Archive of Our Own ^beta

YOU SMELL LIKE TROUBLE

They weren’t speaking. Not really.

Not in the way the others did, with easy alliances and mutual praise, hugs over soufflés or jokes in the pantry.

No, Harry and Louis spoke like two knives being drawn from the same block. Glances, sharp edges, words that lingered a little too long.

The kitchen had emptied after the quarter-final challenge. Only ten contestants were moving to finals week, and Louis was scrubbing down his station as if it had insulted him.

Harry stood at the sink next to him, sleeves rolled up, fingers pink from the beetroot juice and washing-up liquid.

The air between them felt dense, spicy, and hard to breathe through, and it wasn’t just because of the heat from the ovens cooling behind them.

It was Louis.

Cedar and Aleppo pepper. Woodsmoke and warmth, rich and heady, layered into the air like marinade. Harry’s fingers curled a little tighter around the sponge.

He hated that Louis always smelled like something you could eat with your hands: hot, messy and perfect.

“Congrats,” Louis said eventually, voice rough. “That panna cotta was clean.”

Harry looked up. Their eyes met. A long pause stretched between them, a little too long to be just a casual thing.

“Thanks,” Harry said, polite but not warm. Then he added, “Your lamb was under-seasoned.”

Louis chuckled. “Didn’t seem to matter. I’m still here.”

“Unfortunately,” Harry replied.

That earned a sharper look. Not quite a snarl – Louis didn’t want to do the obvious – but something dangerous flickered behind his eyes. They hadn’t touched so far in this whole competition, at least not directly.

Harry, however, remembered week three, the spice challenge:

****Flashback Week 3 – Spice Challenge******

They both reached for the same jar of sumac in the pantry. Their hands brushed, a contact that lasted a second, causing an immediate shift in the atmosphere.

Harry’s scent bloomed first. It always did when he was startled or annoyed. Vanilla and rosewater, warm and intoxicating like a tea steeped a little too long. It felt overwhelming.

Louis froze. His eyes on Harry, as if he was hit with a wave of heat.

“Don’t touch me, “Harry whispered, voice low and taut. “I’m not your type.”

“Didn’t say you were,” Louis muttered, but his scent flared too. Dry cedar, dark spice, and a slow burn of pepper curling up Harry’s spine.

They didn’t speak for three days after that

****************************************

Back in the present, the last pot clanged onto the drying rack. Harry wiped his hands on a towel and tossed it over the edge of the sink.

“Big week is coming,” he said loudly.

Louis didn’t look at him. “Yeah, you ready to lose?”

Harry chuckled. “Wouldn’t be the first time you choked under pressure.”

Louis turned then, just a fraction, enough to let Harry feel the weight of his stare.

“I know what you’re doing,” Louis said, voice low. “All this passive shit, hiding behind custards and pretty plating.”

“And I know what you’re doing,” Harry replied, leaning in just a little bit. “Acting like you’re this untouchable Alpha, but you’ve been dodging me since week three.”

Their scents swirled in the heat between them. Spiced smoke and sugar; floral notes overpowering the air around them. A collision in the air. Almost unbearable.

Until, suddenly, they heard footsteps in the distance.

Harry stepped back first, snatching his apron as if he hadn’t just leaned into Louis like a dare. Louis turned away sharply, jaw tight.

Nora walked in, holding a clipboard and her phone, brows raised.

“Well, well, well,” she said, pretending to be surprised. “Did I walk in on a pheromone contest or an argument?”

Harry blinked. “Just cleaning up.”

“Sure,” she said, looking at the pristine sink and spotless counters.

“This kitchen smells like a bakery where pastries had a fistfight with the spice rack.”

Louis gave out a low grunt and turned towards the fridge. “Don’t you have prep to do?”

“Don’t you have something to confess?” Nora shot back, smirking.

“Because if you two go one more round in the pantry looking like you are about to either kiss or kill each other, I am going to place a bet, and I will win.”

“Nora,” Harry said, voice light but tight.

“Yes, Chef?”

He narrowed his eyes.

She grinned and backed off with her hands raised in a mock surrender. “Fine, fine, I’ll leave you two to not talk about the tension and to not deal with whatever scent war you are waging, and I’m just saying,” she took a deep breath and pointed between them before continuing “, if finals week turns into a mating ritual, I want credit for calling it.”

Louis made a sound, something between a scoff and a laugh, as she walked away.

Harry didn’t look at him again, but the ghost of Nora’s comment lingered in the air, thick as rosewater and spice.  

INTO THE FIRE 

The kitchen was spotless and ready for the action. The tension was clearly felt in the air. Everything looked sparkling clean.

Ten benches. Ten finalists. All of them were nervous, some more than others. All of them were alert, standing behind their stations, hands behind their backs. But one bench remained empty.

Louis’ jaw clenched as the clock ticked. He was trying to do everything not to show that he was really worried about the long-limbed, green–eyed omega, whose scent was truly irresistible.

“Where the fuck is he?” he muttered, looking at the door as if it was a magic ball that followed Harry’s every move.

Before anyone could answer, the door burst open.

Harry Styles walked in, late, flushed and covered in flour. A streak of it spread across his cheek, dusting his curls, his apron ghost–white with smudges. He looked like he’d run straight in from a bakery in Notting Hill. And he looked very smug about it.

“Sorry, Chef,” Harry said breathlessly. “Technical mishap.”

Liam raised his eyebrows, smirking. “Were you fighting with the dough again, Styles?”

Harry grinned. “You could say we had creative differences.”

Louis rolled his eyes. “More like your alarm clock was fighting reality.”

Then the scent hit him. Rosewater and vanilla with a hint of spice, like cinnamon left on the counter overnight.

“Everything ok, Tomlinson?” Niall asked from the judge’s table.

“Peachy,” Louis said tightly, pretending his mouth wasn’t dry.

From two benches down, Nora whispered to Tyrell. “He could walk in on fire, and Liam would still smile like that.”

Lewis let out a laugh. “A bit of flour, a bit of a flirt. Classic finals’ start.“

The mystery box challenge began. They were to lift the lids in front of them and make a dish from the ingredients inside. It all looked fairly simple: stone fruit, mascarpone, fresh herbs and access to pantry basics. One hour. No rules. Just flavour.

Harry cracked his knuckles. Louis cracked his composure.

By the end of the round, Louis had plated charred pork tenderloin, grilled nectarines, Aleppo pepper glaze and mascarpone herb puree. Harry had gone full patisserie. He baked a nectarine tart with rosewater cream, piped into swoops that made the camera crew lean in close for beauty shots.

Judging began with Louis.

Liam tasted first, nodding thoughtfully. “That glaze is sticky in the best way. Sweet, sour, heat in perfect ratio, and the pork’s done just shy of a blush – textbook.”

Allegra seemed impressed, too. “You used the stone fruit in a savoury dish, and that’s bold. Mascarpone in the herb puree is smart. It’s cooling, creamy and not overly sweet.”

Niall, ever the critic, added, “Still could’ve used a pop of acid somewhere. Maybe a grilled lemon.”

Louis nodded. “Noted, Chef.”

When the judges arrived at Harry’s station, Louis could already smell it. Rosewater hit first. Delicate, familiar, and then the sweetness of baked nectarines.

He hated how it curled in his lungs. The scent that didn’t belong in the industrial kitchen and should never linger around him like that.

He could see all three judges seemingly impressed with Harry’s dish. 

Liam leaned it first, his fork hovering about the plate before he took a bite. He paused for a moment, raising his brows. “That rosewater is bold, but feels restrained. You’ve let the nectarine stay front and centre, that’s confidence, Harry.”

Allegra followed, eyes sharp, while she cut through the pastry. “Your patisserie work is beautiful. The cream is light, floral, without being perfumey. I can see you’ve thought this dish through.”

Niall finished his bite with a nod of approval. “It’s elegant. The rosewater lingers just enough to make you go back for another mouthful.”

The judges swiftly moved on the another station, leaving Harry with a big smile on his face. Louis was trying to keep calm. His nose twitched. He inhaled again, before he could stop himself. It felt as if his body was trying to pin the scent down, catalogue it somewhere in his brain and make it a more important memory than it already was.

Big mistake. It hit him all at once: warm pastry, ripe fruit. The scent rolled through him like an unwelcome wave, tightening everything in his stomach. It was heat. It was trouble, and when he blinked, Harry was looking at him.

Right at him.

Their eyes locked across the benches.

Harry wasn’t smiling now. He looked curious. One brow slightly raised, head tilted just enough to say, ‘Really, Louis?’

Louis froze.

Then he snapped, threw his towel down and muttered. “Need a fucking minute.”

He walked out of the frame and out of the kitchen.

Harry stood there watching the doorway Louis disappeared through, clearly shocked.

He bit the inside of his cheek, lips twitching, unsure if he should laugh or follow.

Eventually, he turned back to his bench, quietly wiping the flour from the edge of the counter. The rosewater still lingered in the air, far stronger than he’d have liked.

Louis didn’t turn back.

The studio door swung shut behind him.

The noise in the kitchen came back, but Louis’s exit wasn’t lost on everyone.

Nora arched an eyebrow from where she was stacking her mixing bowls. “Well, that’s not dramatic at all.”

Tyrell didn’t even look up from his station. “The boy smelled something he wanted and panicked. Happens.”

Harry, still wiping his bench, went still.

Nora grinned. “Think he got a little too close to your tart there, Styles.”

Tyrell chuckled under his breath. “It’s always the quiet ones with the lethal scent combo. Vanilla and rose. That’d send any Alpha to the brink of collapse.”

Harry just kept quiet.

The filming was put on hold until someone was able to find Louis and figure out what went wrong.

Louis was hiding in the locker room. He had his hands braced on the edge of the sink, his head bowed over the cold running water. He wasn’t even trying to pretend he wasn’t stressed.  He unbuttoned his chef’s whites just enough to see his neck. He splashed it with water. Then again. The scent still clung, not just on his tongue but deeply in his throat, as if Harry baked it for him. As if his body was reacting to more than just sugar and cream.

He gritted his teeth, growling under his breath. “Fucking rosewater.”

He grabbed a towel and scrubbed his face, desperately trying to get rid of the flush on his cheeks. His pupils were still too blown. His scent gland throbbed faintly with the echo of it, the bloom of an Omega heat, full of sweetness he shouldn’t crave, but did.

The worst part? He wasn’t even in rut.

It was just Harry.

And he couldn’t let go of the fact that Harry looked right at him when he caught him sniffing the air.

He pressed both palms flat onto the mirror, breathing through his nose. Slow and steady.

He knew he needed to get it back together. Everyone was waiting for him to come back. He also knew that this week wasn’t about scent trails or stolen glances. He was there to win. Just that. Yet he felt like he was already falling behind.

He had no idea how long he had spent in the locker room, but he knew it was time to go back.

No one said anything on his return. Everyone went back to their stations, and Harry’s judging could finally resume.

Allegra took one look and sighed. “This is gorgeous, Harry. Honestly, art on a plate.”

Harry flushed, small dimples showing on his face. “Thank you, Chef.”

Liam took a bite and closed his eyes. “Crisp pastry. Floral without being too sweet. You’ve finally nailed the balance.”

Then Niall, who was notoriously stingy with praise, nodded once. “It tastes like memory. Dangerous for someone your age.”

From the sidelines, Ed whispered. “Jesus. Someone get Niall a fan.”

Nora raised an eyebrow. “Too late. He’s already sweating.”

Louis scowled into his towel.

With judging well and truly over, Harry began cleaning up in the back room. He took his time wiping the leftover flour from the counter, all as neatly as possible, ready for tomorrow. The scent of rose and stone fruit still hung in the air, like he’d perfumed the tart himself.

Louis slammed a pan into the sink a little harder than necessary.

Harry turned. “You alright over there?”

Louis didn’t look up. “The peach pie parade’s getting into my head.”

Harry tilted his head. “Nectarine.”

“Oh, sorry,” Louis said sweetly. “I didn’t memorise your fruit preferences. Too busy listening to the judges cream themselves.”

Harry blinked and smirked. “Are you jealous, Tomlinson?”

Louis turned, his mouth curling slightly. “Of the tart or the fact that you turned Niall into a bloody poet?”

Harry’s lashes fluttered. He turned back to his station, smiling to himself.

“Thought so,” Harry muttered smugly.

Louis picked up another pan, scrubbing even harder, trying to hide the impact of the scents around him and of Harry calling out his bitchiness..

He slammed the last remaining bowl a little too harshly on the drying rack.

“Careful,” Harry said, trying to keep it light. “Some of us need that tomorrow.”

Louis didn’t answer.

He gave his station a final swipe and walked away.

Not a word. No comment. No nod. Not even a glance.

Harry stood there, slightly confused for a few moments before leaving.

FURY IN THE KITCHEN 

6.45 am the following morning

The kitchen was quiet and low-lit, with few other contestants busy preparing for the day. Tyrell was drinking his favourite black coffee, while Monica was reading her notes.

Harry stood at the prep table, slicing strawberries with focused, almost meditative precision. He looked up when the door creaked.

Louis walked in, visibly tense. Their eyes met, and for a few moments, nothing was said.

Harry noticed a difference in Louis’ demeanour straight away.

His sleeves were pulled up. He’d never done that before.

He hadn’t snapped at Lewis for whistling. The oddest of all, he walked past Harry’s bench without a word. 

Not even a joke.

Not even a scowl.

Just nothing.

Harry’s lips pressed together.

“Morning,” he said casually, slicing another strawberry.

Louis didn’t look at him. Just muttered, “Yeah,” and kept walking.

Tyrell started prepping greens. Monica moved on to sharpening her knives, and Ed was quietly singing to Tate’s Sports Car while weighing butter. Tyrell looked over to Monica. “Are we all feeling the vibe here today, or is it just me?”

Monica replied, without looking up. “Definitely spicier than usual.”

Louis and Harry were both quiet. Too quiet.

An hour later, prep time was over, and everyone went to their benches ready for the next challenge.

Liam walked into the room and explained the next task.

The Invention Test.

“You’ve each been given a mystery ingredient. You have ninety minutes to create a dish around it. You have access to a full pantry. There is only one rule. Your core flavour must shine.“

Harry was given lavender, much to his relief, and Louis ended up with balsamic vinegar.

Harry decided to make a lavender panna cotta with strawberry balsamic compote. He was clearly trying to cool down. He went for something delicate and restrained, even as his scent started to bloom. The camera lingered over his wrists as he was stirring the cream.

Louis once again chose to go savoury. He was making grilled balsamic chicken with charred onion and peach glaze. He had a solid plan, but his hands were clenching far too much; he misjudged the timing twice and even cut the chicken breast too thick, so he had to start over again. The scent that lingered in the air certainly didn’t help the situation.

Tyrell muttered as he was deep-frying veg for his dish. “That balsamic isn’t the only thing simmering right now.”

Ed had to chip in. “Is it always this awkward here? Or is it just Finals Week tension?

Monica added. “It’s sexual tension and poor impulse control. Ed, please, focus on your pastry.”

Louis grabbed a pan from the communal rack just as Harry reached out for it. Their hands brushed. Louis jerked back as if he’d burnt himself.

“Do you mind?” he snapped.

Harry blinked. “I didn’t realise you’d claimed every pan in this building. You walk around here as if you own the bloody kitchen.”

Harry’s tone sharpened slightly. “Maybe stop sniffing the air every time I exhale, and we’ll both concentrate better.”

There was a moment of silence. Even the camera crew was hesitant to move.

Monica shouted. “Five minutes till plating.”

Harry turned away. Louis exhaled hard. He could feel the heat prickling under his skin, and it wasn’t from the stove.

The tension in the room was mirrored in the way the judging went.

This time, the judges started with Harry.

Liam looked very impressed. “Flavours are lovely, but this hasn't been set properly.”

Allegra added. “I agree with Liam. The texture is too loose; your ratios were off.”

Niall looked clearly disappointed. “You weren’t focused.”

Harry pressed his lips together. “No, I wasn’t.”

It was Louis’s turn. He was fully aware of the issues earlier on and was hoping for the best.

Allegra went first. “Sauce needs reduction. The acid is overpowering everything.”

Niall added, a little disappointed. “You don’t usually miss details like this.”

Liam finished. “Great concept. It pairs well with the balsamic vinegar, but your chicken is slightly undercooked.”

Louis just clenched his jaw. He didn’t respond.

With judging done, the studio was slowly clearing out. Monica was gone, and Tyrell and Ed were quietly talking at the sink.

Harry stood at his station, scraping the dried syrup from the edge of his plate, shoulders tense. 

Louis walked past him silently and stopped. He hovered for a moment as if he was ready to keep going, but instead, he set the towel down next to Harry’s hand.

Harry looked over.

Louis’s voice was low. “Your compote tasted better than mine.”

Harry blinked.

“You’re not mad?”

Louis didn’t look at him. “I don’t know, I just…”

He stopped. He swore under his breath.

Harry took a risk. He reached out. His fingers brushed Louis’ wrist, for a split second, applying barely any pressure.

Just touch.

Louis exhaled, jaw unclenching slightly.

They didn’t speak again, but they walked out of the kitchen

                                                                                                     *******************************************************

Later that evening, Louis was sitting in his flat, and the tension from the competition was finally fading away. They’d both struggled with the invention test. Harry had been very quiet, and Louis had been brooding since judging. He decided to send a text to Harry.

You still up?

Want to get out of the flat for a bit?

Not a date. Just getting some fresh air. Bring a jacket.

Louis waited nervously for a few minutes until his phone pinged with a notification. He let out a breath as he read the reply from Harry. 

“OK” wasn’t exactly effusive, but it was enough. 

The city felt so much calmer now. There were just a few runners, some late-night workers and couples going about their evening. It wasn’t very hard to find a quiet spot at the riverbank.

Harry’s hands were tucked into his jacket pockets as Louis walked beside him, keeping just enough distance to make it all feel casual.

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. All that could be heard was the footfalls, trains passing in the distance and the evening traffic.

Harry finally broke the silence.

“I wasn’t sure you’d speak to me again after today.”

Louis let out a quiet laugh. “Wasn’t sure I’d speak to anyone.”

A moment later, he added. “You were right, by the way.”

Harry looked at him. “About?”

Louis shrugged. “I was sniffing the air.”

Harry laughed quietly, a little surprised. “You really don’t do subtle, do you?”

Louis glanced at Harry, smirking. “I don’t see the point.”

“Is that why you texted me? Were you unable to fall asleep without a hit of my scent?” Harry asked, curious and amused.

Louis stopped walking. He looked out over the river, hands tightening in his coat sleeves.

“I sent you a text because… I needed a minute, and you’re the only one who would get it.“

Harry stepped out closer to him, their shoulders almost touching. “And you’re not used to someone getting you like this.”

Louis didn’t reply. Instead, he exhaled long and hard. The wind caught the edge of his coat, and Harry’s scent drifted in, soft, sweet, and warm like vanilla and rosewater just starting to steep.

It wasn’t overpowering yet, but it was present. Comforting. Familiar.

Louis closed his eyes briefly.

Harry watched him intently.

“You alright?”

Louis nodded. “Yeah, just better out here. Less noise.“

Harry tilted his head. “Except for me.”

“You’re not noisy,” Louis said quietly. “But you are the part that keeps me awake.”

That made Harry flush. He looked away, down at the rippling water.

A moment later, Louis added. “Not sure if that’s good or bad yet.”

There was a quiet moment between them.

Then Harry nudged him gently with his shoulder. “Come on, there is a bench up ahead. Sit with me.”

Louis didn’t answer. He just followed.

They sat in silence. The bench was a little cold, but Harry’s scent intensified, filling the air. Louis was drawn to it before he realised it. His arm brushed Harry’s, and he didn’t pull away.

Harry tucked his coat tighter around himself. “Is it weird that I’m calm around you? Even now?”

Louis didn’t look at him. “No.”

“Feels like I should be a mess.”

“You probably will be. Soon.”

Harry laughed quietly. “Haha, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Louis smirked. “Just being honest.”

Another moment passed. Harry leaned his head back, looking up at the sky.

“I think I’m starting to want things. Not just sex or comfort. Like... soft things. Closeness. Safety. Nesting, I guess.”

Louis' throat tightened.

“Do you want to be alone to nest?”

Harry shook his head slowly. “No, I think I want you here. I just don’t know what that means yet.”

Louis’s voice softened. “Then, let’s not define it.”

He reached down gently and briefly covered Harry’s hand with his.

Neither of them spoke for quite a while.

The city moved quietly around them. Inside their little silence, something settled. Not heat. Not hunger. Just something that seemed like it might hold.

They sat still, the air cooling around them, as they watched the calming river.. Harry leaned back, exhaling deeply, and when his scent hit the air around them, it was much stronger than before. Louis didn’t move. He didn’t flinch.

Harry shifted slightly, getting a little closer to Louis. His arm brushed Louis’. Then his head tipped until it rested on Louis’s shoulder.

Louis didn’t stop it. He let it happen. Harry’s curls tickled the edge of Louis’s jaw. His scent felt overpowering. Louis swallowed hard.

It all felt very overwhelming, but also… grounding.

Harry’s breath became steady. He was slowly drifting off.

Louis closed his eyes for a moment, too. He just listened.

To the river.

To the slow rise and fall of Harry’s heartbeat.

To the quiet, impossible comfort of this moment.

Louis walked Harry home. They didn’t talk much on the way back, and when they reached Harry’s flat, he just nodded, murmured, “Thanks” and disappeared inside.

Half an hour later, Louis’s phone buzzed.

The message stayed unread for a few minutes.

Then ‘Delivered’ changed into ‘Read’.

No reply came. But Louis smiled anyway. He tucked his phone under his pillow and fell asleep a lot quicker than he had in the last few days.

SERVICE AT ZAYN’S WALLS AND WINGS

The next morning, Louis was up and ready just after dawn. He was both excited and nervous about his first service in a high-end restaurant. It would also be the first time he would be working as part of a team, and he had no idea who would be on it.

Louis stood in the kitchen, sipping burnt instant coffee from a chipped mug, doomscrolling on his phone. His thumb hovered over last night’s thread. He didn’t send another message. He didn’t have to.

Behind him, the door creaked open, and Harry walked in, hair wet from the shower, hoodie zipped halfway, a little crease from a pillow clearly visible on his cheek.

Their eyes locked. Just for a moment.

Harry gave him a sleepy smile. “Morning”

Louis looked down at his mug. “Yeah.”

No snarky comments. No cold shoulder. Just…that word again. Soft. Barely a touch of tension beneath it.

Harry walked past him, brushing shoulders just enough to stir the faintest trace of rose and vanilla.

Louis held his breath until Harry was gone.

Marco’s voice cut through the stillness from the corridor. “Come on, people, Zayn’s kitchen is not going to run itself.”

Ed followed just behind him, tying his apron. “Try not to flirt as a distraction this time, Styles.”

Harry laughed quietly under his breath and grabbed his bag.

Louis didn’t smile, but something about the quiet way he followed, shoulder just barely brushing Harry’s on the way out, said enough.

The calm wouldn’t last, but for now it held.

The thing about professional kitchens was that they didn’t leave room for bullshit. No space for distractions. No margin for error, and certainly no time for your body to betray you every time your assigned station partner got within breathing distance of you.

“Service starts in ten minutes,” Zayn called out sharply. “Check your stations. Mise en place should be done.” (French phrase for – everything needs to be ready)

Louis wiped his palms on his apron, then glanced sideways. Harry was slicing radishes with a terrifying level of precision, his curls tied up in a messy bun, the nape of his neck damp with sweat.

The walk-in fridge was calling Louis’ name, and not for produce.

“You’re plating mains with Styles,” Zayn said. “Tomlinson, you’re a lead at the pass.” (He was the one making sure dishes are presented to the required standard, on time, and nothing is missing)

Louis nodded. “Understood, Chef.”

He didn’t look at Harry. Not directly. But he could feel him, like a spotlight aimed at his neck.

Harry was sure it was a mistake. It must have been one. There was no reasonable explanation as to why he was paired with an Alpha that, at least publicly, had shown him nothing but irritation. Except for when he stared too long or leaned too close and then flushed as if he’d been caught stealing sweets.

Harry didn’t push it, though. Not during prep. Not when Zayn inspected the plating just before service.

When the first table’s ticket came through, and Louis shouted, “Two chicken parmesan, two fish butties on the pass in six,” something settled in him.

He could do this. He trained for chaos. He wasn’t going to melt just because Louis kept calling for sides like he was issuing commands in bed.

“Garnish is ready,” Harry said as calmly as he could manage as he set it down.

Louis inspected the plate.

“This isn’t amateur hour, Styles. If I call for garnish, I expect it to be plated. Not dropped like you are decorating a wedding cake.”

Harry didn’t flinch. “If you yell at me one more time, I might actually throw it at you,” he added, raising his voice.

They were chest to chest behind the pass as steam curled up from the warming trays. Zayn raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt.

The kitchen was hellishly hot, loud and very crowded. Orders kept coming in and out, faster than in any kitchen either of them had ever worked in. Zayn paced the pass like a wolf sniffing out prey.

Louis didn’t need this. He didn’t need Harry’s elbow brushing his every time they plated. He also didn’t need the way Harry chewed his lip when he was nervous or how good he looked when doing it.

“Move faster, Tomlinson,” Zayn shouted over the clatter of the pans. “I want that lamb resting, not raw.”

Louis nearly growled, sweat dripping down his face. He was clearly struggling. Harry moved too close.

“You are in my space.” Louis snapped.

Harry didn’t look at him. “It’s a shared station, Alpha.”

Louis was infuriating. Short–tempered, sharp–tongued, and still somehow stupidly good-looking in his apron, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, wrists flexing around the ladle as if it was a weapon. His scent was intoxicating. The perfect mix of cedar and Aleppo pepper, too close for Harry to be able to ignore.

The heat in the kitchen was unbearable.

Louis was going to lose it.

Not because Harry kept getting the garnish wrong, but because Harry was very smug about it. Harry knew what buttons he was pressing.

Even so, by the third course, Louis had a rhythm down. He called orders, plated fast, adjusted timing, and pretended his instincts weren’t coiled tight like a spring every time. Harry leaned over the pass.

“Plate five is chicken Parma ham,” Louis said. “We need it now.”

“Coming in hot,” Harry replied, and when he slid the plate into the position, his fingers brushed Louis’ wrist.

Too hot. Not just the dish.

Louis froze.

Harry looked at him. “You alright?”

“No. Yes. Fine.” Louis cleared his throat. “Focus.”

The rest of the service was a blur of lights and heat and endless noise.

By the time the final table was cleared and Zayn shouted, “That’s it. Well done everyone,” all Louis could think of was escape.

He headed for the walk–in fridge like a man on fire.

Harry found him there about five minutes later. Louis was standing beside the crate of microgreens like it might shield him from reality.

“I’m not going to bite, you know,” Harry said softly, shutting the door behind him.

Louis didn’t turn around. “You’re not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

Louis spun. “It’s your scent, and the way you look at me when I am barely holding on.”

Harry raised a brow. “Are you?”

“Barely.”

The silence between them was deafening. Harry stepped closer.

“It’s not just you,” he whispered.

Louis stared. His hands twitched, like he wanted to reach out, to anchor himself somewhere in all this mess.

Harry glanced at him with flushed cheeks and something dangerous in his eyes.

“I know this is a show,” he said, “but it’s not fake. Not for me.”

Suddenly, they were too close.

Their mouths were inches apart. Breaths mingling. Louis could smell rosewater again. Not in the air. Just a memory of it on Harry’s skin.

His hand lifted, touching Harry’s jaw.

Harry closed his eyes.

And then.

Zayn’s voice cut through the intercom above the fridge. “Clean up, people. Now. Don’t make me drag you out.”

They sprang apart like guilty teenagers.

Harry didn’t say anything as they walked out.

He didn’t have to.

The press of almost–kissing, of shared heat and silence clung to Louis like a smoke.

He didn’t know what they were doing.

All he knew was, he wanted more.

                                                                                           ****************************************************

He sat down at the front of the shared flats, on the pavement, unsure of where all this was going. He hadn’t joined the competition for this. It was supposed to be about food. The challenge. The win. Yet somewhere between missed timings, “accidental” hand brushing, and nearly kissing in the walk-in fridge, Harry had slipped under his skin. Soft scent and steady hands, sugar-sweet and impossible to ignore.

It was getting harder to tell if the fire in his chest was caused by the stress of service or the way Harry looked at him, as if he was silently permitting him to mark him. It felt like something he had waited for for eternity. Maybe he had.

Now with one more round to get through tonight, Louis didn’t know what scared him more…slipping up in the kitchen or slipping any deeper into whatever this was becoming.

He knew he would find out soon enough.

The light outside was fading into burnt orange by the time all the contestants returned to Zayn’s restaurant. The lunch service had been brutal. Sharp words, sharper glances, not forgetting the almost kiss in the walk–in fridge that neither Louis nor Harry had mentioned since. The tension in the air hadn’t cleared. It’d felt a lot more intense.

Liam stood at the pass, arms crossed.

“You’re back in Zayn’s kitchen and tonight your final challenge is to prepare and present a dessert course. Each team will produce one cohesive plated dessert. One dish, several elements, and everyone must contribute something identifiable on the plate.”

Allegra added, “You’ll have access to the pantry and Zayn’s fresh produce station, but each component must make sense together. You’ll be judged on taste, presentation and teamwork.”

Niall smirked. “Good luck with the last one.”

Harry and Louis were leaders of the opposite teams.

Louis’ team was responsible for Caramelised Peach and Thyme Tart with Almond Crumb and Aleppo Pepper Honey Glaze.

Aleppo pepper tied in with Louis’ personal scent, providing much-needed grounding and comfort.

Louis had Monica, Marco, Lewis and Jess on his team, and Harry’s team consisted of Ed, Tyrell, Nadya and Nora. They were making Strawberry Meringue Cloud with Lavender Cream and Chamomile Syrup. Lavender and Chamomile are well-known for their calming properties, and meringue is considered a light dessert and matches well with Harry’s personal scent too.

They had 90 minutes to complete the challenge.

Louis was pacing his team like a chef in real service. His voice was very loud, and his movements were more erratic than usual.

Jess noticed Louis was daydreaming and knew she had to do something before their dish was ruined.

“You’re going to scorch that glaze if you keep glaring at it,” she shouted to get his attention.

“Then take over if you’re suddenly the expert,” he snapped back.

Monica muttered under her breath, looking at Marco. “He’s rattled again. Guess who is at the other bench.”

The atmosphere around them quickly changed. While Louis went over to the judges’ table, everyone started talking.

Monica was drying her hands, her voice low but exasperated. “He’s two minutes from combusting.”

Lewis was trying to keep it light, but he was clearly frayed. “Do Alphas always go full dictator mode when flustered, or is it just Louis’ brand?”

Jess rolled her eyes, chopping thyme a little too aggressively. “I would snap too if my hormones were trying to wrestle my ego into a headlock.”

Marco grinned slightly, staying focused. “I can’t decide if I want to throw the spatula at him first, then hug him after?”

“Why not both,” Monica deadpanned.

Lewis was carefully putting the peach slices into a bowl. “He’s spiralling. You can feel it, right? It’s not just about the dish.”

“It’s about Harry,” Jess whispered, without looking up. 

They all paused.

Marco murmured under his breath. “Well, someone had to say it.”

Monica shook her head, trying to stay focused. “Ok, guys, drama or not, let’s get this tart done before he yells about standards again.”

Lewis smirked. “Honestly, I miss the quiet fridge.”

“Heads up, hurricane is back,” Jess muttered, just as Louis was walking back.

Meanwhile, on Harry’s side of the kitchen, things were gentler but not calmer. Harry’s hands trembled slightly as he spooned the lavender cream. He was sweating through his apron, his scent thick in the air now, sweet and sharp, a little overpowering.

“You, ok?” Nora asked.

Harry nodded, voice hoarse. “Just warm. Keep going. “

“This dish smells like a spa and mild sexual panic,” Ed added, a little oblivious.

Nadya snorted. “That’s Harry’s contribution.”

Eventually, both dishes were plated and brought to the pass. The chefs gathered around, flushed and buzzing with tension.

Louis’ team faced the judging first.

Liam looked very excited. “Bold use of Aleppo pepper. A little overpowering in the glaze, but otherwise balanced.”

“Almond Crumb is excellent. Pastry could’ve used another two minutes,” Allegra added, clearly impressed.

Niall also had a few harsh words. “You worked as a team, yes, but it was intense. I can see the tension on the plate, in your presentation.”

Louis said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the side of the pass.

Harry’s team were all visibly nervous.

Liam tasted first. “Visually stunning. Lavender cream’s very subtle.”

Allegra inspected the dish very carefully. “The meringue’s cracked slightly. Could be the oven temperature.”

“The dish feels light, sweet and all over the place,” Niall added, looking slightly confused. 

Harry bit his lip. “My fault. I got the timing wrong,” he said softly.

The dishes were done. Most contestants were decompressing, giggling and scrubbing down.

Louis stood by the sink, shoulders stiff, while Jess and Marco dried trays behind him.

Harry was alone at his station,  wiping the counter down, feeling incredibly tired, his neck flushed.

Louis stepped into his space. Harry didn’t move away.

“Hey,” Louis said.

Harry looked up.

“You smell like you are about to faint.”

Harry swallowed. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

Louis reached out. Slow. Gently, he pressed the inside of his wrist to Harry’s pulse point, behind his ear, where the scent was deepest.

Harry’s breath stuttered.

“You’re not fine,” Louis said. “Now you know, I am here, so it’s ok.”

It wasn’t a claim. Not yet. But it was close enough to calm the storm for now.

Harry’s eyes were a little glazed. Louis was already gone. So were the judges.

Nadya came up beside him, putting away a clean tray. Her movements were gentle, and so was her voice.

“He marked you.”

Harry blinked, looking directly at her. “What?”

“Louis. You are still flushed. Your scent…” She tilted her head slightly. “It’s laced with his now.”

Harry swallowed. “It’s not a claim.”

Nadya shrugged. “Doesn’t have to be. Doesn’t mean it's not real.”

She patted his arm gently and walked away.

Across the kitchen, Tyrell watched the interaction as he dried the remaining mixing bowl. His eyes followed Harry for a moment, his lips pressed tight.

Then he turned to Nora, whispering so only she could hear. “I’ll give them two days before someone gets bitten.”

Nora didn’t look up. “One, and it won’t be subtle.”

Tyrell smirked, still watching Harry, whose fingers were now gripping the counter as if he needed to hold on to something.

                                                                                                  **************************************************

Later that night. Harry found Louis smoking outside the shared flats by the equipment truck.

It was quiet. No cameras. No distractions. Just the two of them.

Louis didn’t look up when Harry approached. He felt him. He spoke quietly. “D’you always smell like that?”

“Not always. Only when I am close to heat. And to you, apparently.”

Louis exhaled slowly. He felt… guilty, although he didn't know why.

“I shouldn’t have marked you.”

“No. But I didn’t stop you, either.”

Louis finally looked at him. His eyes were tired. He felt very intense, yet exhausted all at the same time. Harry’s face was flushed again, soft in the low light.

“I’ve never lost control like that. Not like that. Not uncontrolled.”

“I haven’t had anyone scent mark me, ever,” Harry replied, struggling to stay awake.

They sat in silence for quite a while. Harry moved closer, their knees brushing. Louis didn’t pull away.

“Do you know what rosewater means to me?” Harry asked quietly.

“Tell me,” Louis replied, looking at Harry intently.

“It was the only thing that made me feel safe growing up. My mum used it in everything she made. Cakes, candles, perfumes. She always said that scent is a memory. I guess I thought if I used it in the challenges, I would feel more grounded.”

“Instead, you triggered both of us and nearly gave me a televised breakdown.”

They both laughed a little.

“You made me feel as if I smelt like I belonged to you.”

“You did. Still do.” They both realised how deep this conversation was. Then Louis’ voice dropped, becoming low and hoarse.

“I don’t know what to do with this, Harry. You’re younger. You’re an Omega. This show…. I am supposed to be above all this. Professional. I can’t stop thinking about that moment, how I marked you and you didn’t even flinch.”

“It didn’t scare me,” Harry said, tears slowly falling down his face.

“It scared me,” Louis replied, unsure if he should wipe Harry’s tears, hug him or both.

“Then let’s not rush it,” Harry whispered. “Let’s just stay close. Let it play out how it’s meant to. I’m not asking for a mating bite. I’m just asking you to be honest. With yourself. With me.”

“I can try,” Louis replied.

They sat there for a little while looking at the moon before going back to their flats.

Neither of them slept much. Harry knew his heat was approaching, that it could start anytime, and he wasn’t sure if and how he was going to cope with the next challenge. All that everyone had been told was that it would be a double elimination, and they would be working in pairs. 

In his own bed, Louis was thinking similar thoughts. His rut was nearly there too, and he was nervous about whether he would be paired with Harry, and if he was, how he could resist the beautiful omega.

                                                                                    **********************************************************

The kitchen was noisy. Sugar was being whipped, ovens flung open, contestants barking at each other over the mixers’ noise. In contrast, the corner of station 4 felt oddly quiet.

Harry was feeling on edge. He knew he shouldn’t be, but it made him feel irritated towards Louis. Louis felt his attraction to Harry was getting stronger, and he was trying to do everything to stay in control, which led him to be snappy towards Harry. 

Harry and Louis stood side by side, waiting for the briefing to be over. Louis felt nervous, with shivers going down his spine.

Harry still carried his scent behind his ear, like it was natural, like it belonged there. Harry smelled like warm sugar and rosewater, a scent curling into Louis’s nose like a hook.

“You, ok?” Harry asked quietly as they marched to their shared bench.

“Peachy,” Louis replied, putting his apron on and giving Harry a sarcastic look. “This will be bloody relaxing.”

Niall stood at the pass with a clipboard in hand.

“You have two hours to recreate a classic dish. You can choose anything that is deemed foundational, but you must elevate it. We expect restaurant-quality finish, rooted in something iconic.”

Everyone nodded and the judges moved on. The clock started.

Louis wiped his hands down his apron and looked at Harry.

“Ideas?” he asked, aware that they didn’t have a lot of time to plan.

“Coq au vin,” Harry said quickly. “Modernised. Maybe with white wine instead of red. We’ll use leeks and fennel. Tarragon cream. Something… soft.“

Louis blinked. “We are cooking chicken in wine? You know what the alcohol, the heat, the scent’s going to do to you?

“It’s not like I chose this timing.” Harry snapped, reaching for the fennel. “I’ll keep it together.”

“Your scent is saying otherwise.”

Harry dropped the knife, making more noise than necessary.

“Then maybe stop sniffing me like I am some kind of sweet treat.”

Louis stepped in, voice low but sharp.

“Then stop smelling like one.”

They stared at each other for a bit too long.

Jess coughed loudly from the next bench.

Louis broke first, turning back to the bench. “Fine. Chicken. You cook it.”

One hour later. The anticipation of who would go home at the end of this challenge was slowly taking its toll.

Louis sliced the leeks unevenly. Too fast. The tarragon curled in the cream sauce.

He blamed the heat. The scent. Harry’s flushed face and his curls sticking to the back of his neck.

Harry was quiet. Too quiet.

He finally broke the silence when he put a tray down next to Louis.

“Lavender shortbread,” he said quietly without looking up. “In case you need something to focus on.”

Louis stared at it.

“You baked this during a double elimination challenge.”

“You’re welcome.” Harry snapped, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “It’s laced with lavender to keep you calm.”

Louis muttered something about show-offs and self-medicating with pastry but took one anyway.

He didn’t say thank you. Harry didn’t ask him either.

The challenge was done. The judges reminded everyone that it was a double elimination. Four people were going home.

Harry and Louis faced the judging last.

Their white wine Coq au Vin landed well with the judges. The fennel was tender, and the chicken was cooked through. The sauce was under-seasoned, though, because Louis had forgotten the salt. Again.

Allegra tasted first. “Delicate flavours. Visually elegant. A few things are missing that we expected to see on the plate.”

Liam added. “I know you two have history. If you’re going to survive this competition, you need to cook together. Not next to each other.”

Everyone was waiting for the results.

Louis swallowed hard and didn’t look at Harry.

“Gotta say, I didn’t expect them to bring anything to the pass,” Tyrell muttered, his arms crossed. 

Nora nudged him but didn’t disagree.

Nadya whispered to Ed. “Do you think it’s the scent thing?”

“Don’t start,” Ed replied, smirking. “I’m still recovering from lunch service at Zayn’s.”

Monica looked at Marco. “They are in the middle of a spiral, full of hormones, lust and something similar to love”

“Past it,” Marco agreed. “But they’re still dancing around it.”

Jess was clearing her station and looked across the room. “If they don’t sort it out quickly, neither of them is going to make it to the top four.”

Fortunately, Harry and Louis made it safely through the elimination. Everyone was busy cleaning up.

“Harry, you need to get out of here.” Louis whispered.

“No, I’m staying here to finish mopping the floors.” Harry replied.

“You are sweating pheromones all over the place,” Louis said, raising his voice.

Harry winced. Tyrell stared at him and quickly looked away. The scent was undeniable. Louis hand gripped the pass tighter. Harry’s heat was about to unfold.

“You think I don’t know?” Harry hissed, trying to avoid others hearing. You think I don’t notice that every time I move, I feel your scent under my skin, like it's marking me all over again?”

Louis’ hand twitched. He knew, if he touched him again, there would be no going back.

“You’re nearly done. Let me finish.” Louis demanded. “Go to your room and lock the door. Don’t answer if I knock.”

“What if I want to answer?” Harry replied, clearly defiant. 

Louis met his eyes. Time stood still. Then someone shouted. “Time to go,” and it broke them apart like glass.

                                                                                      ******************************************************************************

Night time came. A thunderstorm outside was in full swing.

Harry was in his room, curled up in a pile of hoodies on a mattress, waiting for Louis. The lavender shortbread was clutched in his fingers. He’d stripped down to a loose tee and red shorts, skin still prickling where Louis had touched him in the kitchen. The scent of Louis’ mark behind his ear throbbed warm and steady, anchoring him. The nest wasn’t perfect. Too neat. Too temporary, but it smelled like Louis, like flour-dusted cotton and cedar. That overpowering, yet grounding heat. He couldn’t sleep. He just waited.

His nesting instinct had kicked in – he’d surrounded himself not just with hoodies but also blankets. He was burning up. Pacing. Panting. Desperate. Then he heard it; Louis’ voice at the door.

Hoarse. Quiet. Like he was barely holding himself together.

“Harry. I know you’re in there. I can smell you,” Louis said, loud enough for Harry to hear.

Harry didn’t answer at first. He was shaking and sweating. The smell of sweat overpowered the aroma of roses and sugar and need. He crawled to the door and pressed his forehead against it.

“It hurts,” Harry said quietly.

“I know.” Louis’ voice was muffled through the door. “I’ll leave if you tell me to, but I need you to say it.”

“Don’t go,” Harry begged.

Louis pushed the door open. His eyes were blown. His scent hit like a tidal wave: cedar, storm, hunger. He stopped near the nest, barely breathing.

His voice was trembling. “If I touch you right now, I’m not going to be able to stop. Once I bond with you, it’s irreversible.”

“Then don’t stop.”

Louis moved into Harry’s space and dropped to his knees, cupping his flushed face. Their foreheads pressed together.

“Last chance, love. “Say no and I walk away.” Louis muttered impatiently.

Harry looked at him intently. “Say yes, and I’m yours.”

Louis groaned and pulled him in. Their lips crushed together. Desperate and messy. Harry moaned. Louis shoved his nose into Harry’s throat, scent marking him again, stronger this time – Territorial and absolute. Harry arched against him as their scents mingled.

Harry bit his lower lip, eyes wide but unafraid. “I want you. Now. I want you to stop holding back like you haven’t already made up your mind,” he whispered.

And that was it. Louis’ instincts took over as the smell of Harry’s heat filled his senses. He pushed Harry into the nest and hovered above him.

“You are mine now. Let me bond you,” Louis whispered.

“Do it,” Harry gasped.

That was all Louis needed. He lowered his face to Harry’s neck and sank his teeth into the bonding patch slowly. The bite was gentle. When Harry cried out Louis’ name it wasn’t desperate. It was full. Certain. Claimed.

The atmosphere in the room was nothing short of magical. The candles Harry had lit earlier flickered, their scents lingered in the air until they became indistinguishable. Rosewater, warm vanilla, cedarwood darkened with Aleppo pepper; each one sharp and intoxicating, pulling them toward each other like a tide.

Louis licked at the bitemark he’d left over and over, tending to it like a good alpha, determined to soothe and heal. He didn’t even realise he was growling until Harry’s hand pressed to his jaw.

“You look like you are starving,” Harry whispered, barely breathing.

“I am,” Louis said roughly, the words dragging over his tongue like grit. “You’re not helping.”

Harry’s pupils were blown wide, skin flushed, and his chest rising fast.

The sweet–sour tang of heat clung to him, wrapping around Louis’ senses until it felt like breathing in Harry was the only thing that kept him alive. He leaned in again, brushing his nose along Harry’s throat, sniffing the air around them. 

Harry’s thighs parted instinctively, and Louis wasn’t sure if he was possessive, feral or both.

“Louis,” Harry whined, lifting his hips, “I need…”

Louis didn’t let him finish. He kissed him hard, then lowered himself, slow but firm, until their bodies were aligned.

Harry cried out when Louis pushed inside him, overwhelmed but desperate, clinging to Louis’ shoulders like he was falling.

“Breathe,” Louis whispered, forehead against Harry’s. “I’ve got you.”

Taste hit next. Salt on skin. The faint, lingering sugar of the lavender shortbread Harry had eaten earlier. Louis licked into the curve of his neck again before biting down just enough to make Harry moan. The sound went straight into Louis’ gut.

Harry’s hands held onto Louis’s shoulders again, nails biting in, pulling them closer until there was no space left. Their scents mingled again, now sharper and hotter, their bond making them stronger than ever.

Louis’ palms traced every dip and curve, memorising Harry’s body and making the omega shiver under each pass. Heat poured off Harry's skin, scenting the air richer, making Louis’ mouth water.

Louis pushed into him again – slow at first, making Harry feel every inch. Harry’s head tipped back, and he closed his eyes, giving out a breathy whine.

“Faster, please… I am so close,” Harry begged.

Louis’s knot swelled in anticipation.

“Look at you, baby, taking me so well. Begging for more,” Louis whispered. “Tell me how much you want it.” Louis’ thrusts sped up a little.

“Louis, Louis, Louis… Please don’t stop. Faster… I”

Louis found his rhythm. Their breaths were ragged, Harry’s scent going molten with each thrust. Louis anchored them with one hand on Harry’s thigh, the other cradling the back of his head, as if he could keep him safe even in this wild, consuming need.

When the knot locked, it felt inevitable, the pull too strong, the bond too deep. Harry cried out, his whole body trembling as Louis buried his face in his neck, scent marking him again, deep and sure. Rosewater and cedarwood fused in the air into a new scent, one that was entirely theirs.

Neither moved for a long time, their breaths syncing.

“You’re mine now,” Louis murmured against his skin.

Harry, still panting, dimples clearly showing on his face, “Was there ever a time when I wasn’t?”

Louis didn’t reply. He didn’t have to.

EVERYONE KNOWS 

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet when Louis woke up.

He was warm, and that meant something was wrong. Or different. Or Harry.

Curled against him, bare shoulders, looking so peaceful in the morning light. The scent of rosewater clung faintly to his skin, mixed now with something that was undeniably Louis.

Louis couldn’t help it. He ran his fingers along Harry’s spine, watching his Omega sigh in his sleep and nuzzle closer.

“You’re real,” Louis murmured, almost to himself.

“Unfortunately,” came Harry’s muffled voice, eyes still closed. “Unless this is a dream where you’re annoyingly warm and smug.”

Louis grinned. “Not smug. Satisfied.”

Harry cracked one eye open. “I’m going to push you out of the nest.”

“You could try,” Louis said, smiling and tugging him closer instead.

The banter became quiet, Harry slipping gently onto Louis’ chest, his breathing slowing again.

And Louis? He just watched.

For the first time since walking onto the Masterchef set, something finally made sense.

And it smelled like roses and home.

Another morning, another challenge. It was time for the Critics’ table. It was one of the most important challenges, one that gave the contestants even more publicity. At the end of it, Niall would write a press release about the winner in his highly prestigious magazine.

The contestants were gathering. After the double elimination, Tyrell, Nora, Monica, Lewis, Harry and Louis were the remaining chefs. Harry and Louis arrived late, although thankfully nobody was truly paying attention. Everyone was visibly nervous and ready to start the day.

When people did start to notice them, the change in the kitchen was palpable. Their scents were braided, and everyone knew it. Omegas glanced over. Betas looked away. The Alphas squinted.

Harry walked in first, wearing a hoodie that was unmistakably  Louis’. It was hanging off him in a way that made it obvious. He was glowing. Quiet, but a little flushed and scented to hell. 

Louis followed a few minutes later, dressed crisply, but looking more than a little distracted. It felt like he was listening to Harry’s pulse across the room. His scent, usually restrained, but now clearly affected by the bond, was warm, protective, steady, even territorial.

“Jesus Christ. They bonded,” Tyrell whispered 

Nora nodded and rolled her eyes. “Didn’t even try to mask it,” she muttered.

Harry walked to his station, his hands a bit shaky. Louis pretended to focus on a tray of herbs, but his eyes flicked over every few seconds. The camera crews picked up on it almost immediately.

The producers quickly realised some major headlines could potentially surface following the day’s events.

One of the producers was seen chatting to the camera crew, whispering some quiet instructions. “Keep them mic’d. All day.”

Liam came over to the pass and explained the challenge. He gave them three hours to prep, cook and present a dish inspired by the person cooking beside them. Harry and Louis were, of course, paired together again. Although it was supposed to be a random pairing, the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on anyone, especially Harry, who was trying his hardest to keep their bond under wraps. He didn’t want to jeopardise the competition.

Harry chose charred lamb loin with an Aleppo pepper rub, smoked aubergine puree, cedar-roasted carrots and a pomegranate molasses glaze. Louis went for roasted duck breast with cherry and rosewater glaze, vanilla parsnip puree, and thyme crumb.

As Harry started prep, Monica asked, “Did you two use the communal oven last night or….?”

“Don’t,” Harry replied, visibly uncomfortable.

Louis immediately looked over. Making eye contact was enough. His Alpha presence rose, calm but loaded with a warning. The other contestants didn’t push.

Harry bent over his station, slicing the lamb with careful precision. He didn’t look up once.

Louis cleared his throat, half-smiling. “Careful with that knife, Haz, wouldn’t want you bleeding over your masterpiece.”

Harry muttered something, just enough to acknowledge what Louis had said, but he didn’t answer. He shifted the lamb onto the plate like Louis never spoke.

Louis’s jaw tightened. He raised his voice slightly. “Right. Good chat.” Still no answer from Harry.

Nora was standing at the next bench. She was looking between them with a grin on her face.

“What’s this, then? Trouble in paradise already? Thought you two would be thick as thieves in this paired challenge.”

Harry forced a small laugh.

“Just focusing on the dish. I don’t want to get distracted,” he said, clearly brushing it all off.

Louis’ eyes narrowed, but he kept on working. His hand was shaking as he dragged the rosewater glaze over the duck, the scent clinging to his skin.

Monica leaned over her bench, whispering so only Louis could hear it.

“He’s freezing you out, Chef. Are you going to let him?

Louis didn’t answer. He just slammed his spoon down a little harder than necessary, telling himself that it was all about the plating, not the knot in his chest.

Later, Louis brushed past Harry at the pass. They didn’t touch, but their bond pulled like gravity. Harry blushed. Louis smirked.

“You still smell like me,” Louis whispered

“You like it,” Harry replied quietly.

Louis smiled. “I love it,” he added without hesitation.

Time was up, and the four judges were finally ready to taste the dishes and give their verdict. Liam reminded them that one person would be going home and that Zayn was joining them as a guest judge at the critics’ table.

The judges leaned forward as Harry set down his plate, a lamb seasoned with Aleppo pepper and pomegranate glaze.

Niall smiled and was clearly impressed. “Now this… This is clever. You’ve taken bold Alpha notes and softened them. You’ve let the spices sing, not shout. Very clever.”

“Beautiful balance,” Allegra added. “The pomegranate could’ve been overpowering, but instead it feels grounding. A real mark of restraint.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed pink, eyes flicking not to Louis, but to Lewis, who was watching from the side.

Harry whispered to Lewis. “Told you it would work.”

Louis felt it like a slap. Harry skipped straight past him, like his opinion didn’t matter.

Lewis grinned back. “Yeah, mate, you pulled it off. Looks smashing.”

Across the table, Liam’s gaze sharpened, catching the way Louis’ jaw clenched.

When Louis brought up his own dish – duck with rosewater and thyme crumb – Harry didn’t even glance at him. He was fiddling with the hem of his apron, his eyes firmly fixed on the judges.

Niall took one bite of Louis’ dish and sat back slowly.

“What is this?” Liam asked.

Niall tilted his head and then turned to Louis. “Tastes like someone trying to confess something with spice and restraint.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow. “Romantic?”

“Regretful!” Niall said. He caught Harry looking at the judges and added. “It’s delicious, but the dish plays it safe. I wanted to see more of you on the plate.” 

Harry stared at his plate. Louis stared at him. Nothing needed to be said. Not yet.

Allegra finished the judging with a few strong words. “It’s lush, really. Bold as ever. Perhaps a touch heavy-handed with rosewater. Almost like it’s doing more than flavouring the plate.”

Louis swallowed hard. From the corner of his eye, he saw Harry shift uncomfortably, but Harry didn’t speak. He didn’t defend him. He didn’t even look.

As the judging came to an end, Tyrell muttered to Nora, “They think they’re subtle, but they reek of each other.”

Nora laughed. “The whole kitchen knows it, mate. They’re basically broadcasting it.”

Later, the producers cornered them quietly. “We need to talk about what happened between the two of you. Everyone’s picked up on it.”

Harry felt his stomach drop. Louis just crossed his arms like he expected this all along.

About an hour later, Harry and Louis were told to be at the media room which was mostly used for interviews. The room was painted grey, with fluorescent lights scattered everywhere. There was a little table with water bottles and some snacks and a few comfy-looking chairs, but none of this mattered. Apart from a clipboard and a contract attached to it. That’s how everyone involved knew it was a serious meeting.

The air was cool, but the tension was very clear. Harry and Louis were sitting across from two senior producers, Adam and John.

Adam started the meeting off. His voice was stern.

“We need to address what happened.”

Louis looked at him nervously. “You mean the bond?”

John continued. “Yes. You’re both aware that this is a competition. Your relationship violates clause 28HL of contestant impartiality. You’re influencing outcomes.”

Harry was visibly shaken. “We haven’t cheated.”

Adam replied. “You haven’t meant to. Your bond is an advantage. You scent each other, communicate non-verbally and anticipate moves in the kitchen. That’s chemistry that the others can’t match.”

Harry noticed Louis’ hand tightened slightly on the edge of his chair, and his own scent flared; protective Omega, ready to defend.

Louis muttered. “What’s the solution then? Rip the bond out of us? You want a bonding suppression protocol?”

John was visibly annoyed. “No one’s forcing anything. We’re asking you to consider: Can you continue in this competition without turning it into a duet?”

Harry couldn’t stop himself. “I didn’t enter this competition to be babied. I came here to win. I still want this.”

A moment later, Louis looked at Harry, hoping he would say something softer. Instead, he raised his voice. “We’ll finish. Together or not.”

John and Adam both looked at each other. They were clear; the bond between Harry and Louis was obvious, but the fire in both was real. The risk wasn’t favouritism. It was recognising that they might have accidentally levelled each other up. Instead of stepping down, they were stepping harder into the game.

The next stage of the competition was the individual interviews. Neither Harry nor Louis was looking forward to them.

The interviews happened in a small room with low lighting, a single camera and soundproof walls. One chair, one person at a time. They were both asked the same questions. The interviews weren’t broadcast as part of the show.

Louis went in first.

He looked ragged. Exhausted Alpha, post-bond, holding too many feelings within.

Adam started the interview. “When did you first realise it was more than attraction?”

Louis took time to answer. In his mind, he went back to week three. “The spice challenge in week three. The rosewater overpowered the room. I was really struggling.”

Adam continued. “Did you want the bond?”

Louis felt like he’d been hit by a ton of bricks. “No… Yes… I don’t know.” Louis rubbed his jaw.

“He was in pain. Then he wasn’t. I think that was the moment I stopped pretending I was here just to win.”

Adam could clearly see Louis was struggling. “Do you think he feels the same?”

Louis didn’t answer. He swallowed hard. A moment later, he said, “He wore my hoodie this morning.”

Adam didn’t have any more questions. It was Harry’s turn.

Harry was glowing. He was still flushed.  His bond scent hung in the air as he fiddled with a spoon on his lap.

John started. “What does Louis smell like to you?”

“Safety….” Harry immediately replied. “The air before it starts raining. A promise of something strong but not cruel.”

John could see the spark in Harry’s eyes. “And what do you smell like to him?”

Harry got shy and smirked. “Like rosewater and trouble.”

John ended the interview when Harry became very distracted, maybe sensing Louis passing by outside. The bond was still very strong.

The remaining contestants gathered at the long bench in the loft’s common area. There was plenty of tea,  with biscuits, crisps and other light snacks for everyone to enjoy. Someone started the game, “Guess the final three?” but it quickly got out of hand.

Nora broke the silence. “So, are we all pretending that whatever is going on between Louis and Harry isn’t wildly distracting?”

Tyrell didn’t even look up from his phone. “It’s not distracting. It's a live chemical hazard.”

Monica snorted. “They’re going to kiss or kill each other in the walk-in fridge.”

A chorus of oohs and mock gasps followed. Tyrell finally looked up.

“Do you think they even realise how obvious it is?”

“I think Harry knows,” Nora said. “He is a typical  Omega. He is innocent, yet fully aware of what his scent is doing for the two of them.”

Monica sipped her wine and added, “Louis is a typical Alpha. He will explode internally before he admits that he is gone for Harry.”

Harry had just come for a late cup of tea when he caught the tail end of the conversation among contestants. He hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer, just close enough to hear everything without being seen.

Monica raised her voice. “Harry and Louis are like two magnets about to snap. The tension between them is so real it could start a fire.”

“I’m telling you,” Tyrell said, smirking.  “If they don’t kiss soon on national TV, I’ll eat my chef’s hat.”

“Alpha meltdown incoming, mark my words,” Nora added, annoyed at the situation.

Harry’s heart hammered, his cheeks warm, but he held his ground. Half-smiling, he quietly retreated to the kitchen, suddenly very aware of every breath he took.

Later that evening, as Louis passed the loft kitchen, he caught Tyrell smirking at him.

“Nice rosewater and thyme technique today, mate,” Tyrell said casually. “Very fragrant. “

Louis paused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tyrell grinned. “Nothing. Just wondering what dish you’ll cook next and if you’ll need Harry’s help again.”

Louis walked away. Fast.

He needed space. He waited until everyone left. Everyone except Harry. Louis knew they had to talk – they needed a plan immediately.

They didn’t have to wait long.

Louis leaned against the counter, eyes tracing the faint steam rising from a neglected mug. Harry stood opposite him, hands wrapped around his own mug, the warmth seeping into his fingers.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Louis finally broke the silence, voice low and careful. “They’re talking about us.”

Harry looked up, eyes wide but focused on Louis. “I know.”

Louis ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “I don’t want to be a spectacle. Not here. Not with you.”

Harry moved closer, voice soft but certain. “We already are.”

Louis swallowed, jaw clenched.

“So, what do we do? Hide it? Pretend it’s nothing?”

Harry shook his head. “No. I don’t want to hide from myself or from you.”

“Then what?” Louis asked.

Harry reached out, fingers brushing Louis’s wrists.

“We talk. We trust. We don’t let this be the thing we are afraid of.”

Louis exhaled slowly, tension easing from his shoulders.

“Okay, no more pretending.”

Harry smiled, dimples popping. “No more pretending.”

They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, before taking each other’s hands and walking slowly home.

The flat was quiet, dim and warm. Through the curtain they could see the flickering lights of the city. Harry’s laugh echoed when Louis kicked the door shut with his heel. They were both wrecked from the day – the critics’ table, the producers’ pointed questions, the overheard whispers from the others – it truly felt like all eyes were constantly on them.

Louis leaned against the wall, watching Harry fuss with his jumper, folding it, setting it aside with deliberate care. It felt like he was keeping his hands busy to avoid looking at Louis.

Louis’s shoulders slumped. “Feels like they know everything,” he said clearly, tired and annoyed.

Harry didn’t look up. “They don’t. They just think they do,” he replied hesitantly.

Louis crossed the space between them, stopping close enough for Harry to feel the warmth of his breath. “You’ve been dodging me most of the day, apart from the conversation we had. Do you think that pretending we didn’t bond made it easier?”

Harry’s breath hitched. His hands twisted in the hem of his shirt. “I didn’t want to make it harder for either of us. If they think we’re distracted…” 

“They already do,” Louis said, voice sharper than before.

His palm found Harry’s wrist, his thumb pressing against the frantic pulse. Trying to calm Harry down. He tilted his chin up. He looked him in the eyes. “You’ve no idea what it did to me today. Cooking beside you, smelling you. Knowing you’re mine and having to pretend I don’t feel it.”                                                                                          

Harry’s lip trembled. His body was overtaken with exhaustion, ready to surrender.

“You’re making it harder,” Harry whispered, but he didn’t pull away.

Louis’ thumb swept over Harry’s jaw. “No, baby, I’m making it real.”

The tension between them snapped like a bowstring. Harry surged forward, pressing his forehead to Louis’ chest, shaking. Louis wrapped him up instantly, holding him tight. His fingers ran through Harry’s curls, carrying the faint scent of rosewater from the kitchen.

“You’re safe here,” Louis whispered into his ear, watching Harry slowly give in to the touch. “It doesn’t matter what they say.”

Harry surrendered, inhaling Louis’s scent deeply – cedar wood and a gentle hint of Aleppo pepper grounded him. His body unclenched, tremors fading under the weight of his Alpha’s hold.

When their lips met, it was different from the frantic knotting from last night.

This was slower, deliberate, Louis savouring the taste of him like a stolen indulgence. Harry whined, holding onto Louis’ shirt as if he would fall apart otherwise. Harry guided Louis towards the sofa, curling into him as if it was the only place in the world where he could finally breathe.

It wasn’t about heat this time. The only thing that mattered was finding solace after a day that had stripped them bare in other ways.

Louis kissed down Harry’s shoulder, inhaling deeply, desperate to fill up his lungs with Harry’s scent. Harry groaned as teeth grazed his throat, arching into the touch, scent becoming richer and sweeter.

“You undo me,” Louis murmured against Harry’s blazing skin. “Even now. Especially now.”

Harry’s nails skimmed down his back. His body was shivering. “Don’t stop,” he gasped, his voice overwhelmed with need and relief in equal measure.

It was so sensual. The musk of their bond hanging in the air, the taste of salt and sugar on Harry’s skin, the feeling of him trembling and pliant, the buzz of the city's nightlife.

Harry clung tighter, burying his face in Louis’s neck, his lips brushing over his alpha’s pulse point.

Later, tangled together under a blanket, his breath still uneven, Harry whispered against Louis’s collarbone.

“Whatever happens tomorrow, – cameras, eliminations… don’t let me forget this.”

Louis pressed his lips to Harry’s temple, slow and reverent.

“Not a chance, love. You’re etched on me now.”

FORAGING 

A few hours later, Harry woke up first, curled into the crook of Louis’s arm, the rise and fall of his chest giving him comfort after an eventful day yesterday.

The flat was very quiet, the city waking up slowly, the kind of silence that wrapped around them like a blanket.

For a long time, Harry just listened. The slow, even heartbeat under his cheek, Louis’ raspy breathing, and sleeping soundly.

He pressed his nose into Louis’s skin, his scent warm and grounding. He let himself breathe it in until his shoulders relaxed.

Louis stirred eventually. Lids heavy, voice barely louder than a whisper.

“You’re staring at me, love.”

“Maybe?” Harry replied quietly. “You snore, you know.”

“I don’t,” Louis muttered, then cracked one eye open to Harry’s grin. “Ok, maybe a little bit. You love it, though.”

Harry laughed as he rolled away and stretched, before slipping off the sofa. “Come on. Let’s make pancakes.”

The kitchen was cramped. The morning sun peeked through the windows. Harry moved like he owned the space. He pulled flour and eggs from the cupboard and put the kettle on for a coffee.

Louis leaned in the doorway, watching him with something soft in his expression that Harry pretended not to notice, his cheeks already warm.

“You’re making a mess!” Louis groaned when the flour dusted Harry’s curls.

“You’re eating them anyway,” Harry shot back, flipping the whisk like a pro.

Louis pushed off the doorframe, stepping behind him, chest pressed to Harry’s back as he reached the pan. The scent of him wrapped around Harry, sharp with citrus and heat, grounding and distracting all at once. Harry suddenly went still. His breath caught before Louis murmured to his ear, “Let me.”

Between the two of them, the pancakes turned golden, a stack building while the rich, black coffee brewed. Harry plated the pancakes with strawberries, drizzled with maple syrup, and set two mismatched mugs on the counter.

They ate standing up, bumping their elbows. Harry licked honey off his thumb. Louis stole a bite from Harry’s plate just to make him scowl.  For a moment, it felt like they could stay here forever, wrapped in the morning light and laughter.

Harry glanced at the clock, shrugging his shoulders. “We should get ready. Foraging today.”

They instantly remembered the competition wasn't over yet. Louis studied him, reaching out to turn his head, until Harry’s green eyes met his.

“Whatever happens today, baby. This? Us? It’s real. Don’t forget that.”

Harry swallowed hard, then nodded, giving Louis a quick kiss, before picking up his jacket.

The plates stayed stacked on the counter, honey dripping onto the wooden floor as they were leaving for the day.  

The van finally arrived and the buzz of the city was left behind. Ahead was a very scenic route leading to their destination. The van was cramped, but everyone tried to keep the atmosphere as light-hearted as possible. 

Lewis grinned. “Right then, who is going to poison themselves with a doggy mushroom?”

“Not me!” Monica shot back, calm as ever, although a small smirk showed up on her face. “I actually read the foraging brief.”

Tyrell groaned dramatically, slamming into his seat. “Yeah, sure, you are the clever one. I’ll just stick to berries and hope I don’t kill us.”

Everyone was laughing. Nora leaned her chin on her hands, her sparkly eyes a clear indication that she was having fun. “Yeah, imagine the headlines: ‘Contestant eliminated by a berry pie of doom.’”

Even Harry smiled faintly, though he kept quiet most of the time, forehead pressed to the window. The forest was blurring past in different shades of green. Even Louis had to admit that there was something truly exhilarating about being let loose in the forest with nothing but instinct and skill to rely on.

When they finally stepped out of the van, the forest seemed to stretch in every direction. Tall pines and ancient oaks covered in damp moss. The air was sharp, filled with the smell of rain–soaked leaves. The birds were chirping. Nora grinned. 

Monica pointed out wild herbs growing along the path, and Tyrell cracked a joke about surviving a day without a pantry. All of them were desperately trying to hide the nerves of looming elimination. They all knew that the remaining contestants would be going to the final challenge and fighting for the trophy.

The tent was hot, humid and filled with the overpowering aroma of wild herbs. The scent of freshly picked wild mushrooms lingered in the air, but none of this bothered Louis. He could only smell Harry. Sweet, sharp vanilla and rosewater mixed with his own cedarwood spice. There were none of the usual scent blockers being pumped into the tent. No way to mask how bonded they were.

The producers knew what they were doing. Bastards.

“Let’s stay out of each other’s way, yeah?” Harry muttered as they set their baskets down. They were filled with wild berries, mushrooms, and even some edible wildflowers.

Harry didn’t look at Louis. His curls were damp with sweat, his flour-dusted shirt sticking to his back.

Louis exhaled through his nose. “Fine by me!”

They split without a word. Harry headed for the burner with a bunch of berries, while Louis started prepping the wild rabbit. The silence between them was deafening, but the tent quickly became very noisy.

Monica was frying her mushrooms; Nora was chopping nettles, and Tyrell was whistling low under his breath while marinating venison.

They were all ordinary sounds, and yet there was a storm inside Louis’ head. Harry’s scent was in his throat, under his skin, and the bond was getting stronger any time Harry was getting too far from him.

He tried to focus on his dish: rabbit braised in ale, with wild herbs and Aleppo pepper simmering into a broth that he had mastered by now.

But his hands slipped, the knife slamming too hard into the board, splintering the wood.

“Oi, Oi pal! Slow down!” Lewis yelled from across the tent. “You’re hacking it as if it owes you money!”

Louis grinned, eyes flicking to Harry. He was pale, biting his lower lip, carefully whisking custard to a tart with wild berries. His hands were shaking.

“Harry!” Louis started. He didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want to admit how wrong all this was going, but something in him burned.

Harry didn’t answer. His whisk slipped from his fingers, clattering against the side of the bowl. He froze for a moment. The scent of fear and heat strengthened so much that Louis nearly rushed over.

“Hey, Haz!” Louis raised his voice while moving over to Harry’s side.

The custard scalded, bubbling too hot, steam rising. Harry hissed, moving his hand back. The oil in the pan was splattering everywhere.

Louis moved it, bare hand on the metal handle. He swore under his breath while making sure it was at a safe distance from Harry. Louis’s scent intensified, and his protective instinct went into overdrive. Harry shoved him away, eyes blazing.

“Don’t make it so obvious!” Harry whispered. “They’ll know.”

“Too late!” Tyrell said casually. He was watching them from his station. “Should I remind you that most of us already know? You may as well stop pretending!”

Harry’s cheeks flushed, and he went back to finish his tart.

When the judging commenced, the disaster was clearly written on their plates. Louis’s rabbit was underdone, the broth too overpowering. Harry’s tart might have looked pretty, but the custard was grainy, and the wild berries lacked balance.

Allegra leaned forward, fork tapping Harry’s plate. “This isn’t you. What happened?” Harry froze, his hands shaking. “I just overcomplicated it.”

“Understatement of the year!” Monica muttered under her breath, clearly annoyed.

Niall’s critique was gentler but no less damning. “You’ve both proven yourselves to be stronger than this… Today, it felt like a distraction. Something is clearly off.”

Louis stood next to Harry, his shoulders stiff, fists clenched, forcing himself not to snap. He could clearly feel Harry’s tremor, the quiet thread of panic. He wanted to wrap him up, pull him out of the tent and never let anyone else close. But he couldn’t. Not here. Not now.

When the names were finally called, though, it was Lewis who went home, not them.

Relief hit them like a wave, but Louis saw how Harry’s head bowed down, curls falling forward, shame written all over him.

As the others finally left, Louis lingered, close enough to catch Harry’s sleeve, his voice rough and low.

“Haz. Look at me!”

Harry looked up, struggling not to cry.

Louis leaned in, just enough so only Harry could hear. “I don’t give a damn what they see. You’re mine. Nothing and no one is taking that from us. Not this competition. Not anyone. “

Harry’s breath hitched. His scent bloomed helpless and sweet, and for the first time that day, Harry leaned into Louis’ side.

Back at the flat, the door shut behind them. No cameras. No judges, no other contestants. Just the sound of Harry kicking off his shoes. His curls fell onto his face as he slumped onto the sofa. It felt like the weight of the world caught him off guard, square in the chest.

Louis lingered by the door for a little longer, his hand on the handle, trying to steady his pulse a little.

The chaos of the day had taken its toll on him. The bond, Harry’s scent, the memory of his hand slipping, his panic. It was all too much. Not forgetting the thought of their lucky escape from being sent home.

“Haz?” Louis said softly.

Harry didn’t look up. He just muttered. “You should be mad at me.”

“What for?” Louis was clearly confused.

“For nearly costing us both this competition. For being so obvious.” His voice cracked on the last word, his hands twisting in the hem of his jumper. “They know Lou. Everyone knows, and now if I mess up again…”

Louis walked quickly across the room, crouching down in front of him. “Stop!” His voice was a lot sharper than he meant it to be, but Harry finally looked at him. His eyes were open wide. “You hear me? I don’t care if every person in that tent knows. I don’t care if they plaster it across the screens. I am not ashamed of you. Of us.”

Harry’s lip trembled; the bond between them felt like a wire pulled tight. “What if I go home?”

“Then, I’ll walk out too,” Louis said instantly without hesitation. “I’m not doing this without you. I can’t.”

That broke something loose in Harry. He laughed and cried at the same time. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Louis’, his breath uneven. “You’re reckless.”

Louis smirked. “Only for you.”

He pulled Harry onto his lap, wrapping his arms tightly around him, burying his nose into the curls at his temple. The scent of vanilla and rosewater grounded him, soothing, yet still tinged with heat. Harry finally relaxed, his body heavy against Louis’, his hand holding tightly onto his shirt.

They stayed like that until the city went completely quiet. When Harry finally dozed against his chest, Louis whispered words that he wasn’t sure Harry would remember in the morning.

“I’ll fight every judge, every critic, every bastard with a camera if I have to, but I’m not letting them ruin your career.”

ONE STEP CLOSER 

Five contestants left. One very noisy kitchen. Everyone was nervous. The day’s challenge meant one step closer to the final four. The air felt heavy. The challenge? Take a classic dish and make it your own.

Harry stood at his bench, sleeves pulled up to his elbows, staring down at the half-rolled pastry in front of him. His plan, making beef Wellington with spiced fruit and a rosewater sauce, had sounded clever in his head. However, the pastry tore, the beef cooled down too fast, and the smell of it (buttery and rich) made his stomach churn. He could feel Louis from across the room, like a live wire, the alpha’s cedarwood and spice distracting him, taking away the faint line of focus he had left.

“Harry, mate, your station looks like a battlefield,” Tyrell called, loud enough for the cameras to catch. “You’re sure that thing is even going to cook through?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. He muttered something under his breath and threw the ruined pastry into the bin.

At the next bench, Monica seemed composed as ever, folding pasta sheets for her take on lasagne, filled with wild mushrooms and mascarpone. Nora leaned over, smirking. “See, that’s what a calm cook looks like.”

Harry slammed his rolling pin down harder than necessary, heat rushing in his cheeks.

He couldn’t look up, couldn’t bear Louis’ eyes on him.

Louis, at last, was working with sugar, not salt, making a lemon tart with Aleppo pepper folded into the shortcrust pastry, topped with cedar-smoked meringue. A combination that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did. He looked up while whisking, catching Harry’s shaking hands, and his chest immediately tightened.

The cameras swung closer just as Harry’s second attempt split again. He froze, trying to catch a breath; the scent of panic lingered in the air.

“Fuck this!” Harry muttered, ripping off his apron. His bench clattered as he shoved back, knocking a nearby chair and sending it skidding across the tiles. Before anyone could stop him, he stormed out the side door of the kitchen, chest heaving.

Silence fell.

“Well,” Nora said, adjusting her piping back. “Guess somebody couldn’t handle the heat.”

The comment stung more than it should have. Louis’s hands moved faster, too fast; he was fully distracted with his own dish on the verge of collapse.

Harry returned eventually, flushed and quiet. presenting a ragged Wellington that looked more like a collapsed pie. Allegra’s fork slid through it, the pastry clearly rubbery, the beef unevenly cooked.

“This… feels panicked,” she said carefully. “You’ve cooked better than this, Harry. Today just didn’t go in your favour.”

Niall nodded, disappointment flickering in his eyes. “You’ve set a standard for yourself, and this isn’t it.”

Harry’s cheeks burnt as he stepped away, unable to look at others.

Louis’ tart performed even worse. Smoky and sharp, the heat of Aleppo pepper was a clever counterpoint to the lemon. The tart was far from perfect, though the curd had split in the rush, ruining the smooth texture.

Allegra tapped her fork against the plate. “This is more than rough. The idea is good, but the execution lets it down in a way we can’t ignore.”

Louis swallowed, already knowing this wasn’t a near miss, but a stumble. 

The judges had a very difficult decision to make. In the end, it was Monica who shone brightest, with Tyrell following in close second. When the last names were called, it was Louis and Nora, standing side by side, tied on points at the bottom, with Harry just above them by the skin of his teeth.

Harry’s stomach dropped. The thought of Louis going home overwhelmed him more than his own performance.

“Louis,” Allegra finally said, “You live to cook again. Nora, that means you’re going home.”

Everyone was finally able to breathe. There was relief for some, heartbreak for others. Harry was very cautious until the filming stopped, and Nora was saying her final goodbyes.

Harry slipped outside again, the cool evening air hitting his face like a slap. He gripped the railing, eyes burning, chest heaving, sick with relief he didn’t feel he’d earned. 

The door creaked open behind him. He didn’t have to turn. He felt who it was. The bond was intense.

“Haz,” Louis said softly.

Harry shook his head. “I nearly ruined everything again. Lou, I keep falling apart in front of them.”

“Hey,” Louis’ hand settled on his shoulder, grounding him. “You didn’t ruin it. You are still here, and so am I.”

Harry finally looked up. Tears streaming down his face, his lips trembling. “What if you’d gone home tonight because of me?

Louis stepped closer, close enough that Harry felt Louis’ warmth on his body, the cedar and spice lingering in his lungs again.

“Then I’d have gone home proud, knowing I went swinging next to you. Listen to me, baby, I am not leaving you. Not here. Not out there. Do you hear me?”

Harry exhaled deeply, his body shaking. He leaned into Louis. He pressed his forehead against Louis’ chest. “I know we said we would stop pretending. I know how much this competition means to both of us. I’m just tired of pretending that you don’t matter to me, for the sake of sticking to the rules. We are so close to the finish line.”

Louis wrapped his arms tightly around Harry. “We don’t have to pretend. Let them talk. Let them see. It doesn’t change a damn thing about us.”

For the first time all day, Harry let himself believe it.

Harry stayed there for a long time, pressed into Louis’ chest until he finally relaxed. All he could hear was Louis’ voice, low, steady, unshakeable.

When he finally pulled back, Louis’ hand lingered on his arms, thumbs brushing over the fabric of his shirt like he wasn’t ready to let go either.

Harry sniffed, trying to laugh, but failing miserably. “We're a bloody mess, aren’t we?”

“Maybe?” Louis said with a grin that didn’t really hide the strain in his eyes. “We’re our mess, Haz.” He tipped his forehead to Harry’s. “Next time, we go there together and show them what we can do. Together. No more falling apart.”

The word ‘together’ curled warm and sure in Harry’s chest, pushing back any doubt he had.

For the first time that day, Harry smiled a little. “Together,” he echoed, confidently enough to almost believe it.

Inside, the crew was already calling them for pickups, cameras ready to capture their next move. But for now, just for a moment longer, it was only the two of them against the world, and Harry knew deep down he wouldn’t let go of that for anything.

The next morning, everyone gathered for what they thought would be the usual morning briefing. Instead of Allegra and Liam walking in, one of the producers appeared, with a clipboard tucked under her arm.

“Quick announcement,” she said, smiling at the group. “Due to an illness in the production crew, filming will be paused for the next two days. We’ll resume then with your next challenge. Use the time off wisely. Rest, practise, do whatever you need.”

Everyone looked very surprised. Two days off were unheard of. Tyrell whooped under his breath, already talking about finding a perfect pub meal, while Monica muttered something about catching up on sleep.

Louis hardly heard them. His gaze slipped to where Harry sat cross-legged on the sofa, his curls a mess, holding a cup of tea. Tired, still a little fragile from yesterday’s storm in the kitchen, but so soft, Louis’ chest ached just looking at him. 

Later, tucked in the corner of the green room, Louis pulled out his phone. His thumbs hovered a little before he pressed the call button.

“Hi, I’d like to order some flowers for delivery this afternoon, please. Just some pale roses, white lilies, and maybe some lavender and a sunflower if you’ve got it. Soft. Nothing too fussy. For Harry Styles, from Louis Tomlinson..”

The florist on the line laughed gently. “Romantic, are we?”

Louis’s ears warmed. “Something like that, yes.”

As soon as he hung up, he opened a new tab, searching for hotels in Manchester. He picked one quickly, a little boutique place, with warm lighting and soft sheets, that looked like the sort of thing Harry would sink into with a happy sigh. One night. No cameras. No competition. Just them.

Later, Harry found the small envelope tucked in his bag. The note read: “Pack a bag. Tonight it’s just us. L.”

Harry’s lips parted, and he pressed the card against his chest for a moment before slipping it back, already smiling like he couldn’t stop himself.

The train ride to Manchester felt like a secret. Harry kept glancing at Louis across the aisle, the little overnight bag by his feet, and the sprig of lavender tucked into the flowers he'd carried out of the flat this morning. 

He’d tried to tease Louis about the surprise, but every time he opened his mouth, Louis just smirked and leaned back in his seat. The sparkle in his blue eyes was clearly noticeable. He was keeping all the answers for later.

The hotel was tucked into a quiet street, full of exposed brick and little figures spread around the entrance. The kind of place that felt like it already kept secrets safe.

Louis checked them in with one hand in his pocket, the other brushing Harry’s lower back, a reminder that Harry was, in fact, still there with him.

When they entered the room, they could see the bed decorated with rose petals and a bottle of wine waiting on the table. Harry dropped his bag and laughed nervously. “You really arranged all this?”

Louis shrugged his shoulders, suddenly shy, tugging at the cuff of his hoodie. “Felt like we deserved a night away without the cameras watching our every move. Just us.”

Harry set the flowers on the bedside table and stood behind Louis, hugging him tight. “You’re ridiculous,” he whispered to Louis’ ear, the tremor in his voice clearly expressing how much it really meant to him.

Dinner was simple: a takeaway spread across the bed, Harry curled up against the headboard, wearing Louis’ hoodie, Louis barefoot and leaning against him as they fed each other. They didn’t talk much about the competition. Instead, they exchanged stories from home. 

Harry reminisced about his granny teaching him how to roll pastry, and Louis remembered the first kitchen he ever ruined while trying to make a chicken stuffed with mozzarella, wrapped in Parma ham, served with delicious mash.

Later, when the plates were cleared and the wine half gone, they ended up at the window, looking down at the lights glimmering over the river. Harry leaned into Louis’ chest, breathing in cedarwood and spice, his voice muffled against Louis’ shirt.

“I don’t want this to end,” Harry admitted.

Louis tightened his arm around him, lips pressing into Harry’s curls. “It doesn't have to. Not when it’s real.”

For a long time, they just stood there, the city falling silent below them, both holding on, like they’d found the only quiet space left in the world.

When they finally went to bed, it wasn’t hurried or frantic. It was slow and tender. Harry’s laughter was soft in the dark, Louis’ thumb brushing over the mark on Harry’s neck like a vow.

They fell asleep tangled together; the lavender from the flowers filled the air in the room. The atmosphere was hushed and peaceful.

                                                                                                   **********************************************************

Louis woke up first. For a moment, he thought he was still dreaming. Harry sprawled across the sheet with messy hair and the faintest smile on his face. He was fast asleep. The flowers Louis had ordered wilted gently in the glass on the bedside table; lavender was still present in the air.

It would have been easy to stay there, to let the world take on the pace of Harry’s slow, even breathing.

Louis glanced anxiously at the clock, swore under his breath and nudged Harry’s shoulder.

“Haz, wake up! We have fifteen minutes to catch the bloody train!”

What followed was nothing short of a storm. Raised voices, half–buttoned shirts, and Louis stuffing their bags haphazardly with clothes. They made it onto the train just as the doors were closing, collapsing into their seats with a matching gasp of relief and laughter.

Harry’s hand found Louis’ under the table between them, and Louis didn’t let go for the entire ride back.

Later that afternoon back at his flat, Louis sat on the floor, his back against the sofa, staring at the pile of scribbled recipe notes. He should have been practising, or at least sharpening ideas for the next round. Instead, all he could think of was Harry. The warmth of him pressed against the train window, the look in his eyes when he’d said, “I don’t want this to end.”

Louis always treated food like a battle. Every dish he’d ever made in the kitchen was a weapon, something sharp and precise to cut through the noise and prove himself. It was survival, not expression.

He went into the competition to push his way forward with nothing but determination and grit. He hadn’t expected… this. The way Harry disarmed him without even trying. The way the mark on Harry’s neck felt like a secret was both terrifying and beautiful.

Harry, who baked tarts with rosewater and cream, like he was telling a story. Someone who layered lavender into shortbread, not because it was clever, but because it soothed. Someone who made Louis taste emotions he’d been running from for years.

Harry was in his flat, curled up in the nest he'd built in his bed. The lavender was still clinging to his clothes from the hotel. His body was heavy with the afterglow of the night they’d spent together, but it wasn’t just physical. Something inside him had shifted.

Cooking had always brought him joy, but it was also his armour. The sweetness hid his nerves well. Cream and fruit acted as a perfect mask for a desperate need to prove himself. 

Louis had managed to crack through that. When Harry thought of Louis, he thought of cedarwood and Aleppo pepper, of dishes that lingered on the tongue and carried a quiet strength. He thought of Louis’ risotto, careful and tender when no one expected him to be. He remembered Louis’ desserts, sharper and braver than Harry had thought he could make.

For the first time, food wasn’t about performance. It was about connection, giving something of yourself to someone who would taste it and understand.

Harry picked up his phone, thumb hovering before he typed.

The competition was supposed to strip them down and pit them against one another. Instead, Louis found himself building something with Harry, recipes that tasted of comfort, of home, and of something he wouldn’t dare to ask for until now.

Suddenly, Louis’ phone buzzed. Harry’s name showed up on the screen.

Harry: Made it home. I can still smell the flowers everywhere. You are ridiculous.

Louis: Good. I wanted you to. Means I did it right.

Harry: Feels like the world stopped last night.

Louis: Wish it could. We’ll settle for train stations and takeaways if it means more meaningful mornings with you.

Harry: You’re soppy Tommo.

Louis: Don’t tell the others. It will ruin my reputation.

Harry: Your secrets are safe with me.

Harry pressed the phone to his chest for a moment before setting it aside with a big smile on his face.

Louis did the same. Two hearts in separate flats, both bracing themselves for the storm in the kitchen, but tasting something new in food and in each other. Not survival. Not performance. Home.

FINAL FOUR 

The text messages from the night before still warmed Harry’s chest as he walked into the studio the next morning. Two days off had given everybody chances to rest and the producers a reminder of the stakes. The final four. Two people were going home.

Harry glanced across the prep benches. Monica was already lining up her knives in neat rows. Tyrell muttered something inaudible under his breath, hands in his apron pockets. He was visibly nervous.

Louis looked calm, in a way only Louis could: arms folded, jaw tight, eyes flicking briefly to Harry before snapping back to the judges.

Allegra’s voice suddenly cut through all the noise. “Today’s challenge is simple, but vitally important. Three courses. Your story. We want food that tells us who you are, what brought you here and who you’ve become. In the end, only two of you will remain and face the final cook-off.”

The energy in the kitchen shifted. Everyone got to work. The atmosphere was clearly tense and filled with a lot of emotion.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, just to centre himself. He thought of rosewater and lavender, scents already burnt into Louis’ skin, and then reached for something new: lemon and thyme. Fresh, sharp and grounding. “First Bite”, a dessert to end his menu, a nostalgic tart softened with a swirl of honey cream.

His starter featured fennel and orange, bright, precise and carefully balanced. His main, a slow-roasted chicken with glazed pomegranate molasses; sweet and sour and glowing like a memory. Every plate told a piece of him. Someone fragile, joyful, longing for love.

At the other bench, Louis did something unexpected. He didn’t reach for cedar or Aleppo pepper at first. Instead, his starter featured smoked paprika and charred corn – bold, loud and unapologetic. A dish that spoke of stubbornness and fire, of things he never said but always carried within. His main leaned into comfort: a braised lamb with prunes and cinnamon, nostalgic with warmth hidden under grit.

Finally, dessert. Louis’s hands shook only once as he spooned pear and cardamom compote over crispy filo pastry. A dish that was so vulnerable, it felt like handing over his chest on the plate. For Harry. Always for Harry.

With only four of them left, the kitchen felt stripped bare now, every word from the judges cutting deeper.

Harry’s fennel and orange starter made Allegra close her eyes, savouring every bite. “So clean and precise. This is Harry stripped down, no hiding,” she said.

His chicken drew a few nods. It was the dessert, lemon and thyme tart with honey cream, that silenced the room. Liam set his fork down slowly, expression unreadable. “That… that’s not just technique. That’s emotion plated. I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I don’t often stop mid-bite. Harry, you made me pause.”

Harry held his head high, dimples clearly visible on his face. He felt proud.

Louis’s dishes were no easier to ignore. His starter made Zayn laugh, surprisingly. “Bold. Loud. You finally cooked like yourself, Tomlinson,” Zayn added, clearly shocked.

The lamb was tender, rich and soaked in memory. Allegra’s eyes softened. His dessert, pear and cardamom, showcasing fragility and pain, made the room go quiet.

By the time judging was done, Monica and Tyrell were both praised for their incredible work, but the verdict was very hard to reach. Louis tied with Tyrell, which didn’t help anyone. Two of them were going home. Harry’s chest clenched so much, it hurt.

Tyrell stood with his arms crossed as Allegra delivered the verdict, is jaw tightened with anticipation. He’d always said he’d go swinging, and he had. He produced bold flavours,  sharp-looking presentation, and nothing left unsaid. When his name was called, he only nodded once, catching Louis’ eye. “Don’t waste it,” he said to Louis before walking out of the kitchen.

Harry watched Tyrell’s back disappear through the doors, his chest tight. Relief that he survived, mixed with guilt as if his place in the final two was carved out of someone else’s sacrifice.

Monica’s exit was quieter. She pressed her palms together, a small smile tugging at her lips, despite the sting of disappointment.

Cooking had always been about discipline for her. Precision, order, rules, but here with Harry and Louis tearing the air with scents and emotion, she learnt something new. Sometimes food wasn’t about control at all. Sometimes it was about letting yourself be seen.

She hugged Harry gently and whispered, “Make it count.” She walked out of the kitchen full of memories and recipes to last a lifetime.

Louis kept his arms folded, eyes fixed on empty benches. He’d wanted a victory the entire time, but watching Monica and Tyrell leave made the word taste hollow. Winning meant nothing if Harry wasn’t still beside him at the end.

When clean up came, Louis scrubbed his bench harder than necessary, with his head down. He felt overwhelmed. Zayn lingered by the sink, watching him for a moment, before nodding once. “You’ve got there,” he said quietly. Just that. Then he walked away.

                                                                                                  ***********************************************************

The sky outside was covered in different shades of pink as the rest of the crew started leaving the kitchen. Monica said her final goodbyes and boarded a taxi. Tyrell muttered something on the phone before being picked up by another taxi.

Louis stood in the shadow, hands shoved into his hoodie, watching the way Harry’s curls caught the last of the twilight. After a while, he decided to break the silence.

“It’s not just scent,” he whispered. “It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Harry froze. The air shifted. Their scents instantly heightened. Slowly, he looked at Louis, his voice trembling.

“Then come and get me properly!”

Louis closed the distance between them, cupping Harry’s jaw. Everything else around them felt like a blur. Their kiss was messy, hungry, nothing like the careful precision of plating. It was everything, every story they hadn’t told, every flavour they hadn’t named.

By the time they broke apart, Harry’s hand was twisted in Louis’ hoodie, Louis’ thumb brushing the claim mark on Harry’s throat.

“Yours,” Harry whispered.

“Always,” Louis promised.

They didn’t even argue about whose flat to go to. They just walked side by side, surrounded by the faint buzz of the city, towards home, whatever it meant now.

Louis didn’t even bother to switch the lights on when they stumbled into his flat, breathless after escaping the torrential rain outside.

Harry’s hand was warm, nestled in his. They held tight onto each other, scared they might be pulled into the competition again if they let go.

The door barely shut before Louis pressed Harry’s back against it, not hard, just enough to pin him there. The growl in his chest was involuntary, the sound rough, an expression of pride and relief. Harry shivered at the vibration, gently tilting his head in a quiet offering.

Louis grazed his mouth along his jawline, not kissing, just breathing him in.

The lavender and sugar in Harry’s scent intensified, seemingly soft with an undertone of trust and safety. Harry’s knees weakened when Louis’ lips stopped behind his ear.

“You know what this means?” Louis whispered. His nose skimmed across Harry’s skin as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

“That we’re finalists?” Harry murmured, his voice breaking, as he felt Louis scraping gently at his throat.

Louis pulled him closer, chest to chest. “That you’re mine. My Omega. My everything. Doesn’t matter what happens out there.” Louis’ hand tightened on Harry’s hip, grounding him.

Harry let out a soft, helpless whine, pressing closer. He grazed his lips along Louis’ shoulder in return, a quiet claim of his own. “Yours. Always yours. Even if you’re being cocky arse about beating me tomorrow.“

Louis laughed a little, his breath hitched, as he realised how Harry’s scent soothed him. He recognised how well they fit together. Their bond became a celebration, written not in fireworks, but in the steady rhythm of two bodies that knew each other down to the core.

Louis’s chest rumbled against Harry’s as the Omega arched into him. Louis groaned low, nuzzling into the crook of Harry’s neck as if he couldn’t get close enough.

Harry tilted his head back, his body trembling. “Louis…” Harry whimpered. Louis almost came undone, taking in the desperation in Harry’s voice. He nipped at Harry’s throat, his growl vibrating through them both.

“Mine,” he muttered against Harry’s flushed skin, his voice hoarse and filled with possession and hunger.

Harry shivered instantly, hands slipping underneath Louis’ shirt. “Then take it. Take me,” he whined, pleading.

Harry’s words broke any leftover control Louis had. He lifted Harry easily, pressing his back against the wall, interlocking their bodies until there was no space left between them.

His cock ached with urgency, heavy and demanding. He didn’t push. Not yet. He needed Harry pliant –needed Harry’s scent to soak him through, to know Harry needed this.

Harry pulled him in closer, wrapping his legs around Louis’s waist, helplessly grinding his hips. Their bond amplified everything. Harry’s slick leaked almost instantly. Louis growled, demanding a claim.

When Louis finally sank his teeth against the mark on Harry’s throat, it wasn’t deep, but rather a reminder that Harry belonged to no one else but him. Harry cried out, shuddering around him, clinging on tight. The Omega’s scent flared up while Louis ground against him, hard cock pressing insistently.

“Tomorrow, the trophy doesn’t matter!” Louis rasped, forehead pressed to Harry’s. “This… you, you are the only prize I’ll ever need.”

Harry answered with a loud moan, fingers tugging at Louis’s hair, as he whispered back. “Then knot me, Alpha. Celebrate us properly.”

Louis didn’t hold back. He growled possessively, ready to claim.

Harry arched into him as Louis carried him towards the couch. Their moves were frantic, messy and desperate. Their clothes were torn away.

Their bond burnt around them. Their scents merged. A mixture of lavender sharpened with a tang of want, sweetened by sugar from the baking earlier. The hint of Aleppo pepper complementing the tension built between them.

Louis’ chest rumbled low and dangerously as he nuzzled against Harry’s neck, teeth grazing the mark that bloomed pink with all the heat.

Harry whimpered at the touch, head tipped back, the hint of rosewater intensified with anticipation. The scent was coming and going in waves, making Louis’ knot swell, urging him to lock them together.

“Louis,” Harry gasped, trembling. “Please… I need…”

Louis growled possessively. “I know, baby, I’ve got you.”

He spread his hands wide at Harry’s hip, guiding him open, guiding him closer until he pushed inside his omega’s tight heat.

Louis’ thrusts were greedy and unrelenting, making them both breathless. Louis’s knot was dragging at Harry’s rim with every stroke.

Harry dug his nails deeply into Louis’s back, tears gently falling down his face. His body was overwhelmed with need. “Yours. Yours. Louis…”

The knot finally pushed past the resistance, locking them together with a sharp, helpless whine from Harry. The omega clenched tight, shaking. Their bond was so intense, it felt like Louis’ heart would explode.

He sank his teeth into the mark on Harry’s throat, full of hunger, growling as both came undone.

They collapsed together, still locked, sweaty, and covered in slick. Louis brushed his nose over Harry’s damp curls, murmuring under his breath, trying to reassure Harry. “My omega. My love. Mine.”

His knot throbbed, anchoring them, connecting him to Harry in a way no trophy ever could.

Harry, still a little dazed, turned his head and kissed Louis, his lips trembling. “And you are mine. Always.”

The words sank deep, stronger than any growl, than any knot. Louis held him tighter, every sense soothed by the truth of it.

They stayed like that for what felt like forever. The silence of the flat brought much necessary calm, allowing them to wind down.

Harry smiled a little, his cheek pressed into Louis’ chest, his eyelashes wet with unshed tears. Louis dragged his nose along Harry’s damp curls, inhaling deeply.

Lavender and sugar clung stubbornly to his omega, layered now with the rich tones of Aleppo pepper. It was intoxicating. It felt like home.

Harry was almost asleep. He embraced Louis’ gentle touch, and Louis placed a few kisses on the fresh mark, bringing relief as if he was trying to apologise for the sharpness of his teeth. Each kiss was met with a quiet sigh, Harry melting deeper against him.

“Don’t stop,” Harry murmured. “It feels… safe.”

Louis’ throat tightened. He shifted his hands to rub circles over Harry’s lower back.  He groomed him with his nose and his lips, whispering against his skin. “You are safe with me. Always will be. I’ll never let you go.”

The knot pulsed, still holding them snug. There was no more urgency.

Harry yawned and curled closer, his nose tucked against Louis’s collarbone. “Mine,” he mumbled, drifting peacefully off to sleep.

Louis smiled, kissed the top of his head, and pulled the blankets up around them both. “Yours,” he promised, a vow that felt as natural as his breath.

They fell asleep like that, still bound, their scents intertwined. The nest was warm around them. Outside, the city moved on. Inside the alpha and omega lay claimed, content and utterly undone.

FINAL COOK OFF 

The studio lights didn’t matter. Neither did the judges, the plates, or the trophy gleaming on its pedestal.

Both were clearly nervous, waiting backstage for their names to be called.

All the former contestants filled the gallery. Their chatter echoed like a tide. Nora and Tyrell were whispering at the railing. Monica leaned forward to check the view of the kitchen. Even Lewis clapped a little too hard when Harry and Louis finally walked to their stations.

“Final two,” Allegra announced, her voice warm but commanding. “You’ve battled every challenge we’ve thrown at you. Tonight, it’s all down to your tapas skills. A series of small plates that tell a full story using presentation and flavour. Inventive. Personal. You will cook for our judges and your fellow contestants. Two hours. Your time starts now.”

Louis smirked across the bench, cedarwood and heat clinging to him despite the distance. “Try not to set the place on fire, Styles!”

Harry rolled his eyes, tying his apron. “Don’t worry, Tomlinson. I will leave the fireworks to you!”

“Cheeky little omega,” Louis muttered. He grinned while turning back to his ingredients.

Harry’s tapas menu consisted of lavender and honey-glazed chicken skewers with charred lemon, strawberry and rosewater gazpacho shots, and vanilla bean croquettes with thyme salt – a nostalgic nod, crisp yet comforting

His plates were an expression of sweetness, precision and an undercurrent of heat-taming florals.

Louis was serving Aleppo pepper lamb meatballs with yogurt and mint, cedarwood-smoked aubergine dip, earthy and bold and served with charred flatbread. Peach and chilli tartlets finished his menu, a true balance between fruit and fire in one bite.

His dishes were louder, bolder, a reflection of his rut-sharpened instincts and refusal to play safe.

The room was filled with sizzling oil, citrus zest, and distinct spices. Harry wiped his brow, plating his gazpacho, when Louis leaned just close enough for a jab.

“Nice soup, Haz. Very… safe.”

Harry didn’t skip a beat. “At least mine won’t blow the judges’ heads off.”

“Better than boring them to sleep!” Louis shot back with a smirk on his face.

Two hours flew by in a flash. It was finally judgment time. The tension was clear in the air, but so was the excitement. The judges were eager to reveal the winner of season 28.

Their fellow contestants started the judging off.

 Nora tried Harry’s croquette. “This is Harry in a bite, gentle, sweet, but with that thyme kick. Honestly, it feels like a big hug.”

Tyrell went for Louis’ meatballs, coughing a little at the spice.

“Bloody hell, that’s hot, but addictive. That’s you, Louis. Big, loud, makes you want more even if it hurts.”

Monica tasted Harry’s gazpacho. She lifted her empty shot glass and said, “Harry’s gazpacho is elegant. Full of confidence. It takes courage to serve something so simple and yet hope it will shine. It does.”

All Lewis could do was grin after trying Louis’ tartlet. “This peach-chilli thing? Mad combination. It works. A bit like you two, eh?”

Everyone laughed. Harry flushed. Louis winked just in time for the final comments from the judges.

Niall leaned back with a sparkle in his eyes. “Harry, every plate was balanced, composed and beautifully presented. You know who you are, and it shows.”

Liam nodded. “Louis, your flavours set the room on fire. Some were just on the edge of overpowering, but that risk is what makes you unforgettable.”

Allegra paused, looking at both intently. “This has been one of the closest finals we’ve had. Both menus told your stories, but one spoke with more clarity.”

Harry’s throat tightened. Louis stood steady, with his arms crossed, smirking, but visibly nervous.

“The winner of Masterchef is… Harry Styles!”

The gallery erupted. Nora cheered, and Monica clapped, while Tyrell shouted Harry’s name. Louis, however, was the first one to move. He pulled Harry closer and hugged him tight.

Harry gasped, stunned. “Louis,” he whispered.

Louis lowered his voice so only Harry could hear. “Don’t let it go to your head, love. You might have won here, but I still have you at home.”

Harry laughed, shaking, and pressed his forehead against Louis’. “Always.”

Everyone celebrated. Fellow contestants surprised Harry and Louis with an afternoon tea before they had to attend a press conference. This wasn’t just an ordinary afternoon tea. Every contestant brought a dish they deemed their favourite from Harry or Louis. There was plenty of food and mocktails to enjoy.

They had an hour to go home and get changed before they got picked up to go to the venue for the press conference, which took place in Hampstead Heath.

There were loads of reporters, a long table, and Louis and Harry were seated side by side, in coordinated grey suits.

Three reporters had a chance to ask questions.

Jack from Daily Doncaster Diaries asked, “Can you confirm the rumours that you bonded during the competition?”

The room suddenly hushed, and  Louis’s jaw clenched. Harry leaned into the mic to speak.

“Yes, we bonded,” Harry replied.

“We didn’t plan it. We didn’t fight it either.” Louis grinned.

Ashton from the Wellington Journal was next. “Don’t you think that was unfair to the other contestants?”

“Do you ask bonded singers if their harmonies are unfair?” Harry muttered, getting agitated.

“Or if bonded athletes have more intuition?” Louis leaned in slightly, raising his voice.

“We didn’t sabotage anyone. We just cooked like our lives depended on it. Because some days it felt exactly like that.”

Another moment of silence in the room. Harry and Louis’ tension was clear. Finally, Chloe from Manchester Morning Press broke the silence.

“And now? Are you still… bonded?”

Harry lifted his wrist to show the fading scar. Louis reached out and linked their pinkies, quiet and unmistakable. “Still his. Always will be,” he added.

At this point, the room became very noisy. The chatter around them, blinding lights and far too many cameras. All Harry could do was lean into Louis’s shoulder to try and calm himself down. Together, they grounded each other.

They said their final goodbyes and slipped out the studio side door, past the vans and the crew smoking cigarettes, into Louis’ waiting car.

Harry tried to ask where they were going, but Louis just smirked. The hint of cedarwood filled the space around them. “You’ll see love, just trust me.”

They drove for half an hour, leaving the city behind. They were soon surrounded by a picturesque countryside. Louis pulled up in a quiet spot on the edge of a hill. 

The sky was filled with shades of orange, pink and streaks of indigo. Louis opened the boot, taking the picnic blanket and a very worn-out picnic basket that had been used by Louis’ family for years.

Harry looked stunned, having no clue how Louis planned all this while they were busy preparing for the competition and the press conference. There had seemed to be no time to practise their final dishes, let alone pack for a picnic.

“You really planned all of this?” Harry murmured as Louis spread the blanket and started unpacking.

“I sure did.” Louis laid out small plates, flasks, fruit, bread and a little tub of roasted red pepper humus. “You’ve won bloody Masterchef, Haz. We can’t have all the celebrations surrounded by the flashing lights and hundreds of cameras.”

Harry sat cross-legged, just watching Louis prepare everything.

The scent of the Aleppo pepper drifted in the breeze, grounding him more than any applause ever had. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re mine!” Louis shot back, handing him a glass of chilled rose. He clinked his own glass against it. “To you, winner boy, and to us.”

Harry laughed, unable to hide his flushed cheeks. They ate grapes and cheese, and chocolate-covered strawberries. Louis teased him for spilling honey down his wrist, then bent down, licking it off, surprised when Harry shivered.

Harry watched the molten-coloured sky for a little while, leaning against Louis’ shoulder. The warmth of wine and the hint of cedarwood relaxed him. “Feels like a dream,” he whispered.

Louis looked at him intently. “Nah, it’s just the start.”

Harry closed his eyes, safe, surrounded by the sunset, food and Louis’s presence. Both embraced the quiet surroundings until it started to get dark and it was time to pack things away.

Louis started tucking away the empty plates and half-drunk glasses. Harry tried to help, but Louis only nudged him back down to the blanket with a grin.

“Oi, I’ve got this. You just sit there looking pretty under the stars, yeah?”

Harry rolled his eyes but stayed put, just watching Louis quickly gather everything back together.

Harry stood up and tugged Louis down by his collar, before he could head to the car, kissing him slowly.

“Take me home,” he whispered against his lips.

Louis swallowed hard, his eyes dark in the starlight. “Always,” he replied, content.

They walked back hand in hand, night setting around them, both knowing they won the biggest prize of them all. Each other.

FEW WEEKS LATER 

The weeks after Harry’s win went by quickly. Finally, the press appearances and the promo of his upcoming cookbook were dying down, and he could enjoy the peace and concentrate on building his new life with Louis. 

They bought a house in a leafy corner of London, its interior quickly taking on their scents, sense of humour and, of course, their style. Harry claimed the sunlit kitchen, cluttered with jars of herbs and bowls of fruit. 

Louis found an oasis in the back garden where he planted tomatoes, thyme and a very stubborn rose bush that refused to grow straight. Their evenings often ended with Harry curled up in the library’s armchair, half-asleep, holding a book, while Louis hovered nearby, pretending he was tidying up. He used every opportunity he had to watch Harry.

Their life was far from perfect. They argued over cupboard space, over Harry’s habit of leaving flour everywhere. Even Louis’ favourite thing of nicking biscuits from the tray before they were cooled made it on the argument’s list.

Beneath the bickering, though, there was also a bone-deep certainty. They’d found a home in each other. Sometimes Louis woke up in the middle of the night with Harry tucked into his chest, their bond feeling stronger every day.

For Harry, the new house felt like a breath of fresh air. He felt like he had found his little paradise, a piece of solitude after all the chaos. He’d never imagined domesticity could taste this sweet. From coffee shared half–asleep in the kitchen, to Louis’ shirts drying on the line in the garden, to laughter echoing through the narrow corridors.

It looked ordinary, yes, but it contained a piece of luxury that reflected their relationship. It was filled with safety, belonging and love that’s taking its time. Some nights when Louis was already asleep, Harry would lie awake, tracing the bond mark on his neck, pondering how he could be so lucky in life.

Louis carried the same thought in reverse. Every time he heard Harry singing to himself while kneading dough or rescuing basil that wilted on the windowsill, Louis felt a fierce ache in his chest. This was it. This was the forever he’d dreamed of for so long. 

Which was why, when he booked the cottage stay for the weekend, he knew he wasn’t planning just a trip. He was planning the rest of their life.

The cottage was small and intimate. It smelled faintly of woodsmoke and lavender, with crooked beams overhead, and the garden was filled with late–summer roses. Louis took Harry there, promising a quiet weekend, but Harry should have known better. Louis never did anything halfway.

The table was already set, candles flickering low, a carefully laid out meal on the table. Louis served roasted chicken with thyme, honey, charred courgettes marinated in chilli oil and warm crusty bread. It wasn’t up to restaurant standard, not plated with tweezers, but it reflected them. It was bold, comforting and made with love.

Harry laughed when he saw it. “You cooked all this?”

Louis shrugged. “Don’t get used to it. Burnt my bloody fingers on that bread.”

It felt like time stood still. They talked about everything and nothing. The competition, the absurdity of the press conferences, and how Tyrell had texted demanding they visit his restaurant first. 

Harry fed Louis bits off his fork. He giggled when Louis made exaggerated noises of approval. By dessert, a lavender shortbread tart that melted against the tongue, Harry leaned back, belly full, his scent gone super sweet. He was happy.

Just then, Louis stood, his hands shaking, as he took something from his pocket. He nearly dropped the small blue and green box onto the floor.

“It’s mad,” he said, with a rough voice. “Too soon maybe, but when I look at you, Haz, it doesn’t feel like weeks. It feels like… like I’ve been waiting my whole bloody life to find you. I don’t want to wait any longer.” He snapped the box open, the silver band sparkling in the candlelight. “Marry me?”

Harry’s breath hitched. His scent, full of rosewater, strengthened in the air. He felt lightheaded and overwhelmed. For a little while, Louis thought he’d ruined everything. Suddenly, Harry burst out laughing, tears falling down his face.

“You’re an absolute idiot!” he whispered, getting up from his chair to kiss him. The kiss was slow and steady. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

The kiss deepened. Harry’s scent shifted. It was filled with heat and hunger. Louis answered with a growl that rumbled low in his chest. They stumbled upstairs, kissing all the way there. Harry tugged at Louis’ shirt until they collapsed into the nest Harry had built earlier. It was full of blankets, pillows, and the quilt from the bed. All of it was infused with their scents.

It was just them. No cameras. No competition. No need to rush. Louis kissed every inch of Harry’s skin that he could reach. He grazed his teeth along Harry’s shoulder, leaving scent and claim marks behind. Harry clung to him, breathless. His desire pulled him under as he whispered, “Mine. Always mine.”

It all felt very sensual. The streetlights flickering through the window, the taste of lavender on Harry’s tongue and the scent of rosewater and thyme oil lingering in the room. The scent was so intense it was all Louis could smell. 

Claiming was less frantic than their first time. It was more reverent, as if Louis was memorising Harry with every thrust, every groan, every whispered vow.

Louis pressed his forehead against Harry’s, his voice rough and low so only Harry could hear.

“You’re it for me, baby. Every breath, every heartbeat. It’s you. Doesn’t matter where we are. In the kitchen, this cottage or the middle of a bloody forest. You are my home. My omega. My forever.”

Harry’s reply came as a whisper against Louis’ mouth, carrying the weight of the bond between them.

“I was yours before you even asked. You make me want to stay, to belong, to never run again. Take me, claim me, love me. It’s always been you, Louis. “

The room was filled with the smell of cedarwood, Aleppo pepper clearly overpowering the fragrant rosewater and vanilla. Their vows were engraved not only in the sound in the air itself, but in the way their bodies leaned closer and the grazing of lips and teeth against their skin.

Louis growled into Harry’s ear, broken only by the weight of his love and the bond pulling them together. Harry shivered. He arched his body, pliant, his loud moans made Louis thrust harder and faster.

“My baby. Always mine. Say it back now!” he demanded, nearly breathless. All Harry could do was whine.

He clung on tighter. Every word, every syllable, a plea and a promise.

“Yours. Always yours. Please… Louis. I want you everywhere. Inside me. Around me, forever.”

Their bond pulsed with each vow, like the words themselves were sealing them together. 

“I will knot you so deep, you’ll never forget who you belong to!”

In that moment Harry came undone. Completely. Louis followed soon after. For quite a while neither of them spoke. They were simply caught in the afterglow. Louis caressed Harry’s hair. He kissed the bond mark on Harry’s neck. He was wrecked but content.

“We are forever now. No stage. No judges. Just us,” he murmured.

Harry struggled to stay awake. He cuddled into Louis and whispered, “Always us.”

In the end, it wasn’t the victory, the scents or even the food that lingered the longest, but the quiet knowledge that they had chosen each other and would keep on choosing each other every day.