the way out. “Good luck, Payno. Try not to let him stage a hunger strike before I’m back.”

_______________

“Hi, Rambo!” Niall’s voice boomed across the cafeteria, earning chuckles from a few staff. Louis flushed instantly.

“Heard your little omega self launched onto a big bad alpha mid–nightmare and wrestled him into submission,” Niall teased, sipping his milkshake like it was gossip fuel.

Louis rolled his eyes, balancing food onto a tray. “Please. Another Tuesday at the center.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Niall sing-songed. “Rumour has it you rode him like a rodeo bull until he cried uncle.”

Louis flushed, grabbing toast for his tray. “Rumour should mind its own bloody business.”

“You alright, though?” Niall asked, tone softening just a notch.

“Fine,” Louis said curtly. “Just delivering breakfast before Liam strangles him with a clipboard.”

“Harry, yeah? That’s the alpha?” Niall leaned in, eyes gleaming.

“Mhm.” Louis grabbed an apple juice—safe with Harry’s meds—and plonked it on the tray. “Liam’s put me in charge. So now I’m his nurse-slash-waiter-slash-babysitter, while Liam tries to talk him into a treatment plan.”

“Dream job,” Niall said dryly. “Bet he tips well.”

“About as well as you do.” Louis added cutlery with a snap.

“When do I get to meet him?”

Louis shrugged. “Soon, I guess. You’re our best physio. If he agrees to treatment, it’ll be you teaching him to walk again. Six months. That’s my goal.”

“Ambitious,” Niall hummed. “Depends on setbacks.”

“I know,” Louis sighed. “But… you should see him. All teeth and growls, like he’s terrified of himself. He needs something to fight for. Walking again—that could be it. He’s a soldier. Effort’s his language.”

Niall tapped his straw thoughtfully, then smirked. “Alright. I’ll talk to Liam. See if I’m the lucky sod on the case.”

Louis picked up the tray. “Wish me luck he doesn’t strangle me.”

“With that face?” Niall grinned. “He’ll be too busy writing sonnets.”

Louis snorted, shaking his head as he left—though secretly, just a little, he hoped Niall wasn’t entirely joking.

_____________

The treatment plan at OneHeart looked simple enough on paper: four physio sessions a week, stump checks to prep for prosthetics, two psych appointments, and the rest of the time for patients to breathe—to see their families, hang around the common room, read, or just… live.

Easy. Manageable.

Unless you were Harry Styles.

He hadn’t left his bed since admission, and Louis was not about to let the man melt into the mattress like a tragic ghost.

So, the second Liam wrapped up his morning check and Harry polished off the last of his breakfast, Louis rolled a wheelchair to his bedside with a flourish.

“Alright, soldier,” Louis said brightly. “Time for a trip.”

Harry looked at him as if Louis had just announced a field trip to Mars. “What are you babbling about?”

Louis planted his hands on his hips. “This, my friend, is your grand tour of the center. That way, if I mysteriously trip, fall, and die, you’ll know where to wheel yourself. Very practical.”

Harry’s eyebrows knit together. “I don’t want a tour.”

Louis tsked, shaking his head with mock tragedy. The overhead light caught on his hair as he leaned closer, conspiratorial. “Don’t be five. It’s not Disneyland—I’m not making you wave at Mickey. You sit, you look around, you pretend to be fascinated, and then you go back to sulking in peace. Easy.”

Harry’s eyes flicked to the chair, then back to Louis, mistrust hardening his expression. “No. I’ll look ridiculous.”

“You already look ridiculous,” Louis said sweetly. “One more trip across the center won’t kill you.”

Harry scowled, arms tightening across his chest. “My leg’s not ready.”

“Your leg’s fine. Your pride, maybe not so much,” Louis countered, tugging the blankets back with surgical precision. “Lean on me.”

Harry hesitated, jaw clenched. “I don’t need babysitting.”

Louis arched a brow. “Good thing I’m not your babysitter then. I’m your nurse. And I don’t take no for an answer.”

For a beat, Harry just glared at him, muscles taut like he might dig in and refuse outright. Then he let out a growl of frustration, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re bloody relentless.”

“Correct,” Louis said brightly. “Now move before I call Liam to come sing motivational ballads at you.”

Harry muttered something that sounded suspiciously like fuck off, but he shifted anyway, awkward and begrudging. He braced on his good leg while Louis steadied him, their progress slow, uneven, punctuated by Harry’s mutters and Louis’s smug patience.

At last, Harry dropped into the chair with a grunt, still scowling. Louis buckled him in quickly, the straps snug but not suffocating.

“See? Easy.”

“Go to hell,” Harry muttered, cheeks flushed.

Louis smiled, all teeth. “Already there. You’re my tour guide.” Then, in a voice dripping with theatrical cheer, he declared, “And now—behold! The grand parade of the corridor begins. Try to contain your excitement.”

The hallway stretched before them—bright with fluorescent light, lined with polished floors that reflected their passing. Nurses walked briskly between stations, a patient laughed somewhere down the hall, and the faint smell of disinfectant lingered beneath the stronger aroma of burnt coffee drifting from the break room.

Harry stayed quiet, jaw set, eyes darting over every detail as if cataloguing it.

Louis stopped the wheelchair dramatically in front of the nurse desk, leaning one elbow on Harry’s shoulder like they were co-conspirators.

“This is the nurse station,” he said, sweeping his hand across the cluttered surface. “It’s where miracles happen. And by miracles, I mean paperwork, coffee consumption at a dangerous level, and me. Mostly me.”

A passing nurse snorted at that, and Louis wiggled his brows. Harry, of course, did not crack a smile—but his eyes flicked to Louis’s hand still resting on his shoulder, then away.

“And here,” Louis continued, wheeling him a little farther down the corridor, “we have the patient lounge. Commonly referred to as ‘The Den of Boredom’ but occasionally upgraded to ‘The Gossip Arena’ if Larissa’s in the mood.”

Through the open double doors, the room revealed itself: mismatched armchairs circling a low table cluttered with magazines, a TV murmuring daytime talk shows, and a corner shelf full of puzzles with missing pieces. A handful of patients lounged, chatting, one or two napping in chairs next to the windows.

Louis leaned down to Harry’s ear, voice dropping as if sharing state secrets. “That’s where you’ll catch up on who’s stealing pudding cups and which nurse is secretly dating the night guard. It’s basically better than Netflix.”

Harry huffed—not quite a laugh, but not the stony silence either.

“Moving on!” Louis sang, wheeling him toward another hall. He slowed as they passed a wide set of doors with glass panels. Inside was the physio gym: bright lights, mats, parallel bars, treadmills modified for prosthetic training, and a couple of therapists coaching patients through their paces. The air buzzed with determination and occasional swearing.

“This,” Louis announced proudly, “is where the magic happens. You hate it now, but in a few months, you’ll strut out of here like a bloody superhero. Might even have a fan club.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. His eyes lingered on the bars, on a young man carefully balancing between them, sweat beading on his brow, his therapist clapping encouragement. Something unreadable flickered across Harry’s face, and Louis resisted the urge to soften his tone too soon.

Instead, he said lightly, “And don’t worry, the swearing quota is very flexible. You’ll fit right in.”

He pushed Harry onward before the silence grew heavy, turning a corner toward the cafeteria. The warm scent of frying bacon and toast drifted out, battling valiantly against the sterile air.

“And here we are: the cafeteria. Home of food so bad it could qualify as a weapon. Don’t look too excited.”

Harry’s mouth twitched—the faintest ghost of a smile—but he quickly smoothed it away.

Louis caught it anyway, smug satisfaction curling in his chest.

“Oh, was that almost a grin, soldier? Careful. If you start enjoying yourself, you’ll ruin your reputation.”

“Shut up,” Harry muttered, voice gruff.

“Oh, he talks! Someone get a camera, this is groundbreaking,” Louis announced as he wheeled Harry down the corridor.

Harry rolled his eyes so hard Louis was half-convinced they’d stick that way. “God, you’re annoying. If you were in my unit, I’d have kicked you out in a minute.”

Louis snorted. “Please. I wouldn’t last a day in the army. I need gallons of tea and at least eight pillows to build a proper nest. Not exactly combat-ready.”

“We wouldn’t let you in anyway,” Harry shot back, and Louis only grinned wider.

Louis pushed the chair up to a frosted-glass door with a brass plaque. “Anyway, this is the therapy room—where you meet with your assigned psychologist. They’ll politely dig through your brain, figure out why you’re so grumpy all the time, and maybe even teach you to meditate without cursing.”

Harry shot him a side look. “Sounds like torture.”

“Please, you’ve done actual torture training, haven’t you? This is just talking about your feelings while sitting on a comfy sofa. Which, by the way, is far better than your current mattress. I sat on it once.”

Harry twisted around in his chair to glare. “You what?”

Louis smirked, steering him toward the next corridor. “Relax, soldier. I didn’t nap there, just quality-checked. For research.”

Harry muttered something under his breath—Louis caught the word menace—but didn’t stop him rolling the chair along.

“Now,” Louis said, with a grand sweep of his hand as they turned a corner, “behold: the art room. Otherwise known as finger paints for adults.”

Through the glass, splashes of color covered canvases propped against easels, a patient bent over a sketchpad while another hunched, carefully gluing scraps into a collage. The smell of turpentine and chalk drifted faintly through the crack in the door.

“It’s a safe zone,” Louis explained, lowering his voice like it was sacred. “Here, you can scream into a lump of clay, or pretend you’re Picasso while drawing stick figures. No judgment.”

Harry actually snorted. “Not happening.”

Louis grinned, patting his shoulder. “We’ll see. I bet you’d make a mean macaroni necklace.”

That earned him another eye-roll, but it was slower this time, less sharp—like Harry was secretly amused despite himself.

Louis wheeled him on, the corridor spilling them into sunlight that poured through a set of glass doors. Beyond lay the courtyard: a square of green tucked into the center of the facility, with benches crouched beneath bare winter trees, flowerbeds waiting for spring, and a fountain burbling gently at the middle. Even in January, the place felt alive—bees gone for now, but the air crisp and sharp, carrying the faint smell of damp earth.

“And last but not least—our crowning jewel: the garden,” Louis announced with a sweep of his hand. “Fresh air, vitamin D, all the good stuff. Well…when it’s not actually winter.”

Harry blinked against the sudden brightness. There was no real sun, just a paler sky than the corridors allowed, but even that seemed to make his shoulders tense, jaw tight, as though he couldn’t decide whether to retreat back inside or lean into the light.

Louis’s voice softened without him meaning it to. His hands rested lightly on the wheelchair handles. “Not so bad, huh?”

Harry gave a small shake of his head, then surprised him by saying, almost tentative, “Can we stay here for a minute?”

“Of course.” Louis steered him over to a bench and dropped into the seat beside him, deliberately leaving the silence untouched. Let the man breathe. Let him just be.

For once, Louis shut up. He studied Harry in profile—the strong line of his jaw, the way his eyes roved the courtyard as if relearning it. Harry looked caught between awe and ache, like the air itself reminded him of something he’d lost.

“I haven’t been outside in…a long time,” Harry said at last, voice low, almost like he’d forgotten Louis was there.

“You can be,” Louis answered simply, turning toward him. “Every day, if you want to.”

Harry finally glanced at him, eyes shadowed with sorrow, but he only nodded, lips pressing together in silence.

They stayed like that for nearly an hour. No banter, no teasing—just the quiet burble of the fountain and the bite of cold air. It was enough. Louis let Harry breathe.

_____________

The next morning, Louis arrived at work lighter on his feet. For once, he wasn’t dreading Room 12—yesterday he’d managed to get Harry into the garden, and today marked the start of his official rehabilitation. First stop: physio with Niall, then on to Jeff, the therapist.

Not that Louis was thrilled about Jeff. The man was competent, sure, but about as warm as an ice bath, and Louis knew Harry won’t respond well to alphas who tried to challenge him head-on. He’d lobbied for Ed, the one therapist Harry might actually tolerate, but Ed’s schedule was swamped. So Jeff it was. Lucky them.

Louis was just reaching Harry’s door when voices stopped him cold.

“...my life is over, Mum! Can’t you see that?” Harry’s voice, raw with fury. “What future do I even have—being a cripple? Making kids scream when they see me?”

“Harry,” came a woman’s voice, soft and wet with tears. “Don’t say that. Your life isn’t over. You’re still young, you have so much ahead of you—”

“What? A future as a lone alpha?” Harry spat back. “Some crap job that’ll take pity on me, while people avoid looking at me? The scary uncle Gemma’s kids won’t want to hug?”

“Don’t talk like that.” Her hand must have tightened on his—Louis could hear the grief in it. “You’re still my beautiful boy. You’ll find your place. You’ll find a mate—”

“I don’t want one!” Harry’s voice cracked like a whip, so sharp Louis’s own chest tightened. “I don’t want someone looking at me like I’m broken. Like I’m a curse. I don’t want to mate in the dark just so they won’t be disgusted.”

Louis closed his eyes. He’d heard versions of this before—patients mourning the futures they thought they’d lost. But something in Harry’s words—so bitter, so self-condemning—hit deeper than he wanted to admit.

Drawing in a slow breath, Louis pushed the door open.

The room was brighter than usual; someone had actually drawn the curtains. Harry sat stiff-backed on the bed, eyes hard as they cut to Louis. Beside him stood a woman, her resemblance to him striking enough that Louis didn’t need the introduction.

“What do you want?!” Harry barked, still bristling.

Louis rolled his eyes, unfazed. “That again? Are we on mood swings now? Come on, we’ve got physio.” He dragged a chair closer like he owned the place.

The woman blinked at him, clearly not expecting anyone to speak to her son that way. Louis shot her a sunny smile and extended a hand. “Hi. Louis Tomlinson. Harry’s nurse—”

“More like my nightmare,” Harry muttered darkly.

“And his nightmare,” Louis agreed sweetly. That earned him the tiniest smile from her.

“Anne Styles,” she said, shaking his hand. “Lovely to meet you, Louis.”

“Don’t let him fool you, Mum,” Harry cut in, voice dripping sarcasm. “He’s a devil in disguise.”

“Mmm,” Louis hummed, unbothered. “Now then, soldier—up.”

“I’m not going,” Harry snapped.

Anne opened her mouth, but Louis cut clean across her. “Yes, you are. This pity party is officially over. Get up, or I’ll drag you there kicking and screaming.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, voice sharp with mockery. “You? Do you realise you’re small enough to be mistaken for a child?”

That hit Louis’s sore spot, heat flaring in his chest. “What I lack in height, I make up for in force. And trust me—I’ve charmed enough of the big alpha staff around here that carrying you like a swaddled baby would not be a problem.”

Harry glared. “You’re annoying.”

“Boo-hoo,” Louis said dryly. “Tell it to someone who cares. Now get up, Harry. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

It took a solid few minutes of Harry puffing and muttering before he finally leaned on Louis and let himself be lowered into the chair. Thank God—Louis had been two minutes away from dragging the whole bloody bed down to physio.

“Want to come with us, Anne?” Louis asked as he wheeled Harry toward the door, his patient sulking like a grounded teenager. “Just an intro session with Niall, the physiotherapist.”

Anne gave him a soft smile, eyes warm. “No, I should go. But—” she glanced at Harry, voice gentling, “we’ll finish our conversation later, Hazza. Be good, please.”

Harry only nodded stiffly, jaw set. Louis rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck. Honestly, it felt less like escorting a grown alpha soldier and more like hauling a five-year-old off to his first day of school.

“I can hear you rolling your eyes from here,” Harry said, deadpan, after Anne slipped out.

“Yeah, well, I can’t help my body’s natural responses,” Louis shot back breezily.

Harry’s gaze flicked over him. “You can’t cover your smell either. Did you know when you’re pissed at me you reek like rotten strawberries? It’s annoying.”

Louis gasped theatrically. “Excuse me? Did you take a crash course in politeness from Jersey Shore? Talking about someone’s scent is a prick move. Also—rotten strawberries? Please. You smell like rainwater gone off in a bucket when you’re mad. Tell me again about wrong smells.”

Harry muttered something under his breath that definitely wasn’t an apology.

“Whatever,” Louis dismissed airily.

“Whatever,” Harry echoed, sulky as ever.

Thank God the physio room finally came into view. Louis needed a buffer before he strangled this man.

“Niall!” Louis called as they entered. The blond’s head popped up, grin spreading.

“Delivering Harry Styles to you,” Louis announced, rolling the chair forward with a flourish. “Careful though—get too close and he’ll bite.”

Niall chuckled, eyeing the two of them with interest.

Niall looked Harry up and down, lips twitching. “Well, well. So this is the infamous soldier who gave half the night staff premature grey hairs.”

Harry’s brows shot up. “You talk too much for a physiotherapist.”

Louis gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “Excuse me, Captain Grumpy, Niall happens to be the best physiotherapist in this place. Show some respect. He’s got more patience than me, and that’s saying something.”

“Not really,” Niall muttered, grinning as he crouched in front of Harry’s chair. “I’ve seen Lou nearly strangle a vending machine for eating his pound coin.”

“That machine had it coming,” Louis said, unapologetic. “Anyway, Niall, meet Harry Styles—professional sulker, part-time nightmare, currently refusing to admit I’m the best nurse he’s ever had.”

“I never said—” Harry started, only for Niall to cut him off.

“And Harry, meet me. I’m the one who’ll have you sweating buckets four times a week until you’re sick of the sight of me.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Charming introduction.”

Niall shrugged. “Better get used to it. Physio isn’t exactly a spa day.” He tapped the side of the wheelchair. “But you’ll thank me in six months when you’re walking again.”

Harry let out a short, humourless laugh. “Optimistic, aren’t you?”

“Not optimism. Experience.” Niall’s grin softened into something steadier, a spark of quiet conviction. “You put in the work, I’ll put in mine. That’s how this goes.”

Louis leaned in, stage-whispering into Harry’s ear. “Translation: if you sass him like you sass me, he’ll make you do extra reps.”

“Not true,” Niall said mildly, already reaching for the file Liam had left on the counter. Then, after a beat: “Mostly not true.”

Louis smirked. “See? You’re doomed, Styles.”

Harry glared at both of them. “Great. I’m surrounded by comedians.”

“Correction,” Louis chirped, patting his shoulder. “You’re surrounded by professionals who don’t give a damn about your sulking. Welcome to rehabilitation, soldier.”

Niall chuckled as he flipped open the file. “God help us all.”

_____________

Louis ditched Harry with Niall, then shamelessly pawned off the follow-up handoff to Jeff on one of the elderly nurses. He needed a breather and about a thousand cups of tea before he committed a crime. The rest of his rounds went blessedly smooth—no tantrums, no dramatic refusals, not even a single “but I Googled it” lecture. Thank god for small mercies.

An hour later, he strolled—well, dragged his feet—toward Jeff’s office to fetch Harry, only to nearly walk straight into the alpha himself. Harry was parked outside like a sulky gargoyle, radiating fury. His fists were white-knuckled on the armrests, jaw flexing, chest rising in sharp bursts. He looked feral, like if someone so much as sneezed near him, he’d launch out of that chair and start swinging.

Louis slowed, then sighed. “What happened? Did he make you talk about your childhood failures?” he asked, brow arched.

Harry didn’t bite. Didn’t even twitch. His silence was louder than his usual grumbling, and Louis’s stomach sank. Harry always bantered back. Always.

A beat later, Harry exploded. “This is your therapist around here?! The ones who tell me ‘everyone has a trauma, just take this pill and feel better’—like some low-rent drug dealer?!”

Louis winced. Damn it, Jeff. He’d known the man wasn’t right for Harry.

“And then when I refused,” Harry barrelled on, voice carrying down the corridor, “he told me ‘we can give it to you involuntarily if we think it’s best, hold your composure.’ What the fuck, Louis?!”

Nurses slowed. Patients craned their necks. Harry’s growls ricocheted off the walls, sharp and raw. He looked ready to flip the wheelchair and start swinging.

“Alright,” Louis muttered under his breath, plastering on a bright smile. “Field trip.” He grabbed the handles of Harry’s chair and steered him firmly away, ignoring the stares. “Garden time, soldier. If you’re going to yell at me, at least do it under open sky. The acoustics are better.”

Harry’s chest heaved, his knuckles white on the armrests. “This place is a joke! I want out—right now!”

“Mm, yeah, I hear you,” Louis said breezily, pushing the chair faster before Harry could punch a wall or a nurse. “But bad news, solider: escape routes are limited. Unless you’ve got a grappling hook stuffed in your hospital gown, you’re stuck with me.”

That earned him a murderous side-eye.

Louis rolled them out into the courtyard, parking next to the same bench from yesterday. He crouched in front of Harry, voice dropping low, humor softening. “Look at me. No one—and I mean no one—is forcing pills down your throat. Not on my watch. You hear me?”

Harry’s jaw worked, fury still vibrating off him in waves. But beneath it, something cracked—something brittle and scared.

Louis sighed. “You’re not broken. You’re pissed. And you’ve got every right to be. But you’re not walking out of here until I say you’re ready. So if you’re gonna scream, scream. Just…don’t bite the messenger, yeah?”

Harry’s glare didn’t soften, but his chest eased just slightly. Enough that Louis dared to sit back on the bench beside him, tea already sounding like the only cure for the headache blooming behind his eyes.

Harry sat rigid, chest heaving, eyes darting between the fountain and the sky like he couldn’t decide which one deserved his wrath more. Louis stayed put on the bench, giving him space, resisting the urge to poke. For now.

Finally, Harry let out a guttural noise, somewhere between a growl and a sigh, and shoved at the wheels of his chair. He pushed forward a few feet, then back again. Forward, back. Like pacing, except seated. His shoulders still tense, jaw set.

Louis watched for a minute before drawling, “Glad to see we’re branching out from sulking into interpretive dance. Very modern.”

“Shut up,” Harry muttered, spinning the wheels harder, dragging himself across the courtyard in uneven bursts.

Louis leaned back, smug creeping into his smile. He let Harry go a full lap around the fountain before casually dropping, “You do realize you’ve just wheeled yourself halfway across the courtyard without me touching the chair once, right?”

Harry froze.

Louis tilted his head. “Uh-huh. Congratulations, soldier. First solo mission complete.” He even gave a little golf clap, because why not.

Harry’s scowl could have cracked glass. “That doesn’t count.”

“Oh, it absolutely counts.” Louis grinned, leaning in. “In fact, I might put a gold star next to your name. Maybe two, if you stop looking like you’re about to chew through metal.”

For a second, Harry’s glare held steady. Then—barely, barely—his lips twitched like the ghost of a smile threatened mutiny.

Louis pounced. “Oh my god, was that almost a grin? Careful, soldier. People might start thinking you have human emotions.”

“Shut. Up.” Harry grumbled again, but his voice was softer this time, almost tired.

Louis leaned back, satisfied. He’d take the tiny cracks over an explosion any day.

_____________

Later, after wrangling a reluctant promise out of Liam that Jeff would be politely shuffled off Harry’s case and Ed roped in instead, Louis grabbed his kit and headed down the hall to deal with his favorite grumpy alpha.

Harry was awake when he slipped inside, flat on his back, glaring at the ceiling like he was trying to burn a hole through it with sheer willpower.

“Very Count of Monte Cristo of you,” Louis said lightly, shutting the door behind him.

Green eyes flicked over, and there it was—Harry’s signature scoff, like Louis had shown up purely to annoy him.

“Does that mean I’m destined to come back and sabotage your nursing career?” Harry drawled.

“You can try,” Louis replied, setting the kit down with a flourish. “But don’t forget he loses in the end. Vengeance is terribly bad for the skin.”

Harry’s mouth twitched, but then he stilled when Louis reached for the bandage along his cheek. He flinched back.

 “What are you doing?”

Louis paused, brows lifting. “Hmm. Tending your burns, funnily enough. Also need to check your leg, see how it’s healing.”

Harry shifted, visibly uncomfortable. “Can someone else do it?”

That earned him a full Louis frown. “Why? Don’t you trust me? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in wound care. Absolute gold star material.”

“It’s not that…” Harry muttered, voice dipping quieter. A flush crept over his ears. “I just—it’s pretty gross, isn’t it?”

For a beat, Louis just looked at him, and then softened. “Harry,” he said gently, “nothing about you is gross. The burns didn’t touch your eyes—still green and obnoxiously pretty. Just nicked a bit of your cheek and ear. Scars, not horror.”

Harry glanced at him sharply, suspicion and something warmer warring in his gaze. Then, almost boyishly, he grinned. “You think I have beautiful eyes?”

Louis scoffed, heat crawling up his own neck. “That’s what you took from my medical diagnosis? Very alpha of you. Shallow, soldier.”

But Harry still held onto that tiny, stubborn smirk as Louis peeled back the bandages, his hands a little less steady than usual.

Louis worked in silence, hands sure and efficient. No lingering touches, no fuss—just clean, precise movements that wouldn’t make Harry feel more exposed than he already did. He swapped the old bandage for a fresh one in no time, catching the faint release of Harry’s breath, almost like relief.

Then Louis reached for the blanket covering Harry’s leg. The alpha stiffened, shoulders locking, but Louis tugged it back anyway. He didn’t give Harry a chance to spiral. Quick, clean—just like the burns.

The sight made Louis exhale softly. The cut was below the knee, which was good news when it came to prosthetics. The skin was pink and tender, but not infected. No angry swelling, no worrying heat under his gloves. He spread ointment over the healing scar with practiced gentleness, and only then let his mouth curve into a sly grin.

“Good news, soldier,” Louis announced, taping down the fresh bandage. “Your leg hasn’t run off to join the circus. Tragic, really—I hear they’re desperate for a one-legged tightrope act.”

Harry gave him a flat look, though his jaw ticked like he was smothering a smile. “You’re not funny.”

“Oh, I’m hilarious,” Louis countered, peeling off his gloves with a snap. “You’re just too grumpy to appreciate quality entertainment.”

Harry huffed. “You should be banned from bedside manner.”

Louis smirked, leaning back in his chair. “And yet, here I am. The Florence Nightingale of sarcasm. Lucky you.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “More like the gremlin version. Short, loud, impossible to get rid of.”

Louis gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “Gremlin? Rude. I’ll have you know I’m at least elf-coded.”

“Elf?” Harry scoffed. “You’d trip over your own ears.”

“Careful, Styles,” Louis warned with mock severity, wagging a finger at him. “Insult your nurse, and suddenly your meds taste like cough syrup for a week.”

That earned him a real laugh, low and reluctant, spilling past Harry’s defenses before he could stop it. Louis caught it, smug satisfaction spreading across his face.

“Ha! Victory,” he declared. “You laughed. That’s legally binding—you like me now.”

Harry rolled his eyes, still smiling despite himself. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Louis sang, patting his knee lightly, “you’d miss me if I were gone.”

“Don’t count on it,” Harry sassed back. “I might throw a party.”

“In my honor? That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me since you got here. I’ll add it to your chart—‘becoming nicer, requires extra care.’”

Harry chuckled low, though he tried to disguise it with a cough.

“Okay, all done,” Louis said, tugging his gloves off with a snap and flashing his own smile. “I’m officially off the clock for this task, so I’ll leave you to grumble in peace. Might I recommend Netflix? Perfect time to rot your brain with some trashy reality TV.”

He’d just turned when Harry’s voice stopped him. “Louis…”

Louis glanced back, eyebrow raised. “Mm?”

Harry shifted, his expression caught somewhere between embarrassed and stubborn. “You need to restrain me. I might… fall asleep.”

“Oh, right.” Louis stepped back over, reaching for the straps. “If you insist. Won’t be the first time an alpha’s begged me to tie him up.”

That earned another low laugh from Harry, and Louis was almost smug at how familiar the sound was becoming.

“This is so inappropriate in so many ways,” Harry muttered, but his lips curved upward anyway.

Louis shrugged, securing the strap and checking it wasn’t too tight. “You know me by now—zero brain-to-mouth filter. You get the deluxe package.”

Harry tilted his head, studying him for a beat too long. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And unforgettable,” Louis shot back, stepping away with a grin.

This time, Harry didn’t argue.

_____________

Louis barged into Liam and Zayn’s place like he owned the deed, and honestly? At this point, he might as well. He’d been best mates with Liam since uni—bonded during first-year orientation when Louis insulted the professor’s tie, and Liam nearly choked trying not to laugh. Then Zayn came along four years ago, all sharp cheekbones and sharper wit, and Louis took one look and thought, finally, another soul allergic to alpha nonsense. Instant friendship.

“Oi oi!” he yelled the moment he stepped inside, balancing a greasy pizza box in one hand and a six-pack in the other. “The prince has arrived, bearing beers and toppings no god should’ve allowed!”

Niall, who was already sprawled on the sofa like he paid rent there, popped up and grabbed the pizza. “Took you long enough. Did you flirt with the poor pizza bloke again?”

Louis kicked his shoes off in the entryway. “Listen, I’m not a millionaire, Horan. I do what I must for discounts. A wink here, a smile there—it’s called survival.”

Zayn glanced up from the couch, curled under Liam like they were rehearsing for a couple’s photoshoot. They were disgustingly adorable, the kind of in-love that made Louis want to roll his eyes hard enough to sprain something. “You got the pepperoni one for me, right?”

“Of course, you beautiful creature,” Louis crooned, striding over to plant an exaggerated kiss on Zayn’s cheek. “Anything for my sexy omega.”

“Oi, stop flirting in front of me—it’s rude,” Liam grumbled, pulling Zayn closer like Louis might actually steal him away.

Louis disappeared into the kitchen to dig out a bottle opener. “Stop being a jealous prick. You know Zayn can pick whoever he wants.”

“I put a mark on his neck!” Liam protested, though he still accepted the beer Louis handed him with a scowl.

Louis shrugged, all innocent eyes. “So? Marks can be broken.”

Zayn chuckled, which only made Liam’s face sour further.

“I could fire you for this, you know,” Liam shot back, puffing up his chest. “I’m the CEO of your workplace.”

Louis popped the cap off his own beer, rolled his eyes, and took a long, slow sip. “And what would you do with the difficult patients then? Hand them off to some poor nurse who’ll be crying on your office carpet inside five minutes?”

“Fair point, mate,” Niall chimed in, already dual-wielding two slices of pizza like it was his birthright. He nodded toward Louis with greasy solemnity. “Everyone knows no one else can wrangle those nightmares but Lucifer himself.”

Louis smirked.

“Speaking of Lucifers…” Niall said around a mouthful of cheese, grease shining on his lips, “how’s it going with Styles?”

Louis shrugged, snatching up a slice of pizza. “Fine. Still having mood swings. I caught him in the painting room the other day, going full Picasso—red and black everywhere, like a crime scene with ambition. Then two minutes later he’s shouting at the poor aide for trying to help him out of the chair. Poor lad nearly handed in his resignation right there.”

“Styles is the soldier one?” Zayn asked, brow arched. “Liam says he’s a lot of work.”

“Yeah, understatement of the century,” Louis muttered, chewing. “But we’re getting there. He’s putting the effort in—gym, physio. And I made him laugh in the cafeteria last week.” He leaned in, lowering his voice like it was classified. “Swear the whole room went silent just to eavesdrop, like it was the rarest bird sighting.”

Liam smiled at him, soft and a bit knowing. “And he’s good with Ed, yeah?”

Louis nodded, swallowing a gulp of beer. “Like butter and jam. Apparently he plays guitar, so he and Ed sit there jamming while he talks about his feelings. Sometimes it’s like therapy, sometimes it’s like a bad pub gig.”

Zayn tilted his head at him, eyes gleaming. When Louis frowned back, he smirked. “He’s hot, isn’t he?”

Louis nearly choked on his drink, coughing so hard his eyes watered. “What?” His face was already burning.

Zayn turned lazily to Niall. “How hot is he?”

Niall grinned, wiping cheese from his chin with his sleeve. “Pretty hot. All brooding stares and green eyes. He’s got dimples too—I saw one when Louis made him laugh. It was almost indecent, really.” He shot Louis a wicked look. “You should see the two of them. Pure banter and sass. Reads like a hate-to-love smut scene just waiting to be written.”

Louis gaped at them, scandalized. “What are you talking about? He’s a patient. My patient. Doesn’t matter if he’s Brad bloody Pitt. My job is to make him walk again and then release him, end of story.”

“So you admit you find him steamy,” Zayn said smoothly, catching Louis’s slip.

Louis groaned, dropping his head back against the chair. “Unbelievable. Liam, control your mate. He’s clearly not getting enough.”

But Liam only gave him a strange look, somewhere between amused and concerned. “Lou… you know you can’t, right?”

Louis blinked at him, scandalized all over again. “Of course I know! What’s that supposed to mean?”

Liam shrugged lazily. “Just… making sure.”

Before Louis could fire back, Zayn leaned in with that infuriating grin. “Doesn’t mean you can’t… when he’s released, right?”

Louis stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

Then Niall suddenly cackled. “So that’s why you instructed me to make him walk in six months? That your little deadline to… go for it?”

“Uhh, what?!” Louis exclaimed, flailing like a panicked cartoon. “Stop it, all of you! And you too, Liam—I see that smirk. Harry and I don’t have anything together, no sexual tension, nothing! I’m just trying to make him discharge faster. That’s it!”

The three of them exchanged sly looks, but Zayn was the one to speak. “So… when can I meet him?” he asked Liam, tilting his head. “It’s been ages since I dropped by one of my art sessions at the center.”

Liam chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to Zayn’s cheek. “Whenever you want, baby. You know the patients love your art lessons.”

Louis, feeling under siege, snapped, “More than you like to knot Zayn in your office later?” His voice was rough, his irritation making him sound bitey.

Liam went red, but Zayn just grinned wider. “Don’t worry, Lou. Harry can knot you in six months… in the nurse station.”

They all erupted in laughter. Louis sat there, cheeks flaming, glaring at them like a scalded cat.

“I fucking hate you all,” he muttered, shaking his head, but there was no hiding the twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

_____________

Louis was just finishing up his patient charts when Brent came running over, eyes wide and panicked.

“What happened now?” Louis asked, already used to Brent losing it over the smallest things—like a patient threatening to file a complaint because the mashed potatoes “looked at them funny.” Patients and their drama. Really.

“I…I went to check on Styles, like you asked me to, and…he’s not in his room!”

Louis raised an eyebrow. “So? Have you looked in the toilet? The art room? The gym? The garden? Maybe under a pile of pillows?”

“Y-yes!” Brent’s voice cracked. “I looked everywhere! I swear! He…he disappeared!”

Louis gave him a flat look. “You do know he has one leg, right? He can’t just wander off like a wizard. He’s not Harry Potter, Brent.”

Brent’s lip trembled, and Louis sighed. “Fine. I’ll go look. And stop trembling, you’ll make the patient in Room 4 anxious again.”

Louis didn’t have to search far. Passing Larissa’s room, he spotted Harry in his wheelchair next to hers, leaning over her phone. Larissa was clearly mastering her new arms, and Harry looked completely at ease, two seconds from smiling.

“Here you are,” Louis declared, planting himself in the doorway. “You do know we have a code red for disappearing patients, right? I could’ve called the police.”

Harry and Larissa looked up. Harry scoffed, unbothered. “Where would I disappear to? I have one leg.”

Louis shrugged. “That’s what I said! But you almost made Brent cry.”

Larissa chuckled. “Brent’s always nearly crying, Lou.” Then she added, whispering to Harry with a wicked grin, “I once heard him pep-talk himself like he was about to resign. ‘I can do it.’ Disturbing, really.”

Louis sighed. “Yeah, well… he’ll be okay. He’s new.” Then he narrowed his eyes at them. “So, what are you watching? Please tell me it’s not that three-legged puppy video again, Larissa. You know some patients didn’t exactly find it funny last time.”

Larissa waved her hands defensively. “No! I stopped it after Jenny’s meltdown.” She leaned closer to Harry. “Apparently Jenny from Room 20 just lost her dog, Chubby, and she… didn’t find the video heartwarming. Louis had to sedate her.”

Harry chuckled, flashing that infamous dimple, and Louis felt that familiar tug in his chest. “God, people are melting like butter around here,” Harry said.

“You have no idea,” Larissa smirked. Then she glanced at Louis. “We’re watching E! News. A lot happened in the industry, and I didn’t have any in-house gossip to share with Harry, so…”

“Really?” Louis raised an eyebrow. “You’re watching E! News, soldier? How will the army see that? They’ll blame us for turning you into a total airhead.”

Harry shrugged casually. “What can a man do to find entertainment around here? Also, it’s fine—I’ve got a session with Ed in ten minutes, and I’ve already finished topics that don’t involve me jumping on a grenade.”

Louis blinked at him. That sarcastic, casual delivery… it steered something in his chest. Humor, small and steady, had become a kind of therapy for him here. That’s… progress.

“Okay, you two are trouble,” Louis said, shaking his head with a small smile. “I trust you’ll go to Ed’s therapy session without me having to drag you there, right?”

“Yes, Mother,” Harry rolled his eyes, already distracted by what Larissa was showing him next.

Louis watched them for a moment—two patients with different backstories, different injuries, but somehow here, in this center, they’d found a bond. Gossip, laughter, small comforts.

Louis leaned back and let himself smile. Maybe this job wasn’t just chaos and stress. Sometimes… it was exactly this. And for once, he felt it—the tiniest, quiet satisfaction in a long, messy day.

_____________

As the months passed, Harry was making progress, all things considered. His nightmares still came, and he still asked to be restrained every night—but he laughed more now, and Louis counted that as a win.

What Louis didn’t expect was to get caught off guard during a gym session one day. He was filling out patient charts next to Harry when the alpha suddenly went all in on the weights—like a scene straight out of Magic Mike.

“Do you think I should take pills?” Harry asked suddenly, breaking Louis from his distracted awe. Louis looked up and saw the fatigue etched on Harry’s face. He remembered the night nurse mentioning another nightmare last night.

Louis shrugged. “Ed recommended it?”

“Yeah… he said it would help with the nightmares,” Harry replied, glancing at Louis between reps. “What do you think?”

“I’ve seen a lot of patients it helps,” Louis said carefully, “but it’s not always easy getting used to them. I should warn you—it can take a few months to find the right dose and medicine.”

Harry frowned, looking genuinely concerned. “It… will change me in any way?”

Louis felt a little flip in his chest at how scared Harry sounded. He shook his head quickly. “No. Not your personality—God forbid.” He teased lightly, then grew serious. “It can change the amount of anxiety and depression you feel sometimes. It won’t make it disappear completely—no medicine can. But it flattens the raw edges, helps you cope better with situations… and the nightmares.”

Harry nodded slowly, taking a long breath. “Maybe I’ll give it a try.”

“You got this, soldier,” Louis said, stroking his hand for a moment over Harry’s. “Though… I’ll miss restraining you every night. That was the highlight of my shift—making an alpha weak in front of me.”

Harry rolled his eyes but chuckled. His tone betrayed his fondness. “God, you’re unbelievable.”

“I’m an angel,” Louis said lightly. “My mom would vouch for me.” He smirked. “Now come on—finish this session so you can shower. You stink.”

Harry, of course, made a dramatic show of flexing and grunting, apparently trying to smell worse. Louis groaned, hiding a laugh. “You’re impossible. You know that?”

“Maybe,” Harry said, still smirking. “But you love it.”

Louis caught that, a small smile tugging at his lips. And he did. Every ridiculous, stubborn, infuriating moment of it. Progress wasn’t just the pills, the workouts, or the nightmares—it was seeing Harry push himself, still smiling, still sarcastic, and somehow trusting him enough to let Louis be part of it. That, Louis decided, was a victory worth celebrating.

_____________

Louis was just finishing his morning rounds when raised voices spilled down the corridor. Again.

“You can’t do this! You can’t just disappear on everyone!” a woman’s voice cracked with fury. “Me and Mum have been getting calls nonstop. Nick’s been leaving messages every day—”

“Stop it!” Harry’s roar cut through hers, jagged and raw. “This is my decision!”

Louis groaned under his breath. Brilliant. Family drama before his second cup of tea. He quickened his pace, following the sound.

“Oh, so this is how it’s going to be?” the woman snapped. “Released in a few months just to rot in your room? Cry yourself sick until we’re checking daily if you’re still breathing?”

“Even if that’s what happens,” Harry bit back, “it’s still my choice!”

“I’m not going to watch you give up!” she shot back, voice breaking with equal parts anger and grief.

“Then leave, Gemma!” Harry barked, his voice ragged. “If it’s so damn hard, go! No one will care—least of all me!”

Louis didn’t hesitate. He stepped straight into the room. “Oi! Enough!”

Both siblings flinched, heads snapping toward him like they’d been caught throwing punches.

The woman—Gemma, apparently—stood near the foot of the bed, cheeks flushed, fists clenched. She spun to Louis, eyes blazing. “Who the hell are you?”

“Louis Tomlinson,” he said easily, adjusting the chart in his hands like he had all the time in the world. “Harry’s nurse. Also the poor sod blessed with front-row seats to your little shouting match.”

Gemma blinked, breath still heaving, and then—of all things—smirked. “So you’re the one Mum keeps talking about? Figures you’d be hot.”

Harry groaned. “Gemma—stop flirting with the staff.”

Louis grinned, sharp as a knife. “Don’t worry, soldier. I can handle a compliment without fainting.” His gaze flicked between them. “Now. Unless you want me to dig out the duct tape, you’ll both cut the screaming. Rehab walls are thin, and the last thing my patients need is thinking EastEnders is filming down the hall.”

Gemma’s chin jutted out. “He started it.”

Harry snapped back instantly. “I didn’t—she barged in here attacking me—”

Louis clapped once, sharp and loud. “Oi! Do I look like I care who started it? I don’t. This isn’t nursery school, and I’m not your mum.”

Gemma folded her arms, eyes sparking. “So I’m just supposed to let him talk to me like that?”

“Yes,” Louis said flatly. “Or ignore him. Or roll your eyes. Or take up kickboxing in your spare time. But screaming in my ward? Not an option.”

Her lips twitched, half in outrage, half in disbelief. Harry muttered something sullen into his chest, still glaring holes at the wall.

Louis mirrored them both deliberately, folding his arms and arching a brow. “Civilized humans or total silence. Pick one. And if I hear another round, you’re both on laundry duty. Harry, you’re on crutches, so you’ll be folding sheets with your teeth.”

For a long moment, the air in the room bristled. Then Gemma huffed, the fight leaking out of her posture even if her glare stayed sharp. Harry stayed sulky, muttering under his breath, but quieter.

Louis allowed himself a thin smile. “See? Already better.”

Harry shot him a look that should’ve cut him in half—but the edge wobbled, just enough to betray the ghost of a laugh.

_____________

Louis carefully peeled off Harry’s bandages one week later. The skin underneath had knitted closed at last, no longer raw, but the burn left its permanent mark: ridged, uneven, nicking the curve of his ear and tracing down his cheek in a jagged line. The flesh was still pink, tender to the touch, but healed enough to breathe on its own.

Harry sat stiffly in his wheelchair, arms crossed, jaw locked. He didn’t want to see his own face, and Louis could tell—it wasn’t the usual stubbornness this time. It was fear, hiding sharp and silent behind that alpha exterior.

“Stop it,” Louis said gently, leaning closer. “It’s not bad at all. If you were ugly before, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

Harry let out a scoff that was half indignation, half nervous. “I was never ugly!”

Louis grinned. “I know, I can see it, soldier.” Then, with the kind of dramatic flair only he could manage, he added, “I brought a mirror. Want to see?”

Harry’s gaze dropped to the floor, lip pressed between teeth. He hesitated, then let out a long, almost exasperated sigh. “Let’s get it over with.”

Louis’s chest gave a small, guilty ping of happiness. “Here you go.” He held the mirror up to Harry, careful not to jostle the chair.

Harry studied himself in silence, gaze roaming the burn scars. His throat bobbed. “It’s… not looking so bad,” he murmured, almost like he didn’t trust the words.

“Told you,” Louis said, maybe too brightly. Then, because softness made his tongue itch, he added, “Don’t know what you looked like before, but I still would’ve flirted with you in a bar.”

Louis immediately cursed himself mentally—what had he just said? But then Harry smirked, that slow, teasing curl of his lips that made Louis’s stomach do flips.

“Will you?”

Louis flushed bright red, stammering. “Maybe.”

Harry’s laugh rang out, warm and unguarded, echoing faintly off the walls. “Louis Tomlinson! Is that your flirting? Are you flirting with me?”

“Shut up,” Louis said, snatching the mirror back. “Enough with being vain. Gym, now.”

Harry just laughed again, letting Louis wheel him to the physio room without another word, though the twinkle in his eyes made it clear he wasn’t nearly as begrudging as he claimed.

Later, when Harry met Niall for their session, Louis could sense the familiar tension under Harry’s banter. He was nervous—no surprise, after all the compliments he’d collected today—but he held it steady. Louis decided then and there: anyone who sabotaged this tiny victory would answer to him.

“Well, look at this boy,” Niall declared, perched on his desk like royalty surveying peasants. “Like a princess finally freed from her tower.”

“Still better-looking princess than you, which isn’t saying much.”,Harry fired back, quick and biting, but with an edge that was playful this time, almost teasing.

Louis settled into a chair nearby, watching them. He noticed the way Harry laughed freely, how his shoulders relaxed, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners while Niall exaggeratedly rolled his own. They were sharing stories, teasing each other, and for the first time in weeks, Louis could see Harry just being himself.

He allowed himself a small, quiet smile. This wasn’t a complete victory—not yet—but it was progress. Real progress. Harry could make it.

_____________

It was finally time for Harry to try on his temporary prosthesis. Weeks of fittings, limb shaping, and grueling physio had led to this moment, and the room was buzzing like someone had shouted “Free pizza!” instead of “Leg time!”

Louis carried the prosthesis like it was a delicate Fabergé egg. “Ready to be bionic?” he asked with a grin so ridiculous it practically demanded a laugh.

Harry snorted, shifting in his wheelchair. “Never been readier,” he muttered, though his hands twitched nervously like they were auditioning for their own Broadway show.

Louis knelt, sliding the socket onto Harry’s limb with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. Beside him, Niall hovered like a hype man who’d been told explicitly not to scream.

“Okay,” Louis muttered, tightening the last strap. “Moment of truth.”

With both of them steadying him, Harry pushed up. The first few seconds were pure chaos—knees wobbling, arms flailing, one panicked squeak that absolutely did not belong to an alpha, and a frantic, “Oh no, oh no, oh no—”

Then, miraculously, balance. Standing. Upright. Breathing. Somehow still sarcastic.

“Feels… weird,” Harry admitted, glaring down at the prosthetic like it might sprout wings and bolt. “Like I’m standing on a broomstick.”

Louis arched a brow. “Broomstick? I didn’t know you were Harry Potter now.”

“You don’t know enough about me,” Harry shot back, the corner of his mouth tugging into something that looked suspiciously like a smirk. “Might surprise you.”

Gemma’s eyebrow lifted. “Oh no, he’s flirting and standing. Alert the press.”

“If that’s his game, he’s got a long road ahead,” Niall added, grinning like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life. “Louis might need more than one-liners, mate. Maybe wine and dine the omega first before—”

“Niall!” Louis hissed, scandalized. Anne tried (and failed) to hide a snicker, while Liam blinked like he’d just seen a ghost do stand-up comedy.

Harry, utterly unbothered, wobbled slightly but held his ground. Still smug. Still alive. Still maddeningly charming despite the wobble. He glanced sidelong at Louis, voice low enough that only he might catch it. “Guess I’ll work on my delivery.”

“Alright, Footloose,” Niall said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Sit before you start demanding a theme song and a marching band.”

Harry let out a breathy laugh, unsteady but confident, and Louis felt something inside him settle—a stubborn little seed of hope blooming quietly, almost defiantly, in his chest.

Even if the room looked like a sitcom set with everyone giving commentary, for the first time in weeks, Harry looked… unstoppable.

_____________

After all the recent wins with Harry, Louis knew the lows were coming. Recovery was a rollercoaster designed by someone who hated amusement parks: unexpected dips, brutal drops, and the occasional face-plant. Still, seeing Harry on the floor made Louis’s stomach lurch.

He’d been leaning against the wall with Larissa in the physio room, trading gossip about last night’s cafeteria chaos, when a thud cut through the air like a drum solo gone wrong. Louis snapped his head to the side—Harry was down. Flat on the mats. Flushed, sweaty, glaring at the floor like gravity had insulted his mum.

“Fuck!!” Harry bellowed, voice echoing.

Louis didn’t move. Yep. Dramatic alpha mode activated. Bravo.

“That’s okay, Styles. This happens,” Niall said, zen as a monk in a hurricane.

When Niall gestured for the aide to help, Harry growled low in his throat, the kind of sound that said both “I hate this leg” and “touch me and die.” Louis lifted his brows. Dramatic alpha noises, check. Next he’d probably start thumping his chest.

“Are you for real?” Niall asked, arms crossed, unimpressed. “What, you don’t want our help?”

“Fuck off,” Harry growled, glaring like Niall had just insulted his entire existence.

Louis muttered quietly under his breath to Larissa: “Yep. Definitely the time to lie down and suffer theatrically. Ten out of ten for commitment.”

“Fine, I will,” Niall replied, his voice light, dismissive, and firm. “You can try and pull yourself up on your own,” he added with a shrug, giving Harry exactly what he claimed to want—distance.

Harry attempted to rise. The prosthetic trembled, his arms shook, sweat rolled down his temples. Louis mentally narrated the scene: And here we see the alpha, attempting to defy physics. Spoiler alert: physics wins.

Each failed attempt made Harry more frustrated, each gritted jaw a tiny monument to stubbornness. Louis just leaned against the wall, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes narrowed, thinking: Well, at least he’s consistent.

Niall, of course, was the picture of calm, tablet in hand. Louis felt a flicker of admiration. Patience. Pure, infuriating patience.

Finally, Harry slumped, defeated, sprawled on the mat like a kicked-over chess piece. Louis muttered under his breath: And the floor claims another alpha.

Niall set his tablet aside. “I’ve got other patients. You done sulking, or do I call housekeeping to mop you up?”

Harry mumbled something, pride still flaring, then gave a stiff nod.

“No,” Niall said firmly. “Use your words. Growls don’t work on me.”

Another minute passed in tense silence before Harry finally spoke. “I need help getting up,” he muttered, the words barely above a growl, his eyes locked on Niall like he was fantasizing about strangling him.

Niall didn’t flinch—if he noticed the glare at all, he didn’t care. He simply gave a short nod and gestured for the aide to assist. Together, they helped Harry up and eased him back into his chair. He sat there, breathing heavily through his nose, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze. He didn’t offer thanks.

“That wasn’t so hard, huh, Styles?” Niall said, slipping effortlessly back into upbeat rhythm. “Go cool off. Prosthetic practice tomorrow—same circus, new day.”

Harry didn’t respond. He just wheeled himself toward the door, his jaw locked tight, the tension still clinging to him like heat.

Louis caught Niall’s eye and gave him a grateful smile as the beta exhaled deeply and walked over.

“That was intense, mate,” Louis said, glancing at the doorway where Harry had disappeared.

Niall shrugged with practiced nonchalance. “He’s not the first frustrated human I’ve handled,” he said, then paused, a faint grimace tugging at his mouth. “But he does have a mean growl, doesn’t he?” He gave a theatrical shudder.

Larissa laughed from her mat beside Louis, not bothering to hide her amusement. “Yeah, he does. Just a mean little puppy sometimes.”

Niall turned to her with a grin. “Alphas would be dead without us,” he declared, placing a hand over his heart in mock solemnity. “Dear scoffing puppies everywhere.”

The tension broke at last, replaced by light laughter and easy chatter. Healing, Louis thought, was exactly like this: messy, stubborn, ridiculous—but somehow, with the right people, it worked.

_____________

The moment Louis stepped back into the nurse’s station, the chaos hit him: loud thuds, angry grunts, and a metallic clang that made the hallway vibrate. Harry was having a moment. A big moment.

Louis raised an eyebrow at Natalie, who sipped her lukewarm coffee like the world hadn’t just exploded two doors down.

“Been at it since he got back,” she said, voice calm as if she were commenting on the weather. “Tried to stop him earlier, nearly got launched into orbit by a chair. So… yeah. I’m alive. That’s what matters.”

Louis nodded. Points for survival.

Another sharp crack split the air from Harry’s room. Brent flinched like a gun had gone off. Louis, unfazed, sat beside Natalie and started scribbling in his charts.

“Uh… we’re… not going to do anything?” Brent asked, wide-eyed.

“Nope,” Louis said, smooth and casual. “Intervening now would be like throwing a wet towel on a volcano. Trust me. Not helpful.”

“But isn’t he… dangerous?” Brent whispered. “He sounds like he’s trying to tear the building apart!”

Louis finally looked up, deadpan. “Dangerous? Only to the furniture. And the walls. Mostly the walls.” He let his eyes drift back to the chaos. “Right now, he’s venting. Loudly. Very… theatrically. But contained. No one’s hurt yet. Except maybe his pride.”

A low, frustrated growl reverberated down the hall. Brent jumped again. Louis didn’t flinch.

“When the time is right, we step in,” he added, like he was offering sage life advice instead of survival tips for a rampaging alpha.

Brent chewed his lip. “And… how do we know when that is?”

Louis shot him a look equal parts patience and sarcasm. “You’ll know. And then you’ll help me. Think of it as… alpha disaster management 101.”

Another thump, followed by a shout that could have startled a rhino. Louis tilted his head, watching the staff continue their work like they hadn’t just been witness to the apocalypse. He made a mental note: Harry was frighteningly consistent. Very reliable.

Liam wandered past at that exact moment, one brow raised. Louis shrugged, deadpan. “I’ve got this, don’t worry.”

“Just tell me what he breaks so I can bill the family,” Liam muttered.

Louis smirked. “Already cataloged. They’re going to love it.”

And behind the door, Harry continued his one-man demolition show. In the nurse’s station, though, there was calm, sarcasm, and quiet readiness. Sometimes, Louis thought, letting someone vent was exactly what progress looked like.

_____________

It had been nearly an hour later that the crashing stopped—abruptly, like someone had hit “off” on a demolition machine. Louis paused in the doorway, ears straining for anything besides the quiet. And then came the sound: a broken, shuddering sob, sharp and hollow, cutting through the room like a glass breaking in slow motion.

Louis pinched the bridge of his nose. Yep. That’s the cue.

He clicked his fingers, drawing Brent’s attention. “It’s time,” he said quietly, but with enough authority that Brent didn’t even think of arguing. “Follow me. And try not to hyperventilate.”

Brent swallowed, nodded, and Louis led him inside.

The room was… spectacularly ruined. Chairs were tossed across the floor like they’d lost a fight with gravity, the mattress ripped halfway off the bed, foam spilling like spilled whipped cream. Flower petals—probably his mother’s gift—were bruised and scattered, and the vase lay in jagged shards, glittering in the fluorescent light. Even the curtains hadn’t survived: one dangled like a surrender flag.

And amid the chaos, there was Harry.

He lay crumpled on the floor, as though the strength that had carried him through the tantrum had finally collapsed. His wheelchair sat a few feet away, tipped over, the wheels spinning slowly, accusatory. Louis guessed Harry had yanked too hard on the curtains and lost his balance in the process.

His prosthetic stump was scraped and reddened. His hands—bloodied in places—looked raw, probably from crawling over shards of glass without concern for the cuts. Now, those same hands were curled against his face, trembling. His sobs had quieted, but they were still wrenching, raw.

When Harry finally looked up, there was no growl, no snarl, no fury—just hollow exhaustion and streaming tears.

“What?” he rasped, voice hoarse, empty. “You finally came to sedate me?”

Louis shook his head slowly. “No. I came to help you get up.”

After a pause, he added softly, “You must be tired.”

Something gave way in Harry—not violently this time, but quietly. He let out another sob, nodded slowly, and whispered, “So tired.”

Louis only nodded back, his expression steady, almost sardonic in its calm. With a small gesture, he sent Brent for another mattress. Brent moved quickly, and together they worked with practiced ease—careful not to startle, careful not to crowd—as they lifted Harry from the floor, settled him back in his chair, and eased him onto the bed.

Neither of them spoke. The silence was deliberate. Gentle. Respectful.

Harry’s sobs faded into uneven, shaky breaths. His eyes were puffy, his mouth slack with exhaustion. He wasn’t crying anymore, but he looked completely drained, like the storm had finally sucked him dry.

Louis glanced at Brent. “I’ve got this now. Let me tend to his wounds.”

Brent nodded wordlessly and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Louis moved to the small cabinet by the wall, pulled open a drawer, and gathered a clean bandage roll, antiseptic wipes, and a jar of ointment. He returned to Harry’s side, kneeling down, and began—calm, steady—cleaning away the blood, glass shards, and remnants of chaos.

This was the moment after the storm: not sedatives, not scolding—just quiet, careful care.

Harry watched him silently, his expression unreadable. A sharp hiss escaped him when the antiseptic touched a deeper cut, but he didn’t flinch away. He clenched his jaw and endured it, stubbornly quiet.

Louis worked patiently, careful not to shift the glass littering the floor. Then he gave a small, wry smile and said softly, “You know, soldier… if you were trying to redecorate the place, you’re taking ‘extreme minimalist’ a bit far.”

Harry blinked, surprised, a ghost of a tired smirk tugging at his lips.

When the last wound was cleaned and wrapped, Louis gathered the used wipes and gauze, then straightened slowly.

“I ruined the room,” Harry murmured, voice flat, almost lost in the soft hum of the IV machine. “I… I’ll clean it.”

Louis shook his head gently. “No need. The cleaning staff will handle it while you sleep. When you wake, it’ll be just like before.” He added with a small grin, “Though… maybe try curtains next time that don’t fight back.”

Harry was quiet, eyes drifting shut, then fluttering open again. “Lou,” he said, soft and low, as Louis adjusted the IV flow to deliver the pain medication. “I’m sorry.”

Louis squeezed his hand, still smiling a little. “It’s okay. It’s just a setback. You’ll keep fighting tomorrow, yeah?”

Harry stared at him for a long moment, like he was trying to understand someone who didn’t walk away even when it would have been easy. Slowly, he nodded, exhaustion softening his features. His eyes slid closed, finally giving in to rest.

Louis stayed a little longer, watching the gentle rise and fall of Harry’s chest. Then he whispered, almost to himself, “Next time… let’s stick to pillow fights.” And quietly, he slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him, leaving the chaos behind and a fragile calm in its place.

_____________

“How did you know?” Brent asked quietly as Louis stepped out of Harry’s room, the door clicking softly shut behind him. His voice was hesitant, curious—still shaken, but less afraid now.

Louis gave a tired, wry smile, the kind that comes from carrying too much but choosing to keep going anyway. “When the fight leaves the body,” he said gently, “the mind becomes quieter. Not happy—just… quiet. Sad, yes. But more open. That’s when we step in.”

Brent nodded slowly, absorbing the words like they were a language he was only beginning to learn.

“Of course,” Louis added, voice firm but kind, “if a patient is actively endangering themselves or others, we intervene sooner. But with Harry, I waited for the silence. That silence meant he wasn’t fighting the world anymore—just himself. And that’s when we can reach them.”

Brent looked thoughtful, brows furrowed like he was trying to map it all out in his mind.

“Don’t be afraid of our patients,” Louis said, placing a hand on the younger nurse’s shoulder. “And don’t be afraid to make mistakes. I learned what I know through trial and error—through my own pateints. These patients—they’re not dangerous. They’re just hurt. That pain looks messy, loud, and sometimes terrifying, but it’s not personal. It’s never about us.”

He paused, gaze steady, then added with a soft smirk, “Also… don’t worry, the glass shards aren’t out to get you. I checked.”

Brent laughed quietly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Got it.”

“If you can remember that, Brent,” Louis continued, “you’ll grow into a damn good nurse. I promise.”

Brent nodded again, more certain this time. Louis could see the advice settling into him—not fully understood yet, but beginning to take root.

Then Louis tilted his head, a sly hint in his tone. “Now… could you call the cleaning staff and maintenance? I’d like Harry’s room restored by the time he wakes up. And maybe stock up on more curtains that don’t fight back.”

“Yes, of course!” Brent said, already turning down the hallway, a little spark of purpose in his step.

Louis watched him go, a quiet pride stirring in his chest. Then he turned and moved on, slipping back into his routine—checking vitals, changing dressings, offering soft encouragement to his other patients—because the work never paused. And somehow, that rhythm helped keep everything in balance.

Even after the storms.

_____________

“Excuse me?” 

Louis sighed, dragging his eyes up from the computer screen. Standing in the doorway was a man—a beta, judging by the lack of scent—with hair quiffed high enough to require planning permission and a smile that screamed I host brunch shows for a living.

“Do you know where I can find Harry Styles?” he asked, polite and chipper.

Louis gave him a long, squinty look. “And you are…?”

“Nick Grimshaw. His best friend,” the man declared proudly, like it was supposed to mean something.

Louis tilted his head, lips twitching. “Best friend, you say. Did Harry actually call you, or did you just show up uninvited like you’re auditioning for Baby Reindeer?”

Nick’s mouth fell open, then he laughed so loudly two nurses passing by stared. “He called me, I swear! I’m not here to sedate him and exploit him for Netflix content.”

Louis smirked, filing that under acceptable answer. Anyone who could keep up with him deserved points. He pushed back his chair, stood, and gestured grandly down the hall.

“Fine. I’ll take you. But be warned—he’s insufferable.”

Nick grinned, falling into step with him. “Please. I’ve known him since he was five. He was annoying then, so right now he’s probably three seconds away from going full Hulk.”

Louis snorted. “Good. Maybe he’ll finally break the vending machine. Been eyeing that Twix for days.”

Nick chuckled before sliding him a curious glance. “And you are…?”

“Oh—Louis Tomlinson. Harry’s nurse. Or, more accurately, the only thing standing between him and a criminal record.”

Nick stopped mid-stride, giving him an up-and-down like he was sizing up an outfit. “You’re his nurse? Well. That’s… interesting.”

Louis frowned. “Why?”

Nick’s grin turned wicked. “Because you look like his type. Honestly, if you told me you were his mate, I’d start planning the wedding playlist.”

Louis flushed scarlet but didn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, he shoved Harry’s door open and called, far too cheerily, “Hope you’re wearing pants, soldier! I brought you a gift.”

Harry looked up from where he was stretched out on the bed, a book in his hand. His eyes flicked from Louis to Nick, and his mouth curled into something fond.

“Oh, didn’t think you’d arrive so fast. Bit desperate, mate.”

Nick chuckled, strolling in like he owned the place. “You know me—when your best friend of twenty years finally calls after months of ghosting, I’ll show up for the apology tour. Lunch included.”

Harry laughed, dimples flashing, and Louis went still for a second, caught staring before he quickly looked away.

The two men hugged, Harry’s prosthesis leaning against the side of the bed. Louis eyed it pointedly.

“You know you’re supposed to get used to wearing that, right? Put it on before I tell Niall you’re being stubborn again.”

Harry shot him a grumpy glare. “I was reading a book. I don’t need it just for lounging.”

“Keep lounging like that,” Louis quipped, “and you’ll transform directly into a sofa.”

Nick burst out laughing. “Oh my God, you two sound like a married couple already.” Then, just to make it worse, he gave Harry a little hip thrust. “No wonder you didn’t call me—you’ve got your own live-in entertainment.”

Harry gave him a deadpan look. “If this is entertainment, I’d like to cancel my subscription.”

Louis scoffed, but Nick wheezed with laughter. “Knew it. He’s so your type.”

Harry’s head snapped around. “W-what? Shut up.”

Louis, unable to resist, tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Oh? And what exactly is Harry’s type?”

Nick grinned like a cat. “Small omega. Blue eyes. Smart mouth sharp enough to keep up with his slow drawl.”

Louis refused to blush, arching a brow instead. “So you’re telling me the way he talks so slowly I could finish a whole book in between sentences isn’t because he once jumped on a grenade?”

Nick practically folded over with laughter while Harry grumbled, “Great. Now you’re both against me.”

Louis smirked, backing toward the door. “Relax, soldier. I’ll leave you alone with your real soulmate.” He jerked his chin at Nick. “Don’t forget to spoon him gently—his quiff needs structural support.”

Nick howled, nearly doubled over, while Harry spluttered, dimples vanishing as his ears went pink.

Mic. Dropped.

_____________

Nick had been glued to Harry’s side all week—cheering him on during physio, sliding into gym sessions like he had a membership, and lingering so long the nurses were practically dragging him out by the quiff at visiting hours.

“Are you sure you didn’t quit your job?” Louis asked one evening as he came in to check Harry’s vitals. He shot Nick a side-eye. “What is it you do again?”

“I’m a journalist, Beautiful,” Nick supplied smoothly from the chair beside Harry. “Which means I can work from anywhere.”

Harry’s frown was instant. “Stop calling him beautiful. He has a name,” he muttered, voice low and grumbly.

“Why? You don’t think he’s beautiful?” Nick smirked over at Harry, whose ears went red before he could stop it. Louis, catching the shift in scent, had to bite back a laugh.

“That’s not the point!” Harry grumbled louder now, like volume could distract from his blush. “He’s a nurse. He worked his ass off to get here. You don’t just reduce an omega to looks—it’s degrading.”

Louis blinked, eyes widening for a beat. An alpha who knew omega rights and actually cared? Someone hand him a pen, he’ll sign the mating contract right here.

Nick, unfazed, just chuckled. “Relax, Captain Morality. I do appreciate his professionalism. Yesterday a patient had a full-on meltdown in the hall—exhaust type, crying, panicking, staff frozen like deer in headlights. And Louis?” He gestured grandly. “Just strolled up, talked her down in five minutes flat. It was like watching Dr. Phil in the wild.”

Louis rolled his eyes, lips twitching. “Just another day at the office.”

But when he glanced at Harry, the alpha was looking at him with something dangerously close to awe. Admiration. Like Louis had grown an extra halo and Harry wanted to reach out and touch it.

Louis’s heart stuttered against his ribs. Nope. Abort. Flee.

“Alright,” he said briskly, tucking the chart back in place. “You’re cleared to live another day. My job here is done.”

“Where are you going?” Harry asked quickly—too quickly—then froze, eyes widening as if he hadn’t meant to say it.

Louis smirked, slow and sharp, sensing the crack in Harry’s armor. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he teased, already halfway to the door.

Nick whistled low, grinning between them. “Ooooh, Styles. Someone’s got competition. Hope your prosthesis comes with running shoes.”

Harry groaned into his pillow while Louis escaped with a smug little smile.

_____________

“Are you okay, soldier?” Louis asked softly one afternoon.

They were in the garden. For once, Nick was actually at work, leaving the two of them alone. Harry didn’t need Louis sitting there—he could wheel himself anywhere without help—but Louis liked the sunshine, and maybe he liked Harry’s company too, though he’d never admit it out loud.

Their relationship kept shifting in subtle ways. Every day Louis could see Harry’s progress, and pride warmed his chest. Almost six months ago, he’d set Harry the goal of walking out of here. To Louis’s amazement, that mark was creeping closer. Just yesterday Harry had been fitted with his permanent prosthesis—a sleek, high-tech model designed for soldiers and athletes.

But today, Harry looked tired. Not just gym-tired. Hollow.

At Louis’s question, Harry turned his head, considering. Finally, he said quietly, “Had another nightmare last night. Felt too real, I guess.” He gave a half-shrug, but the weight behind it was heavy.

“What was it about?” Louis asked. He had the sudden urge to take Harry’s hand, to anchor him. He resisted—professionalism, professionalism—but the urge ached in his chest.

Harry’s face shifted, sadness pulling at his features. “The ambush,” he murmured. His eyes went distant. “I can see the road again. Miles and miles of desert. We’d been there a hundred times. Me and my team were heading back to the vehicle when suddenly… we were surrounded. Other trucks, guns, shouting. You know in war movies, when everything turns to chaos at once? That was it.” His voice dipped lower. “And then—someone threw a grenade at us. Next thing I know, I just…jumped on it.”

Louis stayed quiet, watching him with soft eyes.

“But in the nightmare…” Harry’s throat worked. “I don’t get to jump. I just freeze. Watch my team die. It’s—” he shook his head sharply, jaw tight. “It’s stupid, right? How your own brain makes the worst moment of your life somehow worse.”

Louis reached out then, letting instinct win, and wrapped his hand around Harry’s. His voice was quiet but steady. “It’s not stupid at all. I’m not a therapist, but I’ve worked with enough patients to know one thing: sometimes your mind replays a scene because it can’t process it the first time. It’s not punishment—it’s survival.”

Harry’s grip tightened faintly. His eyes, usually so sharp, looked lost. “Maybe I shouldn’t have jumped on it,” he whispered.

Louis scoffed, squeezing his hand. “And what—just let it take you all out? No, Harry. You’re here because you jumped on that grenade. Your team’s here because of you. That’s not something to regret. That’s something to understand.”

Harry’s jaw clenched, and for a second, he looked almost angry with himself. “But… I don’t know how to live like this. Without my leg. And my face—God—”

“I think you’re living just fine,” Louis cut in firmly, leaning forward. “Yesterday you got your shiny new ex–Deus Ex Machina prosthesis and already managed a first step. You’re almost six months into the hardest fight of your life, and you’re still here. That’s not the end of the world, Harry. Not when you’ve still got so much ahead of you.”

Harry looked like he was about to argue, jaw tightening, but then something shifted in his eyes. When he spoke, Louis almost didn’t recognize the tone.

“Thank you, Lou,” he said softly.

And just as Louis’s chest tightened, the familiar smirk returned to Harry’s face. “You really are like Dr. Phil, you know. Should start charging extra for therapy. I’ll even pay.”

Louis snorted. “Get in line, soldier. If I ever do that, my patients will be paying extra for the privilege of me being polite enough not to insult them.”

Harry laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, dimples deepening. Louis smiled before he could stop himself, catching the fond look in Harry’s eyes—and that was it. His heart did its now-familiar treacherous little dance.

And Louis knew. He was in trouble. Real trouble.

_____________

Louis sat with Harry in the cafeteria for lunch a few days later. Harry had just come from his session with Ed, and Louis could tell it wasn’t safe to leave him brooding. His shoulders were hunched, hands twitching faintly, that look in his eyes that said something painful had been dragged to the surface.

“Come on,” Louis said, sliding a tray onto the table. “We’re trying the new menu. You and me. Proper review, scores and everything.”

Harry groaned. “I don’t want lunch. I want peace.”

“You’ll get peace when you’re six feet under. Until then—welcome to the first ever episode of Cafeteria Catastrophes.” Louis plunked down two plates with a flourish. “I’ll be your host, Judge Tomlinson. Contestant Styles, are you ready?”

Harry gave him a flat look. “No.”

“Excellent. That’s the spirit.” Louis stabbed a forkful of mashed potatoes and held it up to the light like it was a fine wine. “First course: beige mystery fluff. Notes of cardboard, with a lingering aftertaste of sadness.”

A huff of laughter escaped Harry before he could catch it. He grabbed his fork, muttering, “You’re insane.” He took a bite anyway, chewed, then said, deadpan, “Tastes like defeat.”

Louis gasped, clutching his chest. “Oh my God, he’s good at this. Contestant Styles coming in strong with existential despair as a flavor profile!”

Harry shook his head, but his mouth was twitching at the corners. “Give me that bread roll before you run out of metaphors.”

“Ah, the classic bread roll,” Louis intoned, passing it with mock solemnity. “So often overlooked, yet capable of breaking teeth and hearts alike.”

Harry snorted into his hand. “You’re unbearable.”

“Unbearably brilliant,” Louis corrected with a grin. “Now rate it. One to ten.”

Harry bit in, chewed, then looked Louis dead in the eye. “Zero.”

Louis beamed. “Perfect. Brutal honesty. The judges will love you.”

And though Harry was still scowling, the scowl was softer now, tugged off-balance by laughter that kept threatening to break through.

Louis kept making a spectacle of himself just to coax out more of those almost-smiles, and it was working—until a loud crash came from the kitchen.

Both of them jumped. Louis’s head whipped around just in time to see the new chef, Dean, shouting at one of his cooks. Voices rose, sharp and angry, knives still on the counter between them. For a horrifying second, it looked like they might swing.

Louis was frozen, watching the chaos unfold—until the sound that pulled him back wasn’t shouting, but silence. Harry’s silence.

He turned. Harry was trembling, jaw clenched, lip caught hard between his teeth. His breathing was fast, uneven, dangerous.

Oh no, Louis thought, and before he knew it he was on his feet.

“Hey, you two!” he barked at the kitchen. “Cut it out! We’ve got patients in here, it’s not a bloody pub.”

Both men startled, shamefaced, and slunk outside.

Louis hurried back to the table. Harry’s eyes were closed, chest rising too fast. “Harry?” he asked gently, sliding into the seat beside him. “Hey. Everything’s okay. You’re safe.”

When Harry opened his eyes, they were haunted—haunted by things Louis couldn’t even imagine. Without thinking, Louis caught his hand and squeezed hard, grounding him in the now.

“Breathe with me,” Louis urged, steady and soft. “Six in… hold… eight out.” He exaggerated his own breathing, letting Harry follow the rhythm. Once. Twice. Again. The trembling slowed, fraction by fraction, though Harry’s grip on his hand stayed iron.

“That’s it,” Louis murmured. “Good. Now—find me three blue things in the room.”

Harry blinked at him, confused, breath still ragged. “What?”

“Three blue things. Name them. Trust me, soldier.”

Harry’s gaze darted, first to Louis’s face. “Your eyes,” he whispered, then around the room. “That box of wipes. And…” He scanned again, voice steadier this time. “That woman’s glasses.”

“Perfect,” Louis said, squeezing his hand again. “Now three red things.”

The exercise continued—red, then green—until Harry’s breathing evened out and the tension drained from his shoulders. Louis slid a cup of water into his hand.

“Here. Drink.”

Harry obeyed, slow but steady, and Louis didn’t let go of his hand. Not yet.

“How do you feel?”

“Better,” Harry said with a nod. Then, after a beat: “Where’d you learn that?”

Louis shrugged. “From one of my therapists. Nurse school was hell—panic attacks before every exam. He taught me the trick.”

Harry blinked, surprise flickering across his face. “You?”

“Me,” Louis said simply. “Shocking, I know. Even I wasn’t born perfect.”

That earned him the faintest twitch of Harry’s mouth. Then Harry dropped his gaze, shame creeping in. “Sorry… I ruined lunch.”

“Ruined?” Louis smirked, leaning back in his chair. “You just gave it a plot twist. War hero with a flair for drama? That’s an automatic win on any cooking show.”

Harry let out a startled laugh—loud, unguarded, alive. Louis smirked, satisfaction curling through his chest.

Harry was going to be okay.

_____________

Harry was improving by the day, and Louis—once skeptical that he’d ever make his six-month deadline—was starting to believe he might actually do it. The two of them had settled into a rhythm: daily banter, insults disguised as affection, and laughter that chipped away at Harry’s famous grump.

It was during one of Louis’s longest shifts, the kind that stretched like wet cement, that the door swung open and six soldiers stormed in, loud as a marching band. Natalie blinked at them like they’d materialized from a recruitment poster.

“Where’s Harry Styles?” barked the tallest alpha, all broad shoulders and command voice.

Louis, arms crossing, eyed them. “And you are?”

“His team,” the dark-haired alpha at the front announced, built like she could bench-press Louis and Natalie together. “We came to see him finally.”

“Is he okay?” a nervous beta blurted, wringing his hands. “He didn’t tell us where he was until yesterday—”

“Of course he’s okay,” another alpha cut in, already grinning. “The bastard jumped on a grenade. He’s probably in there making balloon animals out of the IV tubing.”

The whole group cackled.

“Tell me he hasn’t started with the knock-knock jokes yet,” one of the omegas groaned dramatically, throwing her head back. “During training he’d do it whenever we complained—said it was to test our torture tolerance. Torture! Can you believe that?”

“Oi, I nearly defected to the Navy because of those jokes,” another chimed in.

“Defected? You cried,” someone else shot back, jabbing him in the ribs.

“I did not cry—”

“Oh, you absolutely cried.”

“Shut it, you were laughing so hard you nearly pissed yourself—”

“God, you lot are loud,” Louis finally cut through, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “You’re like a big, unhealthy family, aren’t you?”

“Unhealthy?” the alpha snorted. “We’re peak fitness.”

“You ate twelve cheeseburgers in one sitting,” the omega retorted.

“Protein,” came the unapologetic reply.

Louis shook his head, smirking despite himself. “Christ. No wonder Harry’s grumpy all the time. He probably just wanted some bloody peace.”

That only made them laugh harder, half of them doubled over while the others slapped shoulders. The first alpha finally caught her breath, voice softening. “He saved our lives. So we came to finally thank him. Even if he throws a fit—he did say, ‘don’t dare to come in.’”

Louis barked a laugh. “Oh, priceless. I want to see Harry’s face when he sees all of you.” He turned on his heel. “Follow me, then.”

And they did. Six hardened soldiers trailing after him like ducklings in combat boots, tripping over each other’s banter.

Louis rapped his knuckles on Harry’s door and called out, loud enough to wake the whole ward. “Oi! Look what the cat dragged in!”

Harry looked up from his phone, and his eyes went comically wide, like he’d just seen six ghosts storm into his room. “What are you doing here?!”

“Surprise!” they chorused, half of them piling through the door at once.

“Oh, for f—” Harry threw his head back against the pillows, groaning. “I told you not to come. Don’t you people ever listen?”

“Not really,” the omega said cheerfully, plonking herself onto the visitor’s chair as if she owned it.

“You look awful,” the tall beta announced, stepping closer to squint at him.

“Cheers, mate. That’s exactly what I needed to hear,” Harry muttered.

“You still owe me twenty quid,” another piped up.

“Oh my god.” Harry dragged a hand down his face, mortified. “I jumped on a grenade and you’re still going on about twenty quid?”

“Yeah, ‘cause you cheated at cards,” came the swift retort.

“I didn’t cheat—” Harry snapped, but he was drowned out by the chorus.

“You did!”
“Blatant cheating!”
“Couldn’t lie his way out of a paper bag, that one.”

Harry groaned louder, burying his face in his hands like he might actually will himself back into unconsciousness. “I hate all of you. Get out.”

“Rude,” the alpha woman said, pretending to be scandalized. “This is how you greet your beloved family?”

Louis was leaning on the doorframe, arms folded, smirk firmly in place as he watched the chaos unfold. “Told you it’d be priceless.”

Harry peeked at him between his fingers, glare sharp enough to cut glass. “You. You did this.”

Louis grinned wider. “Oh, absolutely.”

The soldiers erupted into fresh laughter, jostling Harry with questions and stories before he could gather another complaint. For all his groaning and muttered curses, Louis caught the tiny twitch at the corner of Harry’s mouth—betrayal by fondness, even if Harry would rather bite his own tongue than admit it.

_____________

Harry’s team didn’t just visit. They moved in—or at least, that’s how it felt. Every time Louis turned a corner, they were there, sprawling across waiting room chairs, smuggling snacks, and inventing trouble.

It became a running joke: every time Louis walked in, he’d find them in the middle of some new shenanigan.

One morning they’d declared the rehab center a “secure zone,” setting up a checkpoint with clipboards and fake security questions (“State your name, rank, and favorite biscuit, sir”). Another day, he walked in to find them doing a full-blown “stealth mission,” crawling across the floor in army formation to steal extra pillows from the supply closet. And then there was the infamous canteen food fight, which still had Louis finding peas under tables a week later.

Or the way they managed to turn the entire ward into a casino one evening.

It started with one of them producing a deck of battered cards from her jacket. Within minutes, a circle had formed in the common room—soldiers and patients and staff, happily betting on whatever “prizes” they scrounged up from their rooms. A towel. A bottle of shampoo. Half a chocolate bar.

By the time Ed and Niall wandered in, the stakes were ridiculous. Someone was playing for an extra dessert cup, someone else for a pair of mismatched socks. Liam, somehow elected dealer, took the job far too seriously, flicking cards with a flourish and calling out bets like he was hosting a televised championship.

When he caught two of them trying to swap cards under the table, he stopped the game with mock severity. “Cheating will not be tolerated in my casino. Punishment is immediate.”

“What punishment?” one of the omegas asked, smirking.

Liam plucked the shampoo bottle off the “winnings” pile, cracked it open, and squirted a line across the offender’s arm before solemnly handing the card back. “Shampoo tax.”

The whole room howled with laughter. Even Harry, groaning and red-faced, couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his mouth.

Louis leaned against the doorway, shaking his head. He should put an end to it—he really should—but watching Harry light up like that, surrounded by people who refused to let him sink into his own misery? Louis couldn’t bring himself to stop them.

Still, Louis saw the other side, too.

When Harry dragged himself into physio, sweaty and exhausted, muttering under his breath that he couldn’t do another rep, the room would go silent. His team straightened, voices sharp but steady.

“Come on, Sarge.”
“You’ve done worse hungover.”
“Up, Styles. You’ve got this.”

And Harry—grumpy, stubborn, Harry—would grit his teeth and push through, if only to shut them up. Louis saw the spark in his eyes, the edge of pride he wouldn’t admit aloud, and the way their laughter afterward carried him through the pain.

It was chaos. It was mayhem. But beneath it, Louis knew—it was also family.

_____________

And then, one day, they had to go. Another tour, another mission waiting for them somewhere far away.

Harry looked bummed, though he masked it with a crooked smile as they lined up to say their goodbyes—not just to him, but to the entire ward that had endured their chaos. There were long, bone-cracking hugs, claps on the back, promises to write.

“Stay safe, yeah?” Harry said, squeezing each of them in turn. “I don’t think your new sergeant’s gonna jump on a grenade for you.”

They chuckled, brushing him off with bravado, but one omega winked. “Even if they did, it wouldn’t be like the first time.”

That made Harry laugh—loud and real, if a little watery at the edges.

They left with grins and encouragement, calling over their shoulders: “Next time we see you, Styles, you’d better be on your feet, no excuses!”

Harry nodded, smiling until the last bootstep faded down the hall.

Later, Louis found him in the garden, parked on a bench and staring into the distance like he was auditioning for a tragic war film.

“Quiet, isn’t it?” Louis said, strolling over with a crooked grin.

Harry didn’t look at him, just muttered, “Finally. I can hear my own thoughts.”

Louis sat beside him, stretching his legs out. “Sounds dreadful. What’s it like in there—wind whistling through empty halls?”

Harry turned his head slowly, deadpan. “Very funny. My thoughts are actually brilliant. Complex.”

“Mm,” Louis hummed. “Complex like… wondering if ants salute their queen before they nick your sandwich?”

Harry snorted. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll map out their entire command structure.”

Louis grinned. “I’d pay good money to see you give a motivational speech to a line of ants.”

“Bet they’d listen better than my team,” Harry shot back.

“Oi, your team were a bloody comedy troupe,” Louis laughed. “I’ve seen quieter hen parties.”

“Yeah, and now they’ve abandoned me,” Harry sighed with mock drama.

Louis nudged his shoulder. “Don’t pout. You’ll wrinkle.”

Harry gave him a look, then smirked. “You calling me old, Lou?”

“Not old. Just… seasoned.” Louis wiggled his brows. “Like beef jerky.”

Harry barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable.”

“True,” Louis said, leaning back with a smug smile. “But admit it—you’d be bored stiff without me.”

Harry didn’t answer right away, but the twitch of his lips said more than words.

_____________

Louis found himself thinking about Harry more and more—and not in the professional, nurse-patient sort of way he was supposed to. No, he was out here replaying Harry’s smile like it was a bloody pop song stuck in his head, admiring the quick wit, even the sheer mule-headed stubbornness that should’ve been annoying but somehow made Louis want to grin and throw something at him at the same time.

Harry was brave. Infuriatingly so. Facing every day like it was a new battlefield, hauling himself through physio even when he hit the floor hard enough to bruise. And fine—fine—he was beautiful, too. Louis had always known the man was hot (anyone with functioning eyes had), but lately it was worse. Because it wasn’t just his face or his ridiculous curls—it was the way he carried himself, the quiet kind of care he tried to disguise like it was a state secret.

Like that time with Libby. Nine years old, tiny and fierce, but struggling with her new prosthesis. Her parents had slipped out for a breath, and she’d crumpled, frustrated tears on her cheeks. Harry had crouched down beside her, speaking low and patient, like he understood. And of course he did. Within minutes, she was wobbling forward again, grinning through her tears.

Louis had stood there like an idiot, heart climbing up his throat. Because really—whoever ended up with Harry Styles? They’d basically won the bloody Powerball. A man who’d care like that, protect like that, and still have you laughing until your ribs hurt? Jackpot.

And that’s when Louis’s brain decided to betray him further, spinning daydreams about life after Harry was discharged. Would he ask Louis out? Would he want to? And Louis knew, deep in his bones, that whatever Harry asked, the answer would be yes. Without hesitation.

Which was, frankly, unacceptable. Harry was still his patient. For three more weeks, Louis had to keep his hands firmly to himself—no hand-holding, no leaning too close, no admitting he sometimes wanted to curl up in Harry’s lap like a bloody housecat. And maybe Harry didn’t even want that anyway. Maybe all of Louis’s hormones had finally scrambled his brain.

So, with the clarity of a man standing on the absolute edge of catastrophe, Louis came to one undeniable conclusion: he needed to get laid. Immediately. 

Not romance, not lingering looks, not alpha dimples that made his chest do stupid gymnastics. Just sex. Anonymous, brainless, body-to-body. A quick reboot of the system.

Hell, he was one bad night away from posting an ad online:
Wanted: distraction. Must be tall enough to block out the view of one infuriating soldier, and loud enough to drown out his laugh.

Anything—anything—to scrub Harry bloody Styles out of his head.

Because it was becoming an issue.

Zayn had finally arrived at the center to run his art class, looking polished and perfect as ever. Louis had been fine with it—until somewhere between Zayn showing Harry how to hold a brush and Harry firing off a dry little remark that made Zayn actually laugh—laugh—Louis felt something ugly coil low in his chest.

Jealousy. Pure, irrational, embarrassing jealousy.

Because apparently Harry’s sarcasm was supposed to be Louis’s exclusive privilege.

So, fine. If Harry Styles was rewiring Louis’s brain this badly, the solution was obvious: distraction.

And distraction meant Niall.

Louis shot off a quick text, and, as expected, his best mate agreed instantly. Niall was the perfect wingman—equal parts enabler and escape artist. He’d happily drift into the background while Louis pulled.

Which is how Louis found himself, a few hours later, in his go-to pulling uniform: the tightest jeans he owned, a tank top that showed off his arms, tattoos on full display, hair styled into a soft, deliberate quiff.

On the dance floor he met Dani—blond, dark-eyed, with a nice smile. So different from Harry that Louis almost cheered. He decided on the spot to let Danni take him home and fuck him into forgetting.

They kissed ten minutes later, and when Dani whispered, “Want to take this to mine?” Louis nodded so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

The alpha turned out to be… decent. A nice lay. Made Louis come, which counted. He didn’t let him knot—no need for that—but it was fine. Good, even. And, more importantly, it shut his head up about Harry for a couple of blessed hours.

Later, Louis dressed quickly, thanked Dani for the orgasm like a polite boy, and slipped out into the night, bone-tired and kind of satisfied.

He could do this.
He would do this.
He could forget about Harry.

_____________

Louis’s plan backfired. Of course it did. The universe lived to humiliate him.

The very next morning, the second Louis stepped into Harry’s room, the alpha’s nostrils flared—sharp and dramatic, like some bloodhound in a courtroom drama. His expression shifted into something between suspicion and mild disgust, like Louis had tracked in a dead rat.

Louis froze mid-step, clutching his chart. No. Absolutely not. There was no way Harry could smell—

“I didn’t know you had an alpha,” Harry said flatly, voice unreadable.

Louis nearly dropped the clipboard. “W–what? I don’t.”

Harry laced his fingers together, elbows on the armrests, posture pure interrogation-room chic. “Then why do you smell like one?”

Louis’s mouth fell open. “Because I got laid last night?” He snapped, then tried to recover with a sassy tilt of his chin. “Why is that any of your business?”

Harry scoffed, the sound annoyingly casual. “It’s not. Just… it’s polite to shower afterwards. The smell’s giving me a headache.”

Louis gasped like Harry had slapped him with a white glove. “Excuse me?! I did shower. Twice! It’s not my fault your freakishly magical nose can sniff past body wash. What do you want me to do, exfoliate with holy water?”

Harry leaned back, his signature grump is showing display again. “Might help.”

Louis glared, flustered, mortified, and also perilously close to combusting. “Whatever. I hope your new prosthesis squeaks every time you walk.”

He goes from there, annoyed.

_____________

Niall cornered Louis in the cafeteria hours later, practically blocking his tray like a furious mall cop.

“What did you do to my Harry?” he demanded.

Louis blinked. “Your Harry?” He scoffed, setting his tray down. “Didn’t know you’d put a ring on it.”

Niall groaned, dragging his hands down his face, blond spikes sticking out even worse for it. “I don’t care about your sarcastic little comments right now. What did you do to him?”

Louis frowned, stabbing at his mashed potatoes. “I did nothing! He was fine this morning. Well, fine-ish. You know, grumpy, dramatic, threatening to murder my shower gel with his supernose, the usual.” He waved his fork. “Why am I suddenly the villain?”

“Because,” Niall shot back, eyes wide with the seriousness of a man discussing national security, “when I asked him where you were—like I always do, just to watch the way his eyes sparkle—he said, and I quote, ‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’”

Louis’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. “…He said that?”

“Yes!” Niall clutched his chest like he’d personally been betrayed. “Do you know how hard it is to get him to sparkle? Do you? And now he’s stomping around nearly punching his brand-new prosthesis like it owes him money!”

Louis muttered, “For fuck’s sake,” under his breath, but his cheeks were already heating. He stabbed his potatoes harder.

Niall squinted at him, leaning across the table. “So. Spill. What did you do to my Harry?”

Louis set his fork down with a clatter. “Oh, I don’t know, Niall. Maybe I murdered his ego. Or maybe he’s just a miserable sod who can’t handle that the world doesn’t revolve around him 24/7. Take your pick.”

Niall gasped. “See? That! That tone! That’s exactly why he’s sulking. You sass him like you’re married already, then act shocked when he sulks like a husband.”

Louis groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I hate you.”

“Listen, you.” Niall squinted at him, jabbing a finger for emphasis. “He’s got two more weeks in here before I discharge him, which means I’ll only have to see him two days a week instead of four. So you better grovel at his feet and fix this, or you’ll ruin it for me!”

Louis peeked through his fingers. “You do realize you sound like Harry’s personal cue card, right?”

“And whose fault is that?!” Niall threw his arms up, hair spikes wobbling like they were angry too. “You challenged me to get him discharged in six months! I was this close—this close—to my goal, and then you come along and tank his progress!”

Louis dropped his hands with a tired sigh. “Niall. It’s really not my fault. He smelled the alpha from last night on me, and then he just…grumbled himself into a sulk. I didn’t do anything! He’s dramatic.”

Niall’s jaw dropped. He blinked once. Twice. Then slammed both palms on the table so hard Louis’s tray jumped. “YOU WENT AND GOT SHAGGED AND DIDN’T ACCOUNT FOR HIS SUPERNOSE?!”

Half the cafeteria turned to stare. Louis hissed, “Keep your voice down, for fuck’s sake!”

“You doomed us all, Tommo. Doomed. Us. All.” Niall huffed, jabbing a finger at Louis like he’d caused the downfall of civilization.

Louis sighed. “You’re ridiculous.”

Before he could say more, a tray dropped onto the table beside them.

“Well, well, well. What’s this about doom?”

Louis didn’t even look up. “Kill me now.”

Nick slid in smoothly, grin wide and eyes gleaming. “No can do, darling. I’ve just come from sulky central—aka Harry’s room. Man’s sitting there with his arms crossed like someone stole his crayons.”

Niall perked up. “See! See? I told you he’s broken.”

Nick leaned his chin on his hand, looking Louis up and down. “And now I find out why. You went and got yourself a post-bar alpha, didn’t you?”

Louis froze mid-chew. “…How the hell do you know that?”

Nick smirked, tapping the side of his nose. “Because Styles has been brooding so hard he’s fogging up the windows. I walked in, said, ‘What’s wrong, pet?’ and he muttered something about smelling strangers. Honestly, I thought he was accusing the cleaning staff of cheating on him until now.”

Niall nearly fell off his chair laughing. “Smelling strangers! Oh, my God.”

Louis groaned, dropping his fork. “You two are insufferable.”

Nick wagged a finger at him. “No, darling. You’re insufferable. He’s sulking because of you. Which means…” He paused dramatically. “…congratulations. You reset Harry’s possessive streak. You’ve officially become Harry’s favorite soap opera.”

Niall clapped like it was opening night. Louis buried his face in his hands, praying for spontaneous combustion.

_____________

Louis tried. He swore he did. He tried to talk to Harry afterwards—because the last thing he wanted was to mess up the alpha’s healing process over something as stupid as one night stand fallout.

But Harry? Harry was insufferable.

Every time Louis opened his mouth—whether to say something encouraging, or to sass him back into the land of the living—Harry either ignored him entirely, flipping a page of his book like Louis wasn’t even there, or he’d growl low in his throat like a feral dog guarding its bone.

Louis had never known he could provoke that kind of reaction from an alpha. Omegas weren’t supposed to be the problem—at least not like this. But apparently, Louis Tomlinson’s mere existence now triggered Harry Styles into either ice-cold silence or borderline snarling.

By mid-afternoon Louis had rolled his eyes so many times it was a medical miracle they hadn’t gotten stuck skyward.

So, with a dramatic huff, he gave up. Fine. Maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe once Harry’s supernatural nose stopped detecting Eau de Random Alpha lingering in the air, he’d stop acting like Louis had committed treason.

For now, Louis decided, Harry could sit there in his sulky little fortress of self-pity. Louis was going to preserve his sanity—and maybe invest in stronger body wash.

_____________

The next few days weren’t better. If anything, they were worse.

Harry had apparently decided to commit fully to the role of dramatic main character in a rom-com—the kind who ignores the love interest just long enough to cause emotional devastation. Every attempt Louis made to talk, sass, or even casually poke him for a reaction was met with absolute silence or the occasional arctic glare.

And the worst part? Louis couldn’t even find excuses to corner him anymore.

Because overnight, Harry had flipped a switch. He threw himself into rehab like it was a military mission, no room for distraction, no room for Louis. When Louis arrived in the mornings, Harry wasn’t in his room waiting for vitals, oh no—he was already in the gym, or sweating through physio, or back in the gym again. The alpha looked determined to walk out of the center yesterday.

Louis watched the sudden surge of progress with his mouth half open. It wasn’t just improvement—it was miraculous. Even Niall, usually smug about every inch of progress, looked unsettled.

“Well, that’s… good,” Niall muttered one afternoon, eyes flicking toward Harry with something like suspicion. Then he added, in a tone that made Louis bristle, “Weirdly good. Almost like… you two not talking is exactly what he needed.”

Louis choked on his coffee. “Excuse me?!”

But Niall just smirked, clipboard tucked under his arm, and walked off like he hadn’t just insulted both Louis’s medical skill and his charm in one breath.

Louis sat there, seething, wondering how his life had come to this: rejected by a sulking alpha and upstaged by a treadmill.

_____________

Louis sat with his tea cooling by his elbow, scribbling notes into one of his patients’ charts. The words blurred on the page—muscle memory doing the writing while his mind wandered elsewhere.

Then he heard it.

Laughter. Not just any laughter, but that laugh—deep, full-bodied, the kind that wrapped around Louis’s chest and squeezed until his heart beat too fast, his omega keening inside at the sound.

His head snapped up before he could stop himself.

Larissa’s door was open. Inside, Harry sat with Nick and Larissa, all three of them caught up in some story. Harry was leaning back, shoulders loose, dimples out, eyes shining as he laughed. His whole face lit up, tension gone, like someone had lifted the weight of months off him.

The sight hit Louis like a punch. God. He looks happy.  Happy without him.

Was that it? Was Harry better off now that he wasn’t talking to him? Had Louis been dragging him down this whole time?

The questions tumbled, merciless:
Maybe if I’d told him sooner. Maybe if I’d explained why I couldn’t risk anything while he’s still my patient. Maybe if I’d just said it outright—that I like him, that I want him—then he wouldn’t ignore me like that. Then he wouldn’t be laughing in there like I’m a wall he’s finally escaped.

The maybes stacked higher, pressing in on him, making his chest ache. Because it wasn’t just about a patient anymore. Harry had become his routine—his mornings, his banter, his spark of joy. And now, stripped of that, Louis felt like something vital had been yanked out of his day.

He must’ve been staring too long, because a voice broke through his thoughts.

“Are you okay, Lou?”

Louis jumped, nearly spilling his tea, and turned. Gemma stood beside him, concern soft but sharp in her eyes.

He schooled his features quickly, forcing a smile. “Yeah, of course. All good.” He gestured vaguely toward her, deliberately ignoring the echo of Harry’s laugh still drifting down the hall. “What’s up?”

But Gemma didn’t buy it. She followed the line of his gaze to where Harry sat with Nick and Larissa, and something shifted in her face. “Is he still not talking to you?”

Louis shrugged, aiming for casual. “Nope.” Then, too quickly, added, “That’s okay. He’s progressing fine without me.”

“Is that what you think?” Gemma asked, one eyebrow arching.

Louis gave her a blank look, uncertain how to answer.

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “You really don’t know my brother yet. I forgot—it’s only been a few months.”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” She tilted her chin toward the open door. “From here, you see Harry laughing and assume he’s fine. But me? I know him. That laugh’s too loud, too stretched. Look closer—his shoulders are tense. His eyes have shadows under them. He hasn’t been sleeping. And that smile?” She shook her head again. “Not the real one. Not the one he shares with you.”

Louis’s chest tightened. Automatically, he looked again—looked properly this time. And Gemma was right. Beneath the laughter, Harry’s posture was rigid. The circles under his eyes were darker than they should’ve been. The brightness was a little forced. Had Louis really missed all that?

Gemma touched his arm, her hand light but steady, her voice lowering into something soft and certain.

“On a more private note… he’s miserable, Lou. Stubborn as hell, so he’ll keep up this ridiculous ignoring game. But don’t think for a second it isn’t costing him.”

Louis swallowed, throat tight. “You really think so?”

Gemma’s mouth curved into a small smile, the kind only a sister could pull off. “I know so. Who do you think he unloads on when he can’t say it to your face? He’s been eating my brain out about you. I nearly hung up the phone last night—he wouldn’t stop whining.”

Louis’s gaze dropped to his tea. His voice was barely above a murmur. “I’m miserable too. I don’t even know how it happened. One minute I was just his nurse, he was just my patient… and now it feels like I’m living through a Grey’s Anatomy plotline.”

Gemma studied him for a long moment, something unreadable in her eyes. Then she sighed. “That’s Harry, though. He’s always ignored his feelings. Tries to shove them down until they go away. He’s done it for years. And when he likes someone but isn’t sure they feel the same? He goes silent. It’s his defense mechanism.”

Louis let out a shaky laugh, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “Great. And here I thought ignoring me was just his new hobby.”

Gemma smiled wryly. “It’s more like… self-preservation. The more he cares, the more he hides it.”

Louis was quiet for a beat, then asked, voice low, “So how do I fix it? Because I—” he hesitated, heart hammering. “I can’t go for it. Not while he’s still my patient. I can’t risk my license.”

Gemma nodded, as if she’d expected that. “I get it. He’s off in a week, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then talk to him before he leaves. Let him know how you feel, and that he can reach out once he’s discharged. Give him something to hold onto. A bit of hope.”

Louis bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes flicking back toward the room where Harry’s laugh was echoing again. Hope. It sounded dangerous. And yet—he wanted it more than anything.

_____________

Louis didn’t have to wait long. Three days before Harry’s official discharge, it happened.

He’d just finished up with a patient and was heading toward his computer when he passed Harry’s door. A strange sound made him pause—soft at first, muffled. He froze, brow furrowing, tilting his head. Then it came again. And again.

It wasn’t strange at all. It was crying.

Louis’s heart thudded painfully. For a second he just stood there, staring at the door, debating. Maybe he should respect Harry’s privacy. Maybe Harry wanted to be left alone. But something in the raw, broken edge of those sobs shredded Louis’s resolve.

Before he could overthink it, he pushed the door open quietly and slipped inside, closing it behind him with the faintest click.

The room was dim, curtains half-drawn. Harry was curled on the bed, blanket pulled over his entire body like armor, but even beneath it Louis could see the trembling. His shoulders hitched with each breath, the sound muffled against the pillow.

Louis’s chest ached. He moved carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. “Harry?” he asked, voice low, gentle.

The trembling stilled, but no answer came. Just silence, thick and heavy.

Louis edged closer until he stood at the bedside. Slowly, tentatively, he reached out and laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder through the blanket. “Hey,” he tried again, even softer this time. “Are you okay?”

For a long moment, Harry didn’t move. Then a broken sound escaped him, raw and unguarded, the kind that made Louis’s throat tighten.

Louis’s hand stayed steady on his shoulder, thumb brushing gently. “It’s alright,” he whispered. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

Harry peeked out from under the blanket, and the sight knocked the air from Louis’s chest. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes wet, his whole face flushed from crying. The sadness in his gaze was so raw, so unguarded, Louis thought for a second he might start crying too.

“What is it, soldier? What’s got you so down?” Louis asked gently, stroking along his arm in comfort.

Harry didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze flicked toward the bedside table. Louis followed it and noticed a plain cardboard box sitting there. Something in the way Harry looked at it told him everything.

Without thinking, Louis reached for it, lifted the lid, and his stomach tightened at what he found. Inside were Harry’s belongings from the army—carefully packed, returned to him like relics. Folded documents, a note, a small glass case holding a medal for courage with Harry’s name etched into it.

Louis understood instantly. Harry must have just received his final items, the official discharge paperwork, the Army’s tidy little thank you-for-your-service. Yes, he’d have a pension. Yes, there would be support. But for Harry, who had given years of his life, his body, his blood—it wasn’t money or systems. It was an ending. A brutal, final line under everything he’d been.

Louis closed the box quietly and set it back on the table. His hand moved from Harry’s shoulder up into his curls, fingers threading gently. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmured. “You’ll find something else.”

Harry’s eyes filled again, spilling over, his voice breaking. “What can I find, Lou? I’m a cripple, for God’s sake. No good for the army anymore. No good for anything. I never went to uni, I never…”

His words dissolved into sobs, shoulders shaking.

Louis didn’t hesitate. He leaned down and gathered Harry into his arms, holding him close as the alpha broke against him. “Shh,” Louis whispered, one hand in his hair, the other around his back, steady as a shield. “You’re not nothing. You hear me? You’re not.”

Harry trembled, burying his face into Louis’s shoulder, tears soaking through the fabric. He cried until his chest gave out, until only the shuddering remnants of it remained, and Louis never let go. He just held on, steady, warm, anchoring him through every wave of it.

When Harry finally pulled back, it was gentle, reluctant, his eyes wet and his cheeks blotchy. “Sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “God, I’m a mess. Didn’t mean to unload it on you.”

Louis smiled, brushing a curl off Harry’s forehead without thinking. “That’s okay. I’m good at hugs and shutting up when it matters. It’s one of my many talents.”

A small, broken chuckle escaped Harry, but his gaze dropped again, sadness still etched deep. “What do I even do now, Lou?” His voice cracked, soft and aching. “I don’t know what I’m good at. It’s not like I can just find a job when I’ll still be here two times a week. And I don’t…” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to just leave here and rot in bed in my new apartment. That won’t be good for me.”

Louis nodded slowly, heart tight. He understood. He really did. He thought hard for an answer, something that might help—and then it hit him so suddenly he almost facepalmed.

“Get up,” he blurted, urgency sparking in his voice. He glanced at the clock on the wall—nearly evening. If they moved now, maybe, just maybe, they’d make it before closing.

Harry blinked at him, confused. “W-what?”

“Come on, soldier,” Louis urged, practically buzzing, torn between excitement and panic. “Get up. Put on your prosthesis, grab a cane if you need to—we’re going on a trip.”

Harry’s brows shot up. “A trip? Now?”

Louis was already moving around the room, grabbing Harry’s bag like a man possessed. “Yes, now. It’s close, just a few minutes by car. But we have to leave before they close.” His grin bordered on manic, half-giddy with the idea, half-stressed about the time. “trust me, Harry” he asked.

Harry stared at him like Louis had lost his mind, but something in the omega’s wild energy maybe tugged at him, because he nodded and got up, pulling his prosthesis on and taking his cane. getting up slowly, following Louis blindly. 

_____________

Louis all but dragged Harry down the hall, muttering about time. They nearly collided with Liam on the way out, who blinked at the sight of Louis clutching Harry’s hand like a man on a mission.

“Car keys,” Louis demanded, holding out his palm.

Liam looked from him to Harry—who just shrugged helplessly—then back again. “What—where are you—”

“Gosh, Liam, just give me your keys already! I’m not leaving the country. Fucking trust me,” Louis snapped, impatient.

Liam stared, mouth opening and closing like he was about to argue. But Louis’s sheer audacity must’ve short-circuited him, because he handed over the keys without another word, still looking astonished as Louis snatched them and bolted.

“Come on, soldier,” Louis said, tugging Harry along by the hand.

The drive was short—barely ten minutes—but Louis drove like the clock was mocking him. Harry sat in the passenger seat, staring at him with that bemused expression he wore whenever Louis was being especially… Louis.

When they pulled up in front of a big brick building, lights glowing faintly in the evening, Louis exhaled in relief. Still open. Good.

Harry leaned forward, reading the sign aloud. “Ex-military Centre?” He frowned. “What is this?”

“You’ll see,” Louis said, lips twitching into a grin. He practically bounced out of the car.

Inside, the space hummed with quiet life—murmured conversations, the clatter of equipment, posters on the walls showing rehabilitation programs, classes, and job initiatives for veterans. Harry lingered near the entrance, eyes darting around, taking it in slowly, while Louis marched up to the front desk.

“Hey, is James around?” Louis asked brightly.

The receptionist—Jenny, her name tag said—looked him up and down. “And you are?”

Louis’s grin widened. “The reason he’s walking right now. I’m Louis.”

_____________

It took less than thirty seconds before James appeared, tall frame filling the hallway.

“Who let this gremlin in?” James called out, mock-serious, his grin giving him away.

Louis laughed and stepped forward, hugging him tightly like no time had passed. “The doors were wide open,” he shot back, eyes sparkling. “If you don’t want gremlins, you should post a guard out front.”

James rolled his eyes, returning the hug with a fond squeeze. “Please. You’d just charm the poor bastard into opening the door for you anyway.”

Louis smirked, “Well, you’re not wrong.”

James huffed, but there was warmth under it, the kind only old friends carried. Their easy rhythm of banter cracked through the air, familiar and unforced, like they’d been having this same argument for years.

Harry lingered a step behind, quiet, the faint crease between his brows deepening as he watched Louis slip into an easy rhythm with James—this whole other side of him that hadn’t shown itself before.

James’s smile softened. “Kathy’s been asking about you, Lou. You’ve not come for tea in ages. She says she’s got half the neighbourhood’s gossip stored up for you.”

Louis grinned, sheepish. “I know, I know. Tell her I’m sorry. Work’s been swallowing me whole lately, but I’ll come soon.”

James tipped his head, eyes twinkling. “Liam still giving you the nightmare cases? You know, the ones sobbing about their miserable lives and threatening to throw fits?”

Louis chuckled, hand over his chest in mock despair. “Unfortunately, yes. Started with you, didn’t it? And somehow Liam got it into his thick skull that I could manage everyone else’s meltdowns, too.”

James barked a laugh. “I hope he’s paying you enough.” Then, with a silky little lilt, “You know I need a head nurse here. The last one left a few months ago. I’ll pay you a fortune if you agree.”

Louis smirked, shaking his head. He knew James had the money to back up the claim, but he only shrugged. “Can’t leave Liam to fend for himself, sorry. He’ll lose his hair and his pretty mate within the month.”

James chuckled, conceding with a smile full of understanding. Then he tilted his head, curiosity flickering. “So why are you here, darling?”

Louis glanced back, catching Harry watching their exchange with an unreadable look. He gestured for him to step closer.

“James, meet Harry Styles. Ex-veteran like you,” Louis said. “He’s one of my patients—set for discharge in three days—and he’ll need some support to make sure he doesn’t just get stuck in his apartment.”

James nodded once, listening closely. Louis continued, “Harry, this is James. One of my first patients… what, five years ago?”

“Six, actually,” James corrected, lips twitching.

“God, I’m ancient,” Louis muttered, shaking his head before waving it off. “Anyway when James was discharged, he didn’t know what to do with himself either. That’s why this center exists. Programs, resources, support—the lot. It’s here to help ex-military through the next stage of life.”

Harry nodded, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, James.”

James shook it firmly, the brief silence humming with that unspoken alpha appraisal. Then James smiled, the tension breaking. “Where’d you serve?”

“Special Forces,” Harry said evenly. “You?”

“Infantry,” James replied with a small nod. “Three tours, mostly ground combat. Boots on the ground, taking hills, losing them, taking them again. You know the drill.”

Harry’s brow ticked, just slightly. “Front line, then.”

“Front, middle, back—wherever they fancied dropping us,” James said dryly. “We weren’t the glamorous ones. No night jumps or secret missions for us. Just… endless dust, mud, and bad rations.”

Harry gave a faint huff, almost a laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Special Forces had the same rations. Just fewer people to share them with.”

“Ah, yes,” James said, mock-serious. “The mysterious elite. Kicking down doors in the dark while the rest of us were busy being shot at in broad daylight.”

Louis snorted, unable to resist. “Fantastic. Now it’s turning into a pissing contest. Should I fetch a measuring tape?”

Both men glanced at him—James amused, Harry unimpressed.

James chuckled, leaning back. “Relax, Lou. It’s not a contest. Different sides of the same coin.” He turned to Harry with a knowing look. “But trust me, mate, it doesn’t matter where you served. The fall feels the same when it’s over.”

Harry’s jaw tightened at that, but after a beat he gave a slow, almost reluctant nod.

“What have you lost?” James asked, his tone gentle but direct, the kind that came from shared experience. “I can see the burn scars, but if Louis was assigned to you, then it means you’re carrying more than that.” His gaze flicked toward Harry’s cane. “Right leg, yeah?”

Harry seemed hyperaware, his shoulders stiffening. “Yeah.” His voice was quiet, clipped. Then, after a breath: “You?”

“Two,” James replied easily. He hitched up the hem of his trousers, revealing sleek prosthetics. “Top of the line, these babies.”

Something flickered in Harry’s expression—recognition, maybe even relief. He nodded once, then lifted his own trouser leg, revealing the newer prosthesis strapped neatly in place. “This one too.”

James grinned. “Good kit. You’ll get used to it.”

Louis clapped his hands together, unable to resist breaking the moment. “Brilliant. Now that we’ve officially compared limbs like it’s a show-and-tell, how about this—James, you give Harry the tour, and I’ll charm Jenny into making me tea.” His grin was smug, his tone deliberately light to cover the ache in his chest.

Harry shot Louis a look, something caught between annoyance and gratitude, but didn’t say a word.

James only chuckled, rolling his eyes at Louis like a man long used to his antics. “Sure, come on then, Harry.” He turned back to Louis, wagging a finger at him. “And you—don’t make a mess while I’m gone.”

Louis rolled his eyes dramatically. “Sure thing, daddy.”

Harry frowned at the exchange, clearly baffled, while James burst out laughing and clapped him on the back, steering him toward the corridor. “Come on, ignore him. He’s always been like this.”

Louis leaned against the reception counter as they disappeared, his grin fading into something quieter. A little pang curled in his stomach, sharp and persistent. He really hoped this would work.

Harry deserved to know he wasn’t alone. That there were people who’d been where he was, who understood. That his life wasn’t ending, it was just… shifting. With the right support, he could build something new.

Louis closed his eyes briefly, almost a prayer. Please let him give this a chance.

_____________

Twenty minutes later—two cups of tea and half a life story from Jenny about her last disastrous date (“dump him, he sounds like a douche in the making!” Louis had declared)—the door opened and Harry and James came back in.

They looked more at ease now, shoulders looser, something lighter in their expressions. Louis caught sight of the faint dimple appearing in Harry’s cheek, and the small burst of pride inside him was ridiculous. He knew this could work.

“So,” Louis said breezily, unable to help himself, “can I start planning a wedding?”

Harry flushed scarlet, while James cackled. “Not sure Kathy will approve, but he’s definitely cute.”

Louis laughed, his gaze catching on Harry’s bashful blush, and his chest gave an inconvenient squeeze.

“But yes,” James went on, his voice settling into something steady, “Harry will start coming here next week. Three times a week, right?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah.” He clasped James’s hand firmly. “Thank you. You’ve built something good here.”

James chuckled, then surprised Harry with one of his trademark bear hugs—the kind Louis knew well, crushing and reassuring all at once. After a long squeeze, James pulled back and said, “That’s all thanks to the little one over there.” He nodded at Louis. “I was stuck in my pity party until he marched me into a meeting with a job counsellor. That’s where the whole idea started.”

Louis felt heat creep up his neck at the fond look James gave him. But it was Harry who spoke, his voice low, teasing. “You’re a magical creature, huh?”

Louis ducked his head, shrugging. “Told you I’m an angel.”

James chuckled, glancing between the two of them with a knowing smile. “Okay, I’ve got to run. Leo has a football game—I’m the coach, and if I’m late, he’ll murder me.” He wrapped Louis in another hug, leaning close to murmur, “Don’t let this lad go, huh? He seems infuriated with you… and not just professionally, like the rest of us.”

Louis’s cheeks warmed, but he only whispered back, “We’ll see.”

James left with a wave, and Louis cleared his throat, turning toward Harry. “Come on, soldier,” he said lightly, leading him back toward the car. His hand brushed Harry’s arm as they walked, casual but deliberate, grounding.

Inside, Louis’s stomach fluttered. For the first time in days, the ache of “maybe” didn’t feel so heavy.

_____________

Harry seemed lost in his head during the drive back to the center, staring out the window with that faraway look. For once, Louis didn’t fill the silence. He let him think, let the quiet sit between them.

When Louis parked the car and pulled at his seatbelt, Harry’s voice stopped him.

“Lou…”

Louis turned, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Mm?”

Harry’s eyes were lowered, his voice soft. “Thank you. I… it’s exactly what I needed.” He looked almost shy, like some schoolboy caught out, and Louis’s chest ached with the urge to pull him into his arms.

Louis only nodded. “It’s a start. Something to fill your days. The rest will come.”

Harry gave a small nod, then lifted his gaze. Green met blue, steady, and suddenly the car was thick with tension. Louis let the silence stretch, waiting to see if Harry would take it somewhere.

Finally, Harry inhaled deeply. “Listen… about the way I acted the last two weeks…”

Louis gave him a slow nod, encouraging him to continue.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” Harry said, words halting. “I was just—a jealous prick. I didn’t like smelling another alpha on you. It… triggered something in me. And I know I don’t have the right. You’re my nurse, not my mate. I was being stupid, reading too much into our interactions. Thinking there was… something there. While you were just being you—charming and caring, like you are with everyone.”

Louis’s heart thudded, hard and insistent. This is it.

“So I’m sorry, Lou.” Harry’s voice cracked a little, his eyes heavy with regret. “I’m sure this isn’t the first time a patient’s developed some kind of feeling for you—”

“Harry.” Louis’s voice cut in, firmer than he meant it to be. His hand pressed against Harry’s thigh, stopping him cold. “Stop talking.”

Harry blinked at him, startled. “Wha—”

“Just stop,” Louis repeated, softer now. He held his gaze, steady, even though his own pulse was going mad. “You think you’re the only one reading too much into this? You’re not. You think you’re the only one feeling something? You’re not.”

Harry’s mouth parted like he wanted to argue, but no words came out.

Louis’s hand stayed where it was, grounding them both. “I like you, Harry. More than I should. More than is safe, honestly. But you’re still my patient, and I can’t… I won’t risk my license by crossing that line right now.” He exhaled, long and shaky. “So don’t you sit there and tell me this was all in your head, alright? Because it wasn’t.”

For a second the only sound in the car was Harry’s sharp inhale.

“…You do?” His voice was quiet, like he didn’t dare believe it.

Louis gave a small, rueful smile. “Yeah. I do. But it has to wait. You get discharged, then you can ask me out for coffee, and we’ll see where it goes. Until then—we keep our heads on straight.”

Harry blinked at him, like the word itself was foreign. “…Coffee?”

Louis rolled his eyes, laughing a little at the awestruck alpha. “Yeah, coffee. You want me to write it down so you can read it later?” He bit his lip, teasing.

Harry chuckled, though his cheeks were still pink. “Well, you can’t be surprised I’m having trouble wrapping my head around it.”

“And why’s that?” Louis asked, grin tugging at his mouth.

Harry let out a hard breath, shoulders rising. “Because—look at you. And then look at me. I didn’t think you’d actually… want to.”

Louis’s lips twitched. “It’s just a date. Who knows, maybe I’ll figure out you’re a knothead and dump your sorry arse afterwards.”

Harry laughed, the sound low and certain. “Like you could. I’ll have you know I intend to unleash the full Styles charm. You won’t even see it coming—I’ll woo you before you know what’s happening.”

Louis quirked an eyebrow, though his chest was still pounding, betraying him. “Really confident, aren’t you?”

Harry nodded, smirk tugging at his mouth, dimples flashing. “Always.”

Louis huffed a laugh, shaking his head, but he couldn’t hide the warmth spreading through him. “God help me.”

Harry grinned wider. “Too late, baby. You’re already done for.”

_____________

After their little confession, everything felt easier.

Their rhythm was restored—banter sliding back into place, laughter in the halls, Harry showing up to every physio session without Louis having to nag (much). But there was something new now, too.

Small things.

Like Louis stopping by Harry’s room at the end of each shift to say goodnight, their hands finding each other under the blanket for just a minute. Like longer chats in the garden, stories spilling easier than before, smiles lasting a little longer.

Harry even showed him the apartment Anne and Gemma had rented for him. Just two bedrooms and a tiny garden, on the ground floor. The kitchen was bigger than Louis expected, though, and Harry’s eyes lit up as he talked about all the meals he wanted to make there. Louis couldn’t help but grin, the warmth of it curling inside his chest. It felt… comforting. Like the softest rehearsal for something more—like they were preparing for their first date without saying it out loud.

Then came Harry’s last day.

Louis was meant to check in on him early, maybe even sneak a coffee before discharge paperwork started. Instead, he found himself stuck with Mr. Benton.

Mr. Benton, a notoriously grumpy eighty-five-year-old Alpha who made it his mission to insult at least one nurse per shift. He’d once sworn on his deceased mother’s grave that he wouldn’t do physical therapy, and Louis was the only one who could handle him without a meltdown. His barking insults didn’t faze Louis much; he mostly found them funny. 

Today, after a short round of shouting, Louis had handed him a set of weights with an unimpressed look that shut him up on the spot. Mr. Benton now grunted in the background, muttering curses under his breath for good measure, but compliant nonetheless.

Harry found Louis like this; standing over Mr. Benton, who was red in the face from grumbling his way through a set of weights. Louis was watching him with cool, unimpressed eyes, the picture of patience, while Benton groaned like Louis had sentenced him to run marathons.

“Hey,” Harry said, holding up a thin folder of discharge papers and his cane. “Busy?”

Louis glanced over and smiled. “Not much. Just making sure Robert here doesn’t chuck his prosthetic arm in the bin again.”

Harry chuckled, stepping closer. “So… I’m off in a few minutes. But I realized I forgot something.”

Louis tilted his head, already guessing, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “What’s that?”

“I don’t have your number,” Harry said it simply, but his dimples were out in full force. “And sure, I could ask Niall for it, but that’d probably cost me an interrogation and a death threat.”

Louis laughed, lips parting with a reply—

Only to be cut off by Mr. Benton’s thunderous voice.

“I could’ve fallen! And the rude young one is flirting! I could die right here and he wouldn’t even notice!”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up, mouth twitching dangerously close to laughter. He looked past Louis at the old Alpha, who was still valiantly lifting his weights like they’d insulted his honor.

Louis turned around slowly, fighting his grin. “Robert,” he said sweetly, “I think I’d know if you died. It’d finally be quiet in here.”

Harry barked out a laugh, trying and failing to smother it behind his hand. Mr. Benton spluttered, muttering curses under his breath, but stubbornly kept lifting.

The old Alpha huffed, voice carrying across the room. “You say that now, but when I’m crushed beneath this ancient equipment, my ghost will haunt your pretty little face every night for the rest of your life.”

Louis laughed, warm and merciless. “Haunt away, Robert. I’ll still be the only one who knows how to bully you into your reps.”

Benton narrowed his eyes. “You won’t be laughing when I drop this dumbbell and it rolls over your foot. Then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

“Probably still me,” Louis said, grinning. “And if you pull a muscle trying to kill me, I’ll count it as extra cardio.”

Mr. Benton gasped, clutching his chest theatrically. “Disrespectful! In my day, nurses were polite!”

Louis didn’t miss a beat. “In your day, Robert, dinosaurs were still roaming the earth.”

That broke Harry completely—he doubled over, laughter spilling out, dimples deep and eyes shining. Louis only shrugged in his direction, grinning like this is my circus, these are my clowns.

When Harry finally caught his breath, he turned to Robert with mock solemnity. “Sorry, Robert, I’ll be out of your hair in a second.” Then he pulled out his phone and looked at Louis. “Number, please.”

Louis smiled, took the phone, and typed quickly. “There you go, soldier. Kindly note that I sleep between eleven p.m. and seven a.m., and if you ever text me before I’ve had tea, I’ll delete your number without hesitation.”

Harry chuckled, dimples flashing. “Noted.”

For a moment, they just stood there, looking at each other like complete fools, both grinning like the world had narrowed down to this exact second.

Louis broke it first, stepping forward and hugging Harry tight, breathing in the faint scent of rain clinging to him. “Good luck, Harry,” he said softly against his shoulder. “I really enjoyed being your nurse.”

Harry hugged him back, voice low but teasing. “Really? Even after I challenged you every step of the way?”

Louis chuckled as he pulled back, still smiling. “The worst patients are always the nicest to see walk out of here healed.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on Louis, green eyes softer than Louis had ever seen them. There was something unspoken there, something Louis wasn’t ready to touch—not yet.

So he smiled instead, light and teasing, the way he always did. “Go on then, Styles. Don’t make me drag you out by the ear.”

Harry chuckled, dimples flashing one last time. He gathered his papers, adjusted his cane, and with a last look over his shoulder, walked out of the ward.

Louis stood there a moment longer than he should’ve, watching the broad line of Harry’s back until the doors closed behind him. His chest ached in that dangerous, traitorous way, but there was a curl of hope too.

Because this wasn’t the end. Not really.

It was only the start.