Archive of Our Own

The back porch was cool and quiet, illuminated only by the faint glow of the neighborhood streetlights and the tiny amber ember at the tip of Louis’s cigarette. He took a slow drag, letting the smoke burn down his throat before exhaling a grey plume into the night air.

He hated smoking around the kids, but tonight was the last night of their three weeks with him. Tomorrow morning, he’d drive them back across town to Harry’s. And every time the house was about to go silent again, the ache in his chest flared up like a fresh bruise.

He closed his eyes for a second, and suddenly he wasn't thirty-six sitting on a wooden step. He was twenty, sprawling on a threadbare carpet in a tiny, chaotic flat that smelled like stale coffee and floral shampoo. Eighteen-year-old Harry was lying across his lap, clutching a positive pregnancy test with hands that wouldn't stop shaking, tears leaking out the corners of his green eyes.

“Boo, what are we gonna do? We’re just kids,” Harry had whispered, voice cracking.

Louis had leaned down, kissing Harry’s forehead, his nose, his trembling lips, wrapping his arms around Harry’s soft, barely-showing bump. “We’re gonna raise this baby. We’re gonna get married, Haz. I’m never going anywhere. I love you so much.”

And Harry had laughed—a wet, breathless, bright sound—burrowing his face into Louis’s neck. “I love you too. So much.”

They had been so endlessly, terrifyingly in love.

A sharp click of the sliding glass door snapped Louis out of the memory. He quickly tapped the cigarette against the brick step, hiding it behind his knuckles as he looked up.

Ivy stood in the doorway, wearing one of Louis’s oversized hoodies, her long curls pulled up into a messy bun. Right behind her was Finn, hands shoved deep into his sweatpants pockets, leaning against the doorframe.

"Papa would hate that, you know," Ivy said softly, stepping out onto the deck.

Louis let out a breathy laugh, flicking the butt into an empty aluminum can beside him. "Papa isn't here, sweetheart."

"Doesn't mean he wouldn't yell at you for ruining your lungs," Finn added, walking over to sit on the railing. "He still talks about it sometimes. Says your kitchen always used to smell like tobacco."

"Your papa talks too much," Louis murmured, though his voice lacked any real bite. He looked up at Ivy as she dropped down onto the step right beside him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and burying her face into his neck.

Louis instantly wrapped his arm around her, kissing the top of her head. "What's this for, then?"

"Just hugging my dad," Ivy muttered against his shoulder. "I'm gonna miss you for the next three weeks."

"I'm gonna miss you guys too. Place is way too quiet without you two tearing it apart." Louis squeezed her gently. "How's your packing going? You both ready for tomorrow?"

"Packed," Finn said, kicking a small pebble off the deck. "Although Ivy took half my hoodies again."

"Did not! They're my hoodies!" Ivy turned her head to glare at her twin before settling back against Louis. She quieted down for a moment, her fingers twisting the drawstring of Louis's hoodie. "Dad?"

"Yeah, Evie?"

"Papa broke up with Julian."

Louis froze for a fraction of a second, his heart giving an involuntary, painful thud. He forced his body to relax before Ivy could feel the tension in his frame. Julian was... what, boyfriend number four in the five years since the divorce? Louis had stopped keeping score, honestly. It always hurts the same.

"Oh," Louis said carefully, keeping his voice strictly neutral. "Did he? I'm sorry to hear that. I know he was... seeing him for a few months."

"Julian was an idiot," Finn chimed in flatly from the railing. "He tried to talk to us about 'boundaries' last week. At Papa's house. I told him he wasn't our father and he almost choked on his green juice."

"Finn," Louis scolded softly, though a tiny smirk tried to tug at his lips. "Be polite."

"I was polite. I didn't tell him what I actually thought of him," Finn grumbled.

"Papa was the one who ended it anyway," Ivy said, pulling back to look at Louis's face. "He told Julian it wasn't working out. Same thing he said about David. And Mark. And that guy with the stupid dog."

Louis looked down at his hands, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. "Your papa's just trying to find his happiness, Ivy. Dating is hard."

"He's not hard to please, Dad," Ivy said, her voice dropping lower, full of genuine frustration. "He's just looking for something he already had."

"Ivy, don't start," Louis warned gently. "We've talked about this."

"No, I'm serious!" Ivy turned fully toward him, her green eyes—so strikingly like Harry's—shining under the porch light. "He was crying in the kitchen after Julian left, Dad. Not because he cared about Julian, but because he was complaining that nobody ever makes tea the right way. He said, 'It's always too sweet or too weak.' You know who makes his tea properly?"

"Ivy, stop," Louis whispered, looking away toward the dark yard.

"You do," Finn said quietly from the railing, taking over for his sister. "You're the only one who knows how he takes it. Two bags, splash of oat milk, no sugar."

Louis swallowed hard, the lump in his throat feeling like lead. "Your papa and I... we didn't work out. You know why."

"Because he blamed you," Finn said, his voice carrying a heavy, mature weight that always unsettled Louis. The twins were sixteen now; they weren't stupid. They remembered the screaming matches right before the split when they were eleven. "He got scared, and he blamed you for everything. For making him have us at eighteen, for ruining his twenties, for locking him down."

"He was young and overwhelmed, Finn," Louis said fiercely, turning to glare at his son. "Don't you talk about your papa like that. He was eighteen. He was a child having children. He gave up his entire youth to raise you two. If he needed someone to blame when the walls started closing in, I was the husband. That was my job. I took it because he needed to let it go."

"And you just let him walk away?" Ivy asked softly, a tear finally slipping down her cheek. "You let him think it was all your fault?"

"I let him be free," Louis corrected gently, reaching up to wipe her tears with his thumb. "Because I love him. I loved him enough to marry him when we were kids, and I loved him enough to sign those papers when staying with me was making him drown. If taking the blame gave him peace, I'd do it a thousand times over."

"It didn't give him peace, Dad," Ivy whispered. "He's still drowning. He just pretends he isn't by changing boyfriends every six months."

Silence settled over the deck, thick and heavy. Finn hopped down from the railing and walked over, sitting on the other side of Louis. The sixteen-year-old rested his head against Louis's shoulder, a rare show of affection from the usually quiet boy.

"He still keeps your old denim jacket in the back of his closet," Finn murmured. "The one with the ripped collar. I saw it when I was looking for my bag yesterday."

Louis closed his eyes, leaning his head against Finn's. "Finn, please."

"I'm just saying," Finn continued quietly. "He doesn't let anyone touch it."

"He hates you smoking, he hates that you don't sleep enough, and he asks us a hundred questions about you every time we come back from your house," Ivy added, her voice muffled against Louis's arm. "He asks if you're eating. He asks if you've met anyone."

"And what do you tell him?" Louis asked softly, unable to stop himself.

"We tell him the truth," Ivy said, looking up. "We tell him you're still alone. That you spend all your time working, or sitting on this porch, waiting for us to come back."

"I'm fine," Louis lied softly. "I've got you two. That's all I need."

"You still love him," Finn stated. It wasn't a question.

Louis didn't answer. He couldn't. Admitting it out loud felt like bleeding out in front of his kids. He had never looked at another person after Harry walked out that door five years ago. His heart had locked up the day the divorce was finalized, and he had thrown away the key.

"Come on," Louis said after a long moment, patting both their knees as he stood up, his joints popping slightly. "It's almost midnight. You two need to sleep. I'm driving you over to Papa's at nine sharp, and you know how he gets if we're late."

Ivy stood up slowly, hugging Louis one last time around the waist. "Goodnight, Dad."

"Night, Evie. Sleep well."

Finn stood up too, clapping a hand on Louis's shoulder before slipping inside. "Night, Dad."

“Night, Finn.”

Louis watched them walk into the house. Through the glass door, he saw Finn slow down, letting Ivy catch up to him in the hallway.

"Did you see his face?" Ivy whispered, thinking Louis couldn't hear through the glass. "When I said Papa dumped Julian?"

"Yeah," Finn whispered back, leaning in close to his sister. "He still looks at the floor the exact same way Papa does when someone mentions Dad."

"He's still completely in love with him, Finn."

"I know," Finn said softly. "And Papa's a mess without him. We just... we need to get them in the same room for more than five minutes tomorrow."

"I have a plan for tomorrow morning," Ivy said, her voice fading as they walked up the stairs. "Just back me up when we get to Papa's."

On the porch, Louis stood alone in the cold night air. He looked down at the empty can, then up at the dark sky, rubbing his face with both hands.

God help me, he thought, pulling his jacket tighter around himself as he walked back inside. Tomorrow morning is going to break my heart all over again.

By ten-thirty in the morning, Louis was pacing the living room floor, his car keys jingling loudly in his clenched fist.

"Ivy! Finn! We were supposed to leave an hour and a half ago!" Louis called up the stairs, voice strained. "Your papa is going to blow a fuse!"

Ivy came slowly sauntering down the steps, holding one shoe and looking entirely unbothered. "Dad, chill out. I couldn't find my red jacket. And then I spilled orange juice on my favorite jeans, so I had to wash them."

"You washed jeans at ten in the morning?!" Louis rubbed his temples, staring at her in disbelief. "Ivy, it's almost eleven. We have a forty-minute drive with traffic."

"Well, Finn's not even ready anyway," Ivy pointed out, tossing her hair over her shoulder and casually heading toward the kitchen. "He's still upstairs fixing his tech project or whatever."

Louis groaned, marching up the stairs to Finn’s room. He knocked once and pushed the door open. Finn was sitting at his desk, staring down at a tangled mess of wires, plastic casing, and a fractured circuit board that looked like it had been run over by a lawnmower.

"Finn, mate, come on. Why isn't your bag in the car?" Louis asked, stopping short at the sight of the desk. "What happened to your physics display?"

Finn didn't look up, his fingers awkwardly prodding a loose solder joint. "Dropped it coming down the stairs. The whole casing snapped, and the power relay disconnected."

"Are you serious? That's due on Tuesday!"

"I know," Finn said, his voice laced with a very forced, flat panic. "I tried to fix it, but I don't have the small soldering kit here. Papa has the precision set at his house."

"Okay, fine," Louis sighed, dragging a hand through his messy hair. "Pack it up carefully into a box. We'll take it to Papa's. I'm sure... well, I don't know if Julian knows how to fix circuit boards, but maybe—"

"Julian's gone, Dad," Finn reminded him, his eyes darting to Louis for a second. "And Papa doesn't know the difference between a wire and a shoelace. He almost burned the kitchen down last year trying to reset the router."

Louis winced, knowing full well that was true. "Right. Well... pack it up. Let's go. Please."

By the time they actually loaded the trunk, navigated Sunday afternoon traffic, and pulled up to the curb of Harry’s cozy, ivy-covered house, the dashboard clock read 12:15 PM.

Louis killed the engine and let out a long, heavy breath. He looked in the rearview mirror at the twins. "Alright. I'm just gonna drop your bags on the porch, say a quick hello to your papa, and leave. Try not to make him mad that we're three hours late, alright?"

"Whatever you say, Dad," Ivy said smoothly, unbuckling her seatbelt.

They walked up the driveway together, Louis carrying Finn’s heavy box of ruined schoolwork along with a duffel bag. Before Louis could even reach for the doorbell, the front door swung wide open.

Harry stood in the doorway, and for a second, Louis’s breath completely hitched in his chest.

Harry was wearing an oversized beige knit sweater—one that Louis vaguely remembered buying him years ago—and loose faded jeans. His long, brown curls were pinned back carelessly, and his green eyes were flashing with obvious annoyance. He looked gorgeous, exhausted, and intensely familiar.

"Twelve fifteen, Louis?" Harry snapped immediately, crossing his arms over his chest. "You said nine sharp! I've been waiting here since eight thirty!"

"I know, Haz, I'm sorry—" Louis started, raising a placating hand.

"Don't 'Haz' me," Harry grumbled, though the bite in his voice softened just a tiny fraction at the old nickname. "I had a whole schedule today. And now it's lunch time."

"It was my fault, Papa," Ivy piped up immediately, stepping into the foyer and wrapping her arms around Harry's waist. "I spilled juice. I'm sorry."

Harry's expression melted instantly, his arms automatically wrapping around his daughter, pressing a long kiss to her temple. "It's fine, sweetheart. Just... your dad could have called."

"My phone was dead, alright?" Louis lied quickly, shifting the heavy box in his arms. "Look, I'll just put these bags down and get out of your hair—"

"Wait, Dad, no!" Finn interrupted, taking the heavy box from Louis and setting it right on the hallway console table. "Papa, look at my physics project. It completely broke."

Harry peered into the box, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "Oh. Honey... what is all that? Is that red wire supposed to be sticking out like that?"

"No," Finn said grimly. "The main relay snapped. It needs a micro-soldering iron and a steady hand, or I'm failing the term."

Harry looked up at Finn, then looked at the mess of electronics, looking thoroughly out of his depth. "Well... can't you fix it?"

"I don't know how to trace the circuit, Papa," Finn said, putting on his best defeated teenage sigh. "Julian was supposed to be good at hands-on stuff, but he's not here anymore, so..."

Harry flinched slightly at the mention of Julian, his jaw tightening. "Julian wouldn't have known how to fix this anyway. He couldn't even assemble a bookshelf."

"Dad knows how," Ivy offered casually, slipping off her shoes. "Dad built my whole desk from scratch last month. And he fixed the lamp at his place."

Harry turned his green eyes back onto Louis. There was a tense, uncomfortable silence in the hallway. Louis shifted on his feet, feeling suddenly under a spotlight.

"I can... I mean, if you have your precision kit, Haz, I could take a quick look at it," Louis offered quietly, scratching the back of his neck. "Just ten minutes. So he doesn't fail."

Harry swallowed, staring at Louis for a long moment. He clearly didn't want Louis hanging around his house—it was always awkward, always charged with history they tried to ignore. But looking at Finn’s hopeful face, Harry let out a long, dramatic sigh.

"The toolbox is in the pantry," Harry muttered, stepping aside to let Louis fully enter the house. "Where it always is."

"Thanks," Louis said softly, walking past him. As he passed, he caught the faint, undeniable scent of Harry's perfume—vanilla and dried jasmine—and it hit him like a physical blow.

Louis carried the box into the kitchen, setting it on the island. The kitchen smelled incredible—roast chicken, garlic, and fresh herbs filling the space. On the dining table, four placemats were set.

Louis paused, noticing the four settings. "Expecting company?"

Harry walked in behind him, looking slightly flustered as he quickly grabbed one of the plates and tried to move it toward the sink. "No. I just... I made lunch for the kids. I habit-set four plates. Force of habit."

"Papa made way too much food," Ivy called out from the living room, sticking her head around the corner. "Dad, you haven't eaten lunch, right? You should stay and eat."

"No, Ivy, your dad has to go—" Harry started quickly, his face flushing faintly pink.

"Actually, I'm starving," Finn said, walking into the kitchen and pulling out a stool at the island. "And Dad needs to test the circuit board after he solders it, which takes at least half an hour to cool anyway."

Louis looked between the twins, then at Harry, who looked like he was trapped in a corner.

"Look, Harry, I don't want to intrude," Louis said gently, looking right into those green eyes. "If you want me to just fix this in the garage and leave, I can."

Harry looked at Louis—really looked at him. He noticed the slight dark circles under Louis's eyes, the way his hair was pushed back, the faint smell of tobacco clinging to his jacket. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Don't be stupid, Louis," Harry murmured, his voice dropping low, losing its defensive edge. "You're fixing our son's homework. The food's already cooked. Just... sit down and eat. It's fine."

"Are you sure?" Louis asked, searching his face. "I know... I know things have been stressful for you lately."

Harry's eyes flicked up, sharp and questioning. "Stressful? Who said I'm stressed?"

"Nobody," Louis said quickly.

Harry glanced at Ivy, who was innocently picking at a bowl of grapes on the counter, then back at Louis. He let out a soft, dry laugh. "Right. The kids talk too much."

Harry walked over to the stove, grabbing a dish towel and pulling the hot roasting pan out of the oven. "Just grab the toolbox, Lou. Lunch will be on the table in five minutes."

Louis stood there for a second, hearing Harry call him 'Lou' so naturally, just like he used to when they were twenty and living in that cramped little flat, trying to figure out how to be parents before they even knew who they were.

"Okay," Louis said softly. "I'll go get the tools."

As Louis walked toward the pantry, he didn't catch the way Harry stopped near the stove, watching his back with a quiet, lingering sadness in his eyes, clutching the dish towel tightly in his hands.

Harry laid out the silver forks and cloth napkins on the wooden dining table, his hands moving automatically through a routine he’d done thousands of times. Out in the hallway, he could hear Ivy and Finn whispering furiously in overlapping hushed tones, the soft rustle of their socks against the hardwood floor as they schemed about something.

He ignored them, stepping away from the table and heading toward the small guest bedroom at the end of the hall, which he used as an office. That’s where Louis had taken the broken circuit board and the tackle box full of tools.

Harry stopped just inside the doorway, leaning his shoulder quietly against the frame.

Louis was leaning over the desk under the warm yellow desk lamp, a tiny soldering iron held steadily in his hand. A thin coil of grey smoke rose into the air, carrying that familiar metallic scent. He was hyper-focused, his thin lips pressed tightly together, a faint crease forming right between his eyebrows. He had the sleeves of his dark grey jumper pushed up to his elbows, revealing the faded ink on his forearms.

Harry’s heart did a slow, painful flip in his chest.

God, he missed him. He missed him so much it felt like an ache buried deep in his bones, a constant, dull throb that never really went away. He hated how much he still loved Louis. He hated that five years of distance, four terrible boyfriends, and an agonizing divorce hadn’t erased a single thread of what they had built.

Looking at Louis now, Harry’s mind slipped back years ago—to a rainy Tuesday night in their tiny first apartment. They were twenty-one, broke, exhausted, and sitting on the floor with two crying two-year-olds. Harry had broken down in tears, overwhelmed by the endless mountain of diapers, bottles, and laundry. And Louis had just crawled over, pulled Harry into his lap, rubbed his back, and whispered over and over, “I’ve got you, Haz. I’ve got all of you. We’re a team, remember?”

They had been so endlessly, deeply in love. And Harry had let his own panic, his own feeling of being trapped at nineteen, poison it until he broke both their hearts.

Harry swallowed hard, trying to blinked away the heat in his eyes, but he couldn't take his gaze off Louis.

Louis tapped the iron twice, set it carefully in its metal stand, and let out a small breath. When he turned around to grab a piece of electrical tape, he caught sight of Harry standing in the doorway, staring at him.

Harry froze, caught red-handed.

Louis’s blue eyes softened instantly, taking in the way Harry was leaning against the doorframe, looking small despite his height, his green eyes shimmering with unsaid words.

"Haz?" Louis asked softly, setting the tape down. "You alright?"

Harry snapped out of his daze, crossing his arms over his chest and adjusting his posture, slipping his cold, defensive wall back into place. "I'm fine. Just... lunch is getting cold. I came to tell you to hurry up."

Louis didn't buy it for a second. He stood up from the desk, walking slowly over to where Harry was standing. "You were spacing out there, love. You looked miles away."

"I wasn't spacing out," Harry muttered, looking down at the wooden floorboards, refusing to meet Louis's eyes. "I was just checking if you were gonna take all day."

"Right. Of course," Louis murmured softly.

He stopped right in front of Harry. Without thinking—guided purely by a decade of muscle memory—Louis raised his hand. His thumb gently brushed against Harry’s cheekbone, his fingers reaching up to softly tuck a stray brown curl behind Harry’s ear.

"Hair's shorter now," Louis whispered, his touch feather-light against Harry's soft skin. "Still try to tuck it like it's long, though."

Harry’s breath hitched loudly. His body went completely still, his cheeks flushing a sudden, bright pink. He wanted to pull away. He wanted to be cold, to act like Louis’s touch didn't affect him, to protect the fragile wall he had built between them.

Instead, Harry’s eyes fluttered closed for a brief, helpless second. He let out a trembling exhale and leaned his face right into Louis’s hand, resting his weight against Louis's warm palm.

"Lou..." Harry whispered, his voice cracking slightly on the single syllable. It sounded like a plea, though neither of them knew for what.

Louis’s thumb rubbed a soothing circle over Harry’s cheek, his own throat tight with emotion. "I know, Haz. I know."

Harry forced his eyes open, suddenly terrified by how weak he was being. He pulled back, taking a small step backward out of Louis's reach, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Lunch," Harry said, his voice clipped and strained as he tried to regain his footing. "It's on the table. Come eat before the kids eat everything."

Louis looked at his empty hand for a fraction of a second before dropping it to his side. He gave Harry a gentle, small smile. "Let’s go, then."

When they sat down at the dining table, the air was thick with history.

Ivy and Finn sat on one side, while Louis and Harry took the ends of the table. Harry started passing around the roasted chicken and potatoes, making sure the kids got their plates filled first.

"Here, Finn, eat your vegetables," Harry said, setting a big scoop of roasted carrots on Finn's plate.

"Papa, I'm sixteen, I can scoop my own carrots," Finn grumbled, though he immediately started eating anyway.

"You won't scoop them if I don't give them to you," Harry replied, clicking his tongue.

Louis sat back, watching Harry move around the table. He couldn't stop looking at him—the way his sweater slid off one shoulder, the way his fingers fussed over the cutlery, the tiny line between his brows when he was concentrating on carving the chicken.

"Louis, pass the gravy, please," Harry said, holding his hand out without looking up from his plate.

Louis reached for the small boat of gravy and handed it over. As Harry took it, Louis instinctively reached across with his other hand and poured a small glass of ice water, sliding it directly in front of Harry.

"You haven't drunk any water today, have you?" Louis asked softly, his eyes searching Harry's face. "Your lips are dry. You always forget to drink water when you're cooking."

Harry stopped, his fingers tightening around the handle of the gravy boat. He looked at the glass of water, then up at Louis, a mixture of shock and quiet pain in his green eyes.

"I... I had juice earlier," Harry mumbled, looking down at his plate.

"Juice isn't water, Haz," Louis said gently, a tiny, fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Across the table, Ivy and Finn exchanged a quick, knowing look. Ivy took a slow sip of her drink, leaning over to elbow Finn in the ribs under the table. Finn kicked her back gently, shaking his head as if to say keep quiet.

"So," Ivy chimed in, leaning her elbows on the table. "Papa, Dad was telling us about his new neighbor yesterday. The one with the loud lawnmower."

Louis looked over at Ivy, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Ivy, no he wasn't—"

"Oh yeah!" Finn picked up seamlessly. "The guy who asked if Dad needed help decorating his living room. Dad told him no, obviously. Dad doesn't let anyone in the house."

Harry's gaze flicked sharply toward Louis, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. "Oh? A new neighbor?"

"Just a bloke from down the street, Harry," Louis said quickly, waving a hand dismissively. "He brought over a welcome pie when he moved in two months ago. That's all."

"A pie?" Harry repeated, his voice dropping an octave, a defensive, prickling tone lacing his words. "What kind of pie?"

"Apple," Louis said, looking straight into Harry's eyes. "I didn't eat it. I don't like sweet pies, you know that."

Harry swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "Right. Well. Nice of him, I suppose."

"He's single," Ivy added casually, taking a huge bite of potato. "And he drives a motorcycle."

"Ivy, eat your food and stop talking nonsense," Louis warned, though his tone was fond. He turned back to Harry, noticed a small speck of gravy on the edge of Harry's thumb, and automatically pulled a napkin from his pocket, reaching across the table to hand it to him. "Here."

Harry took the napkin, his fingers brushing Louis's warm skin again. "Thanks," he muttered quietly.

"How's the chicken?" Harry asked after a moment of heavy silence, looking down at his own untouched plate. "Is it... is it okay? It's not too dry?"

"It's perfect, Haz," Louis said softly, taking a deliberate bite and looking right at him. "It's always perfect. Nobody cooks like you."

Harry’s cheeks flushed pink again, his breath catching in his throat. He looked up, meeting Louis's gaze, seeing the steady, unconditional love glowing in those bright blue eyes—the same love that had been there when they were eighteen, when they were twenty-two, and even when they signed those terrible papers at twenty-nine.

Harry looked away first, unable to handle the intensity of it, but he didn't pull his hand away from the edge of the table where it rested just inches from Louis's.

The sound of running water filled the warm kitchen as Louis stood at the sink, rinsing the last of the roast chicken grease off the baking pan. Harry was standing a few feet away, quietly wiping down the marble countertops with a damp cloth, his movements slow and methodical.

Every now and then, Harry’s eyes would drift over to Louis’s back—to the familiar way his shoulders moved, the way he rolled his sleeves up past his elbows to keep them dry. A quiet, heavy sense of comfort settled over the room, the kind Harry hadn't felt in this house for five years. He was glad Louis was there. He hated how much he liked having him in his space again.

Louis turned off the tap, dried his hands on a kitchen towel, and set it down neatly on the counter. He turned to face Harry, resting his lower back against the sink.

"All clean, Haz," Louis said softly, his voice gentle. "I should probably head off now. Let you three settle in."

"Oh," Harry murmured, his hand pausing on the counter. He quickly looked down at the dishcloth in his hands, flexing his fingers. "Right. Yeah."

Before Louis could step away, Ivy strolled into the kitchen, holding two empty glasses. She looked between the two of them, her eyebrows knitting together. "Where are you going, Dad?"

"Home, sweetie," Louis said, offering her a faint, reassuring smile. "It's getting late, and your papa's probably exhausted."

"It's only three in the afternoon, Dad," Finn said, walking in right behind his sister and leaning against the fridge. "Stay for coffee. Or a movie. You don't have to rush off."

"Finn, your dad has things to do," Harry interjected quickly. His heart slammed against his ribs. He wanted Louis to stay—god, he wanted him to sit on the sofa, drink tea, and just talk like they used to. But the fear of opening that door, of getting hurt or making things unbearable, made him push back. "He has a life across town."

"I don't have anything going on, actually," Louis said softly, his blue eyes dropping to the floor for a second before meeting Harry's. He saw the guarded, distant look in Harry's green eyes and swallowed the lump in his throat. He assumed Harry just wanted him gone, that having his ex-husband in his house for more than an hour was suffocating. "But... it's fine. I really should get going. I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable."

"You're not making anyone uncomfortable, Dad," Ivy pleaded, taking a step toward him. "Papa, tell him to stay."

Harry felt Louis's gaze on him, heavy and full of a quiet, lingering sadness. Harry closed his mouth, his chest tight. He desperately wanted to say please stay, but the defensive wall he'd built for five years held firm.

"If Louis wants to go, Ivy, we can't force him," Harry said, his tone flat, forced, and entirely devoid of the warmth he actually felt inside. "He made it clear he was just dropping you guys off and fixing the circuit board."

Louis blinked, a soft, wounded shadow crossing his features before he masked it with a polite nod. "Yeah. Exactly. I'll... I'll see you kids in three weeks. Call me if you need anything, alright?"

"Dad, this is stupid," Finn grumbled, crossing his arms and staring at the floor.

"It's fine, Finn," Louis murmured, reaching out to pat Finn's shoulder as he walked past. He stopped beside Ivy, kissing the top of her head. "Be good for your papa."

Louis walked down the hallway toward the front door. Harry stayed by the kitchen island, his hands gripping the edge of the wood so tightly his knuckles turned white. He listened to the sound of Louis grabbing his jacket, the faint jingle of his keys, and the heavy click of the front door closing.

A moment later, the low rumble of Louis's car engine started up in the driveway, fading as he drove away.

Ivy turned on her heel, staring at Harry with absolute disbelief. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what, Ivy?" Harry asked, his voice strained as he started violently scrubbing a spot on the counter that was already clean.

"You basically kicked him out," Finn said, his voice quiet but sharp with frustration. "He wanted to stay. You could tell."

"He didn't want to stay, Finn," Harry snapped, slamming the cloth down on the island. He looked at his twins, his green eyes bright with unshed tears. "He was being polite because you two were cornering him. He has his own apartment, his own routine. He doesn't want to hang around his ex-husband all Sunday."

"Papa, are you completely blind?" Ivy said, stepping closer, her voice softer now, laced with pity. "He was looking at you the entire time he was washing those dishes. He looked like he was gonna cry when you told him to leave."

"I didn't tell him to leave," Harry whispered, his voice cracking. He rubbed his face with both hands, pressing his palms against his eyes. "I just... I didn't want to make him feel trapped here."

"He wasn't trapped," Finn said quietly from the doorway. "He loves you, Papa. He's never stopped. Why do you keep pretending he hates being around you?"

"Because it's easier," Harry choked out, dropping his hands to look at his kids. "It's easier than remembering how much I ruined everything. It's easier than sitting on that couch with him, knowing I can't touch him, knowing I blamed him for things that weren't his fault when we were young. I can't do it, okay? I just... I can't."

Ivy walked over, wrapping her arms around Harry's waist and pressing her face into his chest. Harry immediately collapsed into the embrace, burying his face in her curls, letting out a shaky breath. Finn walked up behind them, placing a steady hand on Harry's back.

"You didn't ruin everything, Papa," Ivy whispered into his sweater. "You were just young. Both of you were."

"I miss him, Evie," Harry breathed out, so softly it was almost swallowed by the quiet room. "I miss him every single day."

🍄

The afternoon sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon when Louis stood in his kitchen, looking frantically down at his reflection in the oven door. He was wearing a soft navy jumper and dark jeans, repeatedly flattening his fringe with his palm.

"I still don't get why he's coming, Evie," Louis murmured, adjusting the collar of his shirt for the fourth time. "He hates coming all the way over to this side of town."

Ivy, sitting at the kitchen island and painting her nails a delicate shade of pink, didn't even look up. "Dad, I told you three times already. When I mentioned we were doing a quiet birthday dinner for you, Papa literally begged us to let him bring a cake. He was practically bouncing off the walls."

Louis paused, his fingers hovering near his collar. A faint, hopeful warmth blossomed in his chest, though he quickly tried to crush it. "He begged? Harry? The man who barely said three words to me two weeks ago?"

"He felt bad about last time, okay?" Ivy said smoothly, blowing on her nails. "Just take the win, Dad."

Across town, Harry was currently leaning against his own kitchen counter, staring in absolute terror at a double-layer sticky toffee pudding cake sitting on a wire rack. His flour-dusted hands were slightly shaking as he carefully draped a layer of warm caramel over the top. It was the exact recipe he used to make for Louis when they were twenty and dead broke—the one Louis used to claim could fix any bad day. He hadn't baked it in seven years.

"He really asked for this?" Harry asked for the fifth time, looking over at Finn, who was casually leaning against the doorframe, scrolling on his phone. "Louis specifically said he wanted my cake? He didn't just say... 'tell your papa he can drop off a card'?"

"Papa, I promise you," Finn said, his voice terrifyingly steady and convincing. "Dad looked me dead in the eye and said, 'Do you think your papa would ever make that sticky toffee cake again? For my birthday?' He sounded so sad, Papa. What was I supposed to do?"

Harry bit his lip, a soft, helpless expression washing over his face. He smoothed down his dark green velvet shirt, running a hand through his carefully styled curls. "Okay. Okay, fine. Is the velvet too much? Should I change into a jumper? I don't want him to think I'm trying too hard."

"You look great, Papa," Finn said, stepping forward to carefully lift the cake carrier. "Now let's go before the caramel sets hard."

At seven o'clock sharp, the doorbell to Louis's apartment rang.

Louis wiped his hands nervously on a tea towel, stepped into the hallway, and opened the door.

Harry stood on the landing. He was wearing the dark green velvet shirt, black trousers, and a subtle trace of vanilla perfume that immediately filled the hallway. In his hands, he held a clear glass cake dome revealing a rich, glossy sticky toffee cake topped with fresh pecans.

Louis froze. Harry froze.

They stared at each other for three long seconds in complete, heavy silence.

"Hi," Harry said softly, his cheeks instantly flushing a deep, rosy pink.

"Hi," Louis replied, his eyes dropping to the cake, then darting back up to Harry's face. "You... you actually brought the cake."

"Well, yeah," Harry said, his brow furrowing in confusion as he shifted the heavy glass dish in his hands. "Finn said you explicitly asked if I'd make it. He said you were really hoping I'd bring it."

Louis blinked, his mind stalling. "Finn told you... wait. Ivy told me that you begged to come over and begged to make the cake."

Harry's jaw dropped slightly. His green eyes widened as the realization hit him like a bucket of cold water. "What?"

"Ivy said you were bouncing off the walls wanting to come to my birthday," Louis said, a faint, disbelieving laugh escaping his throat.

Harry looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole right then and there. "I—I wasn't! I mean, I wanted to come, but I didn't beg! Finn said you were practically crying asking for sticky toffee!"

"I haven't mentioned sticky toffee since 2019, Haz," Louis said, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, a small, amused smirk slowly tugging at the corner of his lips despite his own embarrassment.

"Those little monsters," Harry whispered, his face burning bright red. He looked down at the heavy cake in his hands, then turned toward the stairs. "I'm so embarrassed. I'm going to take this back to the car and go home—"

"Hey, no," Louis said quickly, stepping forward and gently catching Harry by the forearm. His fingers gripped the soft velvet of Harry's sleeve. "Don't go. Please."

Harry stopped, looking back at Louis. "Lou, they set us up. It's completely absurd."

"It is," Louis agreed softly, his thumb resting against Harry's arm. "It's entirely absurd. But... you baked the cake. The house smells like roasted chicken already. And if you walk out now, those two win."

Harry looked into Louis's blue eyes, seeing the quiet, genuine warmth lingering there. The mortification slowly melted into a soft, breathy laugh. "They're sixteen, Lou. They're already winning."

"Fair point," Louis chuckled, stepping back to open the door wider. "Come inside, Haz. Before the cake gets cold."

Harry stepped into the apartment, setting the heavy cake carrier onto the dining table. He looked around the cozy living room—the familiar throw blankets, the framed photos of the twins on the mantelpiece, the soft lighting. It was completely Louis.

Out in the hallway, the sound of low giggling echoed, followed by the soft sound of running footsteps heading toward the kitchen.

Louis closed the front door and walked into the dining space, calling out, "Ivy! Finn! Get out here right now."

The twins emerged from the kitchen, both trying and failing to look innocent. Ivy was holding a bag of salad, while Finn was casually holding a bottle of sparkling water.

"Happy birthday, Dad," Finn said smoothly, not a shred of guilt on his face.

"You two are absolute nightmare human beings," Harry said, leaning his hands on the back of a dining chair, trying to look stern, though his dimples were betraying him. "Lying to your father? Lying to me?"

"We didn't lie," Ivy said, setting the salad down. "We just... embellished the truth to overcome a chronic lack of communication between two consenting adults."

Louis let out a snort, covering his mouth with his hand to hide his laugh. "Ivy, go sit down before I ground you until you're thirty."

"You can't ground us, it's your birthday," Finn pointed out, pulling out a chair for his sister. "Besides, look at the table. We have chicken, we have Papa's famous cake, and nobody is crying yet. I call this a success."

Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose, letting out a soft sigh, but when he looked over at Louis, Louis was looking back at him with a soft, shaking head and a clear twinkle in his eyes.

"Sit down, Haz," Louis murmured, pulling out the chair right beside his own. "Let's just eat before they orchestrate a fake fire to make us hug."

"Don't give us ideas, Dad," Ivy warned with a grin.

Harry took his seat next to Louis, the hem of his dark green velvet sleeve brushing against Louis's arm as he sat. For the first time in five years, sitting at a birthday table together didn't feel like walking through a minefield. It just felt like home, ridiculous setup and all.

"So, Papa," Finn said, leaning forward on his elbows and pointing his fork at Harry. "Since you baked the sticky toffee cake, does that mean Dad has to do all the dishes tonight, or are we assigning that to Ivy?"

"Hey, why am I the default option?" Ivy protested, immediately glaring at her brother. "Setting the table counts as my contribution."

"You put down four plates and four forks, Evie, let's not pretend you built a house," Louis chimed in smoothly from the head of the table, a fond smirk playing on his lips. "And for the record, it's my birthday, so I'm pretty sure I get a pass on scrubbing pots."

Harry couldn't help the quiet laugh that escaped him. He took a small sip of his water, his shoulders dropping a few inches as the familiar, chaotic warmth of their old family dynamic washed over him. "Your dad's right, Finn. Birthday boy doesn't do dishes. Which means it falls entirely on you two."

"Traitor," Ivy grumbled, though her green eyes were dancing with satisfaction as she looked at her parents sitting side by side, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they ate.

Halfway through the meal, Harry pushed his chair back slightly. "I just need to wash my hands," he murmured, looking over at Louis. "Is the powder room down the hall still...?"

"Oh, the sink in the hallway half-bath is acting up again," Louis said, standing up instantly. "I'll show you to the main one off the master. It's just through here."

"Lou, I know where your bedroom is," Harry said softly, a tiny flush hitting his cheeks.

"Right. Yeah, of course you do," Louis murmured, rubbing the back of his neck and sitting back down. "Go ahead, Haz."

Harry walked down the quiet carpeted hallway. He stepped into the bathroom, washed his hands at the sink, and patted them dry with a dark grey towel. But as he turned to leave, his eyes drifted across the hallway toward Louis’s open bedroom door.

He knew he shouldn't. It was an invasion of privacy; they were divorced, they had boundaries. But a quiet, magnetic pull in his chest drew him across the threshold.

The bedroom was neat, smelling faintly of Louis's cedarwood cologne and fresh laundry. Harry stepped inside softly, his socks making no sound on the floorboards. On the wooden nightstand right next to Louis's bed, two framed photos sat illuminated by the soft light of a small lamp.

Harry walked closer, his throat instantly tightening.

One was a blurry, black-and-white picture of the two of them at eighteen, sitting on a park bench in the rain, laughing so hard their eyes were squeezed shut. The other was an ultra-sound print, faded at the edges—the very first scan of Ivy and Finn from sixteen years ago.

Harry swallowed hard, a prickle of heat hitting his eyes. He moved toward the large wooden wardrobe in the corner, his fingers trembling as he pulled the closet door open just a few inches.

He didn't know what he expected to find, but what he saw made his breath catch completely in his chest.

Tucked neatly into the side shelves was a small, dusty plastic bin. Inside sat a collection of faded, chipped nail polishes—shades of pastel pink, mint green, and dark purple that Harry used to paint his nails with when he was nineteen. Next to them were ancient, expired makeup tubes, a couple of beaded bracelets Harry had made and thought he'd lost years ago, and an old, oversized knitted sweater Harry had explicitly told Louis to throw out during their big move before the divorce.

Louis hadn't thrown a single thing away. Not one piece.

A tear slipped over Harry's eyelashes, tracking silently down his cheek. He reached out, his long fingers gently touching the dust-covered lid of the nail polish bin.

"I kept telling myself I'd clear out that closet," Louis’s soft, low voice sounded from the doorway.

Harry didn't jump. He didn't turn around, nor did he try to wipe away his tears. He just stood there, staring down at his old nineteen-year-old nail polishes, his chest hitching with a quiet, unsteady breath. He had known the moment Louis stepped onto the carpet behind him.

"You told me you threw all this out," Harry whispered, his voice thick and broken with tears. "When we were packing up the old house... when everything was falling apart. I asked you to throw it away."

Louis walked into the room slowly, stopping right behind Harry. He could see the track of tears on Harry's cheek in the dim light.

"I couldn't," Louis said gently. His voice was steady, full of a quiet, unshakeable truth. "I tried, Haz. I picked up the box, walked it to the bin three separate times, and I just... I couldn't throw away pieces of you."

Harry let out a wet, shaky laugh, closing his eyes as more tears spilled over. "Lou... why?"

Instead of answering right away, Louis closed the small distance between them. He reached out, stepping up right behind Harry until the front of his chest pressed softly against Harry's back. Slowly, deliberately, Louis wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist, pulling him back against his frame.

Harry gasped softly at the contact, his hands instinctively coming up to cover Louis's forearms.

Louis didn't pull away. He slid one of his hands beneath the hem of Harry's dark green velvet shirt, his warm, rough palm sliding against the soft skin of Harry's lower stomach. His thumb gently traced the light, silver stretch marks carved into Harry's hips—the silent marks left behind from carrying their twins when Harry was just eighteen years old.

"Louis..." Harry breathed, his head falling back slightly against Louis's shoulder, overwhelmed by the warmth of Louis's hand against his skin.

"You asked why," Louis murmured right against Harry's ear, his tone so soft it was barely a breath. "Because I love you, Harry. I loved you when we were eighteen and terrified in that tiny flat. I loved you when we got married at twenty. And I loved you five years ago when I signed those papers because you needed to breathe."

"We're divorced, Louis," Harry cried quietly, his fingers clutching tightly at Louis's arms. "We've been fucking divorced for five years. Why are you still holding onto my trash? Why are you still holding onto me?"

"Because it was never trash to me," Louis whispered, his palm pressing flat against Harry's stomach, holding him secure and grounded. "And because I never stopped being your husband in here, no matter what a piece of paper says. I took the blame back then because you were drowning, Haz. But I never fell out of love with you. Not for a single second."

Harry let out a ragged sob, turning his head slightly, tilting it back against Louis's shoulder in a silent, desperate invitation.

Louis understood. He leaned down, pressing his lips softly to the warm skin of Harry's neck, just beneath his jawline. It wasn't a passionate, breathless kiss; it was slow, tender, and deeply respectful. He held the boundary firmly—a gentle, comforting touch meant to soothe the pain, not to rush past the five years of hurt between them.

Harry shuddered against him, a soft sigh escaping his lips as Louis's mouth brushed his skin.

"I've been so stupid, Lou," Harry whimpered, squeezing Louis's hand where it rested over his stomach. "I was so scared back then... and I blamed you for everything."

"Shh," Louis murmured, kissing his neck one last time before resting his chin lightly on Harry's shoulder, keeping his hand tucked safely beneath Harry's shirt. "We were kids raising kids, Haz. We made mistakes. But I'm right here. I've always been right here."

Louis tightened his hold just a fraction, resting his forehead against the side of Harry’s neck, burying his face into the soft curls near his ear. He took a long, deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla, jasmine, and warm skin.

"God, I missed this," Louis whispered, his voice thick with a raw, aching honesty. "I missed you so much, Haz."

Harry didn't move. He stood anchored in Louis's arms, his hand resting over Louis's warm palm where it remained tucked against his stomach.

"You have no idea," Louis continued softly, his thumb gently tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over Harry’s hip. "When you got pregnant at eighteen... I was terrified. We were both just kids. But carrying those twins, watching you grow, building a life with you... it was the absolute best thing that ever happened to me. Even when you grew to hate me. Even when we were screaming at each other at midnight."

Harry’s breath hitched, a fresh wave of tears spilling over his lashes.

"I remember working sixteen-hour days back then," Louis murmured, his lips brushing against Harry's skin as he spoke. "Working two dead-end jobs, coming home with sore feet and greasy hands, just so I could make sure you had fresh fruit, that you were taking your vitamins, that we could pay the rent on that miserable little flat. I wanted to give you a stable life so badly. I wanted to prove to you that you made the right choice keeping them. That marrying me wasn't a mistake."

"Lou..." Harry choked out, his fingers digging into Louis’s forearms.

"I did it because I loved you," Louis said softly, his voice trembling slightly. "I would have worked myself into the ground a thousand times over just to hear you laugh in that kitchen. I loved you then, Harry. I love you now."

For a long, beautiful moment, the air between them felt lighter, suspended in five years of quiet longing finally brought to the surface. Harry leaned further back into Louis's frame, letting the warmth soak into his skin.

And then, like a sudden drop in temperature, the reality of everything hit Harry all at once.

The memories of the exhaustion, the suffocating guilt of feeling like a burden at eighteen, the years of feeling like he’d lost his entire youth, and the absolute mess he’d made of their marriage rushed back into his mind. The terrifying vulnerability of standing in Louis's bedroom, letting Louis hold him, touched a nerve deep inside him that screamed danger. He couldn't do this. He wasn't allowed to just fall back into Louis's arms after everything he’d destroyed.

Harry’s entire body went rigid.

"No," Harry whispered, the softness in his voice instantly freezing over.

Before Louis could process the change in atmosphere, Harry placed his hands against Louis’s chest and shoved him backward with surprising force.

Louis stumbled back a step, his arms falling empty, his hands twitching at his sides as he stared at Harry in utter shock. "Haz?"

Harry pulled his shirt down frantically, stepping away toward the open bedroom door. His eyes were wide, defensive, and cold—a stark, painful contrast to the tear-stained face from a few seconds ago.

"Don't do that, Louis," Harry said, his voice flat and distant, though his hands were shaking violently as he smoothed down his dark green velvet shirt. "Don't talk about back then like it was some romantic movie. You worked double shifts because we were broke and stupid."

Louis felt like he’d been slapped across the face. The warmth in his chest turned to ice, but his eyes remained soft, desperate. "Harry, what are you doing? We were just—"

"We were nothing," Harry snapped, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, putting up the familiar wall that had kept Louis at arm's length for five years. "I'm thirty-four years old, Louis. I'm not that eighteen-year-old boy you had to take care of anymore. You don't get to touch me like that. You don't get to make me feel... like this."

"I wasn't trying to make you feel bad," Louis said quietly, taking a small, cautious step forward. "I was just telling you the truth. I never stopped loving you."

"Well, you should have," Harry whispered, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, painful bitterness. "Because we're divorced. You signed the papers. I walked away. You holding onto my old trash in your closet and talking about my stretch marks doesn't change the fact that we broke each other."

Louis swallowed hard, the sharp words cutting straight through him, but he didn't raise his voice. He just stood there, looking at Harry with an unbearable amount of quiet sorrow. "Is that really what you think this is? Me trying to trap you again?"

"It's late," Harry said coldly, avoiding Louis's eyes entirely as he stepped out into the hallway. "It's past eight. The kids have school tomorrow."

"Harry, please, don't walk away like this," Louis begged softly, following him out into the hall. "We were having a good night. We were actually talking."

"We ate dinner. You had your birthday," Harry said, his tone clipped as he walked straight toward the living room where the twins were sitting on the couch, watching TV with the sound turned down low. "Finn, Ivy. Get your coats. We're leaving."

Ivy immediately sat up, her eyes darting from Harry's pale, rigid face to Louis, who was standing at the end of the hallway looking utterly hollowed out.

"What?" Ivy asked, looking confused. "Papa, it's only eight. We were gonna have a movie night—"

"We're going home now, Ivy," Harry said firmly, not looking at either of his children as he picked up his car keys from the side table. "Get your bags."

Finn stood up slowly, looking between his parents, his expression darkening with disappointment. "Did you guys fight again?"

"No one fought," Harry said tightly, his voice rising a fraction before he controlled it. "I'm tired, and you both have morning classes. Go to the car."

Finn looked over at Louis. "Dad?"

Louis forced a small, strained smile onto his face, though his eyes were completely lifeless. "It's fine, Finn. Do what your papa says. Go on."

Ivy walked over to Louis, looking up at him with concern. "Dad... what happened? We were celebrating."

"It's alright, Evie," Louis murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her forehead. "Your papa's right. It's getting late. I'll see you both next week for your three weeks with me, yeah?"

"Yeah," Ivy whispered softly, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "Happy birthday, Dad."

"Thanks, sweetie."

Harry stood by the open front door, holding it open, staring resolutely at the wall, refusing to make eye contact with Louis. The kids grabbed their bags, walking past Harry in quiet, heavy silence.

As Finn reached the door, he paused, looking at Harry with a cold, disappointed glare. "You really love ruining everything, don't you?" he muttered under his breath before stepping out onto the landing.

Harry flinched, the words striking him like a physical blow, but he kept his jaw set, refusing to react.

Louis walked to the doorway, stopping just a few feet away from Harry. For a second, the space between them was heavy with everything left unsaid—the shared tears, the touch against Harry's skin, the years of silent grief.

"Thanks for the cake, Harry," Louis said, his voice soft, gentle, and devoid of any anger, which somehow made it hurt a hundred times worse. "It was really nice."

Harry swallowed hard, his throat tight, his grip on the door handle so tight his fingers trembled. He didn't look at Louis. He couldn't.

"Goodnight, Louis," Harry whispered flatly.

He stepped out and pulled the door shut between them, the heavy click of the lock echoing through the quiet apartment.

Inside, Louis stood in the hallway alone. He closed his eyes, leaning his back against the closed door, letting out a long, shuddering breath into the empty room.

Down in the car, the ride home was suffocatingly quiet. Harry drove with both hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead. In the backseat, Ivy leaned her head against the window, staring out at the passing streetlights, while Finn sat with his arms crossed, staring silently out his own side.

"I can't believe you," Ivy said softly from the back, breaking the silence after ten miles of heavy quiet. "He was so happy when we brought the cake."

"Ivy, quiet," Harry said softly, his voice warning but strained.

"No, Papa," Finn spoke up, his voice hard. "You literally ruined his birthday. He kept all your old stuff in his closet for five years because he still cares about you, and you treated him like he was a stranger."

"You don't understand," Harry choked out, his eyes stinging as tears finally began to blur his vision of the road. "You two don't understand anything about how complicated this is."

"We understand that he loves you," Ivy whispered, her voice cracking as she turned to look at the back of Harry's head. "And we know you love him. But you're so scared of getting hurt again that you'd rather make everyone miserable."

Harry didn't answer. He couldn't. He just kept driving through the dark, the tears quietly slipping down his cheeks, trailing over the skin where Louis's fingers had been resting only an hour before.

The quiet in the car was suffocating. Harry’s knuckles were white against the leather of the steering wheel, his eyes fixed dead ahead on the dark highway. He kept taking small, silent shallow breaths, trying with everything inside him to keep the tears from spilling over until he was alone.

In the back seat, the initial storm of anger had settled into a heavy, defeated hush between the twins. Ivy shifted in her seat, leaning across the center console toward Finn.

"Did you finish the reading for Mrs. Gable's class?" Ivy asked, her voice deliberately flat, aiming to cut through the oppressive quiet in the car. "The three chapters on the Industrial Revolution?"

Finn didn't look away from his window for a moment. "Yeah. Finished it on Friday."

"Was it bad?"

"It's Gable," Finn muttered, dragging a hand over his face. "It's all dry dates and memorizing factory acts. You can copy my notes during home period tomorrow if you want."

"Thanks," Ivy murmured. She quieted down for a second, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve before whispering, "I forgot my art portfolio at Dad's place."

"I'll text him tomorrow," Finn whispered back softly, glancing at the front seat. "He'll bring it to school or give it to us next week. Don't worry about it."

Harry heard every word, every hushed exchange, each one feeling like a small needle pressing into his heart. He didn't say a word. He couldn't trust his voice not to crack open right there on the road.

By eleven o'clock, the twins were in their rooms, their doors shut. Harry sat alone on the edge of his bed, staring at his reflection in the dark window pane. His chest felt hollow, a raw, gaping void left behind by the memory of Louis’s thumb tracing his stretch marks, Louis’s warm chest against his back, Louis’s quiet I love you.

He couldn't sit in that house. The silence was too loud, too full of Louis.

He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over a contact he had been casually texting for a few weeks. Liam.

Are you up? Harry typed, his fingers trembling slightly.

The reply came almost instantly. Yeah. At my place. Come over?

Twenty minutes later, Harry was pulling up to Liam’s flat. Liam was easy—a thirty-five-year-old architect he’d met through a mutual friend. They weren't official; it was a gray area, a slow-burning situationship where neither had made a real commitment yet. Liam was nice, steady, uncomplicated, and most importantly, he wasn't Louis.

When Liam opened the door, wearing a simple gray t-shirt and low-slung sweatpants, Harry didn't even say hello. He just stepped inside, grabbed the collar of Liam's shirt, and pulled him into a sharp, desperate kiss.

Liam stumbled back a half-step, surprised, but his arms quickly went around Harry’s waist, grounding him. "Woah," Liam murmured against his lips, pulling back just an inch, his dark eyes searching Harry's face. "Everything okay, Harry? You seem sad."

"I don't want to talk, Liam," Harry whispered, his voice desperate, reaching up to thread his fingers through Liam's hair, pulling him back in. "Please. Just... don't talk."

Liam hesitated for a fraction of a second, seeing the dark, swimming pain in Harry's green eyes, but he nodded softly. "Okay. Okay."

The encounter on Liam's bed was urgent, hard, and entirely devoid of the tenderness Harry had felt earlier that evening. Harry pushed himself into it, using the friction, the heavy pressure, and the sound of Liam’s quiet groans to drown out the memory of Louis's soft mouth against his neck. He arched his back, clutching at Liam’s shoulders, chasing a distraction so intense it would numb his chest.

When it was over, Liam lay back against the pillows, breathing heavily, pulling the sheet up over his waist. He reached out to gently stroke Harry's bare shoulder.

"Stay the night," Liam offered softly, his voice full of casual warmth. "I'll make us breakfast before I head to the firm."

Harry sat up immediately, his back turned to Liam, reaching down for his clothes scattered on the wooden floor. The numbness was already wearing off, replaced by a cold, sharp wave of regret.

"I can't," Harry said, his voice raspy as he pulled his jumper over his head. "I have to get home before the kids wake up."

Liam sat up slightly, watching him with a slight, puzzled frown. "It's three thirty in the morning, Harry. They're sixteen. They're sleeping."

"I just... I prefer my own bed," Harry muttered, buttoning his jeans. He didn't look at Liam. He couldn't bear to see the kindness in his eyes—kindness that felt entirely undeserved. "I'll text you later, alright?"

"Yeah," Liam said slowly, a soft, resigned sigh escaping him. "Alright. Drive safe."

The front door of his house clicked shut softly at four fifteen in the morning. Harry slipped off his shoes in the dark hallway, his body aching, his mind exhausted. He crept up the stairs, peeking into the twins' rooms—both fast asleep—before slipping into his own bathroom.

He turned on the shower, stepping under the scalding water, scrubbing his skin until it was red, desperately trying to wash away the scent of Liam, the taste of cheap wine, and the lingering phantom touch of Louis’s hands.

By seven in the morning, Harry was in the kitchen, dressed in his crisp beige trousers and a light blue button-down shirt for work. He had dark circles under his eyes that even concealer couldn't quite mask, but he had a fresh pot of coffee brewing and eggs sizzling in the pan.

Ivy walked downstairs first, her school uniform slightly wrinkled, her hair tied back. She took one look at Harry standing at the stove and paused.

"You look tired, Papa," she said quietly, pulling out a chair at the kitchen island.

"Just didn't sleep well, sweetheart," Harry said, keeping his back to her as he plated two eggs onto a dish and set it in front of her. "Eat up. We have to leave in fifteen minutes."

Finn came down a moment later, slinging his heavy backpack onto the floor with a thud. He sat down, looking at his breakfast, then up at Harry.

"Are you driving us, or are we taking the bus?" Finn asked, his voice neutral, missing the playful bite from yesterday.

"I'm driving you," Harry replied, taking a small sip of his black coffee. "I have a meeting at the gallery at nine, so I can drop you off on my way."

The car ride to St. Jude’s Academy was quiet again, though less explosive than the night before. The morning sun was bright, shining through the windshield as Harry navigated the morning traffic.

"Papa?" Ivy asked from the passenger seat as they approached the school gates.

"Yeah, Evie?"

"Are you really okay?" she asked softly, looking at his profile. 

Harry stopped the car in the drop-off line, putting it in park. He turned to look at his daughter, forcing a soft, gentle smile onto his face—the fatherly smile he always used when he was trying to protect them from his own mess.

"I'm fine, Ivy. Honestly," Harry murmured, reaching over to touch her cheek softly. "Last night was... a lot. For all of us. But I'm fine."

Finn unbuckled his seatbelt in the back, grabbing his bag. "Did you talk to Dad this morning?"

Harry’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he caught himself. "No, Finn. I haven't. Now get to class, both of you. Don't be late."

"Bye, Papa," Ivy said, stepping out of the car.

"See you later," Finn added, slamming the door.

Harry watched them walk through the stone arches of the school, their navy blazers disappearing into the crowd of students. Once they were inside, Harry rested his forehead against the steering wheel, letting out a long, shaky breath in the quiet interior of his car.

His phone buzzed on the dashboard. He lifted his head and checked the screen.

It was a text from Liam.

Hope you got home okay. Let me know when you're free this week, maybe dinner?

Harry stared at the message for a long time, his throat tight, his mind flashing instantly back to the image of Louis’s closet—the dusty nail polishes, the old photos, the quiet, unyielding love Louis had held onto for five years while Harry ran away.

Slowly, with heavy, numb fingers, Harry typed back.

Yeah. Dinner sounds good. I'll let you know.

He set the phone down, put the car in drive, and headed toward the gallery, feeling more lost than he ever had in his life.

🍄

Wednesday evening arrived with an unsettling quiet in the house.

Harry stood in front of his bedroom mirror, making a final adjustment to the collar of his silk cream shirt. He’d paired it with dark, tailored trousers and a faint trace of his favorite perfume. He looked immaculate, put-together, and strikingly handsome. But beneath the surface, his stomach was tied in knots.

He took a slow breath, stepping out into the hallway and walking downstairs.

Ivy was sitting on the living room rug, her school books spread out around her, while Finn was slumped on the sofa, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. As soon as Harry’s leather shoes clicked against the hardwood, both twins looked up.

Their eyes widened almost in unison.

"Where are you going?" Ivy asked, setting her pencil down, her eyes scanning him from head to toe. "Why are you all dressed up?"

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly, his hand instinctively smoothing the front of his shirt. "I'm going out for dinner."

Finn sat up straight, narrowing his eyes. "With who? It's Wednesday."

"Just... a friend," Harry said, keeping his tone carefully light as he walked toward the kitchen to grab a glass of water. "I left some lasagna in the fridge for you two. Just heat it in the oven at 180 for twenty minutes."

"A friend?" Finn repeated, standing up and leaning against the sofa back. "You don't wear silk shirts for a friend, Papa. Is this a date?"

Before Harry could figure out a lie that wouldn't completely collapse under scrutiny, the front doorbell rang.

Harry’s heart gave an uncomfortable jerk. He set his water glass down a little too hard on the counter. "I'll get it."

"Wait, do we know him?" Ivy asked, stepping out into the hallway, her expression shifting from curious to deeply suspicious.

Harry opened the front door.

Liam stood on the porch, wearing a sharp, dark blue blazer over a black t-shirt, holding a small bouquet of white lilies. He gave Harry a soft, warm smile. "Hey. You look incredible, Harry."

"Hi, Liam," Harry murmured, a faint, nervous flush rising on his cheeks. "Thank you. You didn't have to bring flowers."

"Just a little something," Liam said, stepping into the foyer as Harry held the door.

From the end of the hallway, Ivy and Finn stood side by side, watching the interaction with absolute, unreadable stillness.

Liam caught sight of them and his smile broadened, trying to be friendly and approachable. He stepped further into the hall, holding out a hand toward Finn. "Hi there. You must be Finn. I'm Liam."

Finn looked down at Liam's outstretched hand for a long, agonizing second before slowly looking back up at his face. He didn't move an inch to shake it. "Hi."

Liam’s hand hovered in the air for a beat before he smoothly dropped it to his side, turning his smile toward Ivy. "And you're Ivy, right? Harry's told me a lot about you guys."

Ivy didn't smile back. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, her green eyes cold. "He hasn't told us anything about you."

"Ivy, please," Harry said quickly, his voice laced with a sharp warning, though his own face was burning with embarrassment. "Where are your manners?"

"It's fine, Harry," Liam said softly, waving a hand dismissively, though his posture stiffened slightly under the intense, hostile gaze of the two sixteen-year-olds. "I get it. Unexpected visitor."

"We just thought Papa was eating with us," Finn said, his voice flat and unbothered, though the annoyance underneath was sharp. "Since it's a school night."

"I told you yesterday I might have plans tonight, Finn," Harry said, setting the lilies down on the console table, his hands trembling slightly. He looked at Liam, a desperate, quiet plea in his eyes. "We should probably get going. The reservation..."

"Right. Yeah, of course," Liam nodded, stepping back toward the open door. "Nice meeting you both."

Neither Ivy nor Finn replied. They just stood there like two marble statues, watching as Harry grabbed his coat from the rack.

"Lasagna's in the fridge," Harry reminded them, his voice tight as he stepped out onto the porch. "Lock the door after me. I'll be back by ten."

"Have fun," Ivy said, though her tone sounded entirely empty.

Harry pulled the door shut, letting out a long, heavy exhale as he followed Liam down the driveway to his car.

Inside the house, the door clicked locked. Ivy turned to Finn, her jaw clenched tight.

"White lilies?" Ivy scoffed, walking over to the console table and staring down at the bouquet like it was radioactive. "Who even buys white lilies for a first official date? They look like funeral flowers."

"He tried to do that firm handshake thing," Finn grumbled, leaning his head back against the wall with a groan. "God, he's so fake. I hated him in five seconds."

"Remember when David tried to take us golfing?" Ivy asked, crossing her arms again as she walked into the kitchen. "And Mark, who literally called Dad 'Louis' by accident because he couldn't keep his stories straight?"

"None of them are Dad," Finn said quietly, joining her in the kitchen and leaning against the island. "Not even close. Remember when Dad used to bring home those cheap chocolate bars from the corner shop after working twelve hours? He never brought fake flowers. He just... brought stuff because he knew we liked it."

"Dad used to make Papa laugh until he choked on his tea," Ivy murmured, her eyes looking down at her socks. "This guy... Papa looked like he was going to throw up the entire time he was standing in the hall."

Finn pulled out his phone, tapping the screen a few times.

"What are you doing?" Ivy asked.

"Texting Dad," Finn said flatly. "Telling him his art portfolio is at his house, and asking if he can come pick us up early on Friday."

"Finn, Papa's gonna be mad if we complain about Liam."

"I don't care," Finn said, hitting send and setting his phone on the counter. "Liam sucks. And Papa looks miserable pretending he's happy."

Meanwhile, at an upscale Italian restaurant downtown, the atmosphere was soft and romantic, dimly lit by candlelight.

Liam was cutting into his steak, talking smoothly about a new commercial project his architectural firm was taking on in the city. "...so the client wants floor-to-ceiling glass, but the structural integrity on that side of the building is tricky. I told them we'd have to reinforce the steel beams first."

Harry was sitting across from him, holding a glass of red wine. He was nodding politely, a small, rehearsed smile fixed on his face.

"That sounds... very complex," Harry murmured, taking a slow sip.

"It is, but it's fun," Liam smiled, setting his knife down and reaching across the small table to gently cover Harry's hand with his own. "Hey. You're a million miles away tonight, Harry. Everything okay?"

Harry pulled his gaze back to Liam's face. Liam was attractive, successful, kind, and clearly interested in him. It was everything Harry was supposed to want in a mature relationship.

So why did touching Liam's hand feel so utterly hollow?

"I'm sorry," Harry said softly, gently pulling his hand back under the guise of reaching for his napkin. "The kids... they weren't very welcoming earlier. I feel bad about how they treated you."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Liam said smoothly, offering an easy, understanding grin. "They're teenagers. They're protective of their space. My sister's kids were the exact same way when she started dating again after her divorce. They'll warm up to me once they see I'm not going anywhere."

Once they see I'm not going anywhere.

The phrase made Harry's stomach drop. A cold, suffocating panic flickered in his chest. Five years of dating different men, and every time one of them suggested a future, Harry felt like running in the opposite direction.

"Yeah," Harry managed to say, his voice strained as he forced another sip of wine down his throat. "Yeah, maybe."

"You look beautiful tonight, by the way," Liam added softly, his eyes tracing the cream silk of Harry's shirt. "Really. I'm glad we did this."

"Thanks, Liam," Harry whispered, staring down at his plate.

In his mind, the dim candlelight of the restaurant faded away, replaced by the memory of a cold back porch, the smell of cheap tobacco, and Louis's rough, warm fingers gently tucking a curl behind his ear.

Harry closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, feeling the quiet, unbearable weight of his own choices crushing him from the inside out.

🍄

The fluorescent lights of the gallery office hummed softly overhead as Harry sat at his desk, staring blankly at a spreadsheet of upcoming autumn exhibitions. He had barely touched his morning coffee. His head felt heavy, his mind still tangled in the suffocating silence that had settled over his house since Wednesday night.

His desk phone rang, the sharp, sudden tone shattering the quiet.

Harry blinked, leaning over to tap the speaker button. "Harry Styles, gallery administration."

"Mr. Styles?" a woman's voice came through the line, rapid and polite, but laced with underlying urgency. "This is Nurse Gable from St. Jude’s Academy."

Harry’s posture straightened instantly, his stomach plummeting to his feet. "Yes? Is everything alright?"

"Mr. Styles, please try to stay calm, but Finn has had an accident during afternoon athletics," Nurse Gable explained quickly. "He took a very bad tumble off the top bleacher in the gymnasium. The paramedics are here now. His left leg is severely fractured, and he's sustained a concussion. They're transporting him to St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital right now."

Harry stood up so fast his office chair scraped violently against the floorboards. The room spun slightly around him. "What? Is he... is he conscious? Is he okay?"

"He's conscious, but he's in a lot of pain and quite disoriented," she said. "Ivy is with him in the ambulance."

"I'm on my way," Harry breathed out, dropping the receiver before the nurse could even finish her sentence.

His hands were shaking so violently he could barely grab his car keys off the desk. He stumbled out into the hallway, his breathing shallow and rapid, panic surging through his veins like wildfire. He reached the elevator, leaning his forehead against the cool metal door, his fingers blindly tapping at his mobile phone screen.

His brain went completely blank. All the walls, all the distance, all the five years of divorce evaporated in a single second of raw, primal fear for his son. He didn't call Liam. He didn't call his manager.

He dialed the speed dial number he had known by heart for sixteen years.

It rang once. Twice.

"Haz?" Louis's calm, low voice came through the speaker. "What—"

"Boo," Harry gasped out, a broken, helpless sob tearing out of his throat before he could stop it. "Boo, it's Finn. It's Finn, he—he fell at school."

There was an immediate beat of heavy silence on the line, followed by the sudden sound of rustling paper and a chair dragging across a floor.

"Harry, take a breath," Louis’s voice snapped into razor-sharp focus, dropping into that steady, unshakeable tone he only ever used when their family was in danger. "What happened? Where are you?"

"St. Jude's Memorial," Harry whimpered, pressing the phone so hard against his ear his knuckles turned white as he rushed toward the parking garage. "They said his leg is fractured. And a concussion. I'm driving there now, I'm so scared—"

"Listen to me, love," Louis cut in gently, his voice like an anchor pulling Harry back from the edge of full panic. "I am five minutes away from Memorial. I'm stepping into my car right now. I will be at the emergency entrance before you get there. Do not speed, do you hear me? Drive carefully. I've got him. I've got both of them."

"Okay," Harry whispered, tears blurring his vision as he got into his car. "Okay. See you there."

The smell of rubbing alcohol and cheap floor cleaner hit Harry the moment he burst through the automatic sliding doors of the emergency room.

"Finn Tomlinson?" Harry asked the receptionist frantically, his voice cracking. "He was brought in by ambulance—"

"Harry!"

Harry turned around instantly. Louis was walking quickly down the corridor toward him, his dark jacket unbuttoned, his fringe messy as if he'd run the whole way from the parking lot.

Harry didn't even think. He stepped forward and collapsed right against Louis's chest, burying his face into the nook of Louis's neck. Louis’s arms came around him instantly, pulling him tight, holding him upright as Harry let out a shaky, trembling breath against his collar.

"I've got you," Louis murmured, his hand resting securely on the back of Harry's head, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against his hair. "He's fine, Haz. I just spoke to the doctor. They're putting a cast on his leg right now."

Harry pulled back slightly, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, his cheeks pale. "Is his head okay?"

"Minor concussion," Louis reassured him softly, keeping one hand steady on Harry's waist as he guided him down the hallway. "He's awake. He's groggy and complaining about the hospital lighting, so he's definitely himself."

They walked into curtained Bay 4 together.

Finn was lying on the narrow hospital bed, his left leg elevated and encased in a thick, white fibreglass cast up to his knee. An IV line was taped to his hand, and he had a small white bandage over his temple. Ivy was sitting in a vinyl chair right beside the bed, holding his uninjured hand, looking pale but relieved.

"Papa," Finn mumbled softly, his eyes heavy as he looked up.

"Oh, baby," Harry breathed, rushing to the side of the bed opposite Ivy. He carefully took Finn's face in both his hands, pressing a soft, long kiss to his forehead. "Look at you. How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a bus," Finn muttered, though a faint, tired smile touched his lips. "Papa, don't cry. I'm fine."

"You have a cast up to your knee, Finn, you're not fine," Ivy corrected gently, though she squeezed Finn's hand tightly. "He tried to catch a basketball on the top row, Papa. He was being an idiot."

"I was being athletic," Finn corrected groggily.

A doctor stepped through the curtain a moment later, holding a clipboard. He looked between Harry and Louis, nodding politely. "Parents?"

"Yes," Louis spoke up immediately, stepping closer to stand right beside Harry at the foot of the bed. "How's the break looking?"

"It's a clean fracture on the tibia," the doctor explained. "We've aligned it and set the cast. But because of the severe concussion and the weight of the cast, he cannot bear any weight on it for at least four weeks. He's going to need round-the-clock assistance for the first few days—getting to the bathroom, managing the pain medication, keeping his leg elevated."

Harry’s heart gave a sudden, stressful thump. "Four weeks? Round-the-clock?"

"Yes," the doctor said. "He can be discharged in an hour once the pain meds stabilize, but someone needs to be with him constantly for the next seventy-two hours."

The doctor nodded and stepped out, leaving the four of them in the quiet bay.

Harry rubbed his temples, a sudden, heavy wave of exhaustion and anxiety crashing over him. "Oh, god. I have an international art auction this weekend. My director told me if I miss it, I'm losing the lead curation position. I can't take four days off work right now, I just can't..."

Harry looked down at Finn, his eyes filling with tears again, feeling the familiar, crushing guilt of being a parent failing to balance everything. "Finn, honey, I'm so sorry. I'll figure something out, I'll call in sick—"

"Harry, stop," Louis said softly, his voice cutting through Harry's spiral.

Louis stepped around the bed, stopping right beside Harry. He looked down at Harry's tired, tear-stained face, seeing the quiet desperation in his green eyes.

"I'll stay with him," Louis said simply.

Harry blinked, looking up at him. "What? Louis, your department management... you have that network migration project this week—"

"I don't care about the migration project," Louis murmured, taking a small step closer to Harry, stepping right into his personal space. He reached out, his rough, warm fingers gently taking hold of Harry's trembling hand. "I'll take the week off. I'll stay at your house, look after Finn, make sure Ivy gets to school, and handle the meds."

Harry stared at him, his throat tight, his mouth slightly open. "You... you'd stay at my house? For four days?"

Louis looked right into Harry's eyes, his expression softening into something so tender, so full of unconditional warmth, that Harry felt his knees go weak.

"Hey, baby," Louis whispered softly, his thumb gently stroking the back of Harry's knuckles. "Of course I'd do it. Without you even asking. Did you really think I'd let you handle this alone?"

The old pet name—baby—slipped out of Louis's mouth so effortlessly, so full of effortless intimacy, that Harry's breath caught completely in his chest. A sudden, flush of warmth spread across Harry's neck and cheeks, his fingers tightening instinctively around Louis's hand, refusing to let go.

"Thank you, Lou," Harry whispered, his voice small and genuinely touched. "Thank you."

"Always," Louis murmured, giving his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

On the hospital bed, Finn slowly turned his head toward Ivy. Despite the concussion and the heavy pain medication, a slow, triumphant grin spread across his face.

Ivy looked back at her twin, matching his grin with a sly, delighted smile of her own, quietly watching their parents standing side by side, their hands still tightly linked over the edge of the bed.

The ride back from the hospital was slow and cautious, Louis navigating every bump in the road as if the car were made of glass. Finn was practically asleep in the back, his leg awkwardly elevated across the seat, while Ivy kept adjusting the pillow under his head.

By the time Louis carried Finn through the front door—bridging the front porch with a steady, careful grip—the sun had set completely. He laid Finn out gently on the long living room sofa, propping his white fibreglass cast up on three throw pillows.

"You okay there, mate?" Louis asked softly, leaning down to adjust the blanket over Finn’s shoulders.

"Yeah," Finn mumbled, his eyes half-shut. "Feels like my leg is encased in concrete, but the painkillers are working."

"Good," Louis murmured, pressing a brief kiss to the top of Finn's hair before turning toward the kitchen.

Harry was already in there, his beige blazer tossed over a chair, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he filled a kettle at the sink. He looked completely drained, the stress of the afternoon catching up to him in one heavy slump of his shoulders.

"Tea?" Harry asked as Louis stepped into the kitchen, his voice quiet.

"Yeah, thanks," Louis said, walking up to stand beside him at the counter. He reached into the pantry without asking, pulling out the box of chamomile tea and setting two mugs down. "How are you holding up, Haz?"

"Better now that he's home," Harry sighed, leaning his lower back against the edge of the counter, looking up at Louis. "Seriously, Lou... thank you. I don't know what I would have done today if you hadn't come."

"I'll always come, Harry," Louis said simply, looking straight into his green eyes. "You don't ever have to wonder about that."

Harry swallowed hard, his throat tight, and quickly turned back to the kettle to hide the sudden blush creeping up his neck.

While the tea steeped, Louis took charge of dinner. He raided Harry's fridge, throwing together a simple chicken soup and toast, serving Finn on a tray in the living room while Ivy sat on the rug beside her brother, happily slurping her bowl.

By ten o’clock, the house had quieted down. Finn was knocked out cold from his pain medication, snoring softly on the sofa. Ivy had finally retreated upstairs after being promised she could skip her morning chores to help Finn with his notes.

Louis stood in the dark hallway, holding a folded spare blanket he’d found in the linen closet. He looked down at the short loveseat opposite the main sofa where Finn was sleeping.

"You're not seriously going to sleep on that, are you?"

Louis turned around. Harry was standing at the foot of the stairs, wearing an oversized, faded grey t-shirt and loose black lounge trousers, holding a glass of water.

"It's fine, Haz," Louis said softly, gesturing toward the small loveseat. "I can curl up on it. I want to be down here in case Finn wakes up needing his 2 AM dose anyway."

"Louis, you're five-foot-eight and that couch is four feet long," Harry said, a faint, fond raise of his eyebrow cutting through his exhaustion. "You'll wake up with your back broken. We don't need two people in casts tomorrow."

"I've slept in worse places, love," Louis murmured, a faint smile touching his lips. "It's alright."

Harry hesitated, his fingers tightening around his water glass. He looked toward the stairs, then back at Louis, the quiet intimacy of the dimly lit hallway suddenly feeling very heavy. There was no spare bedroom—the guest room had been turned into Harry's home office three years ago.

"Come upstairs," Harry whispered, his voice dropping an octave, so soft it barely carried across the floorboards.

Louis went completely still, his hands pausing on the folded blanket. "What?"

"Come sleep upstairs," Harry repeated, refusing to break eye contact this time, though his cheeks were burning in the dim light. "In my room. The bed is huge. We can... we can just share. Like adults."

Louis stared at him, his blue eyes searching Harry's face for any sign of hesitation, any sign that Harry was going to pull back like he had on his birthday. But Harry just stood there, looking at him with a raw, quiet vulnerability that made Louis's heart hammer against his ribs.

"Are you sure, Haz?" Louis asked gently, his tone remarkably steady despite the racing of his pulse. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"I'm sure," Harry murmured, turning to walk up the first two steps before looking over his shoulder. "Bring your blanket."

Louis followed him up the stairs, his heart doing a chaotic rhythm in his chest.

What neither of them realized was that Ivy’s bedroom door was cracked open just half an inch.

Inside the dark room, Ivy was leaning against her desk, her hand pressed firmly over her mouth to stop herself from screaming out loud. As soon as she heard her parents' footsteps fade down the hallway toward Harry’s master bedroom, she dropped onto her knees beside Finn's bed—where Finn had actually migrated earlier before deciding the sofa was easier—and shoved his shoulder violently.

"Finn! Finn, wake up!" Ivy hissed in a frantic, high-pitched whisper.

Finn groaned, opening one heavy eye. "What? Is the house on fire?"

"Dad is sleeping in Papa's room!" Ivy squealed into her pillow, holding it tight against her chest as she practically vibrated with excitement. "I just heard them! Papa asked him to sleep in his bed!"

Finn’s tired eyes widened in the dark. A slow, massive grin spread across his face despite his concussed state. "Shut up. Seriously?"

"Yes! Papa literally told him he didn't want him sleeping on the couch!" Ivy whispered furiously, kicking her feet against the carpet. "They're in there right now!"

"I told you," Finn whispered back, wincing slightly as he shifted his cast, but his smile was huge. "I told you falling off those bleachers was worth it."

"You didn't fall on purpose, you idiot," Ivy giggled, slapping his arm softly. "But god, it worked."

Down the hall, the master bedroom was quiet, lit only by the soft yellow glow of the bedside lamp.

Harry pulled back the thick duvet on the left side of the large king-sized bed, slipping under the covers and propping his pillows up against the headboard. Louis set his folded blanket on the armchair in the corner, stepping out of his shoes and pulling off his dark jeans until he was just in his soft cotton t-shirt and grey track pants.

The mattress dipped as Louis climbed into the right side of the bed.

For a few long seconds, neither of them moved. They lay side by side, a careful four inches of space between them, staring up at the white ceiling. The quiet room felt electric, saturated with sixteen years of history, love, heartbreak, and unspoken words.

"Haz?" Louis whispered into the dark.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for letting me stay up here," Louis said softly, turning his head on the pillow to look at Harry's profile in the dim light. "It's... nice. Being back in your space."

Harry turned his head too, his green eyes meeting Louis's blue ones in the shadows. He reached out under the covers, his hand slowly sliding across the small gap between them until his fingers brushed against the back of Louis's hand.

Louis didn't hesitate. He opened his palm, intertwining his fingers tightly with Harry's, squeezing gently.

"Goodnight, Lou," Harry whispered, his thumb rubbing a slow, comforting circle over Louis's knuckles.

"Goodnight, baby," Louis murmured back, closing his eyes, holding Harry's hand tightly against the mattress.

The quiet in the room was thick, almost heavy, broken only by the soft, steady sound of their breathing and the faint rustle of the duvet whenever one of them shifted. Their hands remained tightly laced together on the mattress between them, fingers entwined so firmly it felt as though neither could let go even if they wanted to.

Harry turned his head on the pillow, his green eyes gleaming faintly in the dark as he looked at Louis.

"Lou?" Harry whispered softly.

"Yeah, Haz?" Louis replied, his voice a low, gravelly rumble in the quiet room. He didn't turn away; his blue eyes were fixed entirely on Harry.

"I haven't slept properly in five years," Harry admitted, the confession slipping out of his throat before he could stop it. "Not really. Every time I lay down in this bed, it just feels... too big. Too quiet."

Louis’s chest tightened painfully. He squeezed Harry’s hand, lifting it slightly and pressing a long, tender kiss to the back of Harry's knuckles. "Me too, love. My flat... it’s just a place to sleep. It never felt like home. Not without you."

A small, broken sound escaped Harry's lips. The cold, distant wall he had built so carefully—the one he used to protect himself from the overwhelming weight of loving Louis—completely shattered. He didn't want to fight anymore. He didn't want to pretend that dating other men or keeping his distance made the ache go away.

"I'm so tired of pretending." Harry whimpered softly, a warm tear slipping over his cheek and onto the pillow. "I'm so tired of acting like I don't need you."

"Oh, Haz... come here," Louis murmured gently, pulling on Harry's hand.

Harry didn't hesitate. He slid across the small gap between them, burying his face directly into the crook of Louis’s neck. Louis’s arms wrapped around him instantly, pulling Harry’s longer frame tight against his chest, locking him close.

Louis buried his face into Harry’s soft, fragrant curls, inhaling deeply. "God, you smell so good. Missed this so much, baby. Missed having you right here."

"Louis... please," Harry whimpered against his skin, his hands coming up to clutch desperately at the fabric of Louis’s cotton t-shirt. The heat of Louis’s body, the familiar, comforting scent of his skin, and the steady beat of his heart under Harry's cheek were overwhelming.

Louis shifted, his hand moving up to cup the back of Harry’s head, his thumb gently stroking along Harry’s jawline. "Look at me, Haz."

Harry tilted his head up, his green eyes wide, shiny with tears, and completely bare.

Louis leaned down and kissed him.

It was a slow, sweet, incredibly soft kiss—a gentle pressing of lips that tasted like tears, tea, and five years of quiet forgiveness. Harry let out a long, shuddering sigh against Louis’s mouth, opening his lips to deepen the touch, his arms sliding up over Louis’s shoulders to pull him closer.

"So sweet, baby," Louis whispered against his lips, kissing his mouth once, twice, then trailing soft, feather-light kisses down Harry’s jawline to his throat. "You're so beautiful. So good for me."

Harry gasped softly as Louis’s mouth hit the sensitive skin beneath his ear, his fingers tightening in Louis's brown hair. Driven by a sudden, desperate need to be closer, Harry pushed himself up, carefully shifting his weight until he was straddling Louis’s hips in the dark.

"Haz..." Louis breathed out, his hands automatically coming up to rest securely on Harry’s waist, holding him steady.

Harry leaned down, placing soft, feverish kisses over Louis’s collarbone, pushing the neck of Louis's t-shirt aside so he could press his lips against the warm skin of his chest. He gently ground his hips down against Louis’s, letting out a small, needy whimper at the friction.

Louis groaned softly, his hands tightening on Harry’s hips. He gently flipped their positions, rolling Harry onto his back so he was hovering over him, keeping his weight supported on his elbows so he wouldn't crush him.

"Shh, keep it down, love," Louis whispered fondly, leaning down to press a series of lingering kisses over Harry's chest, his warm mouth pressing through the thin cotton of Harry's t-shirt, right over his sensitive nips.

Harry arched his back off the mattress with a soft, gasping breath, his fingers digging into Louis’s back. "Please..."

"I've got you, baby," Louis whispered, kissing his way back up to Harry's lips, his voice full of warmth and adoration. "Just want to hold you tonight, Haz. We don't have to push it. Just let me hold you."

Louis rolled back onto his side, pulling Harry with him into a tight, secure embrace. He pulled Harry against his chest, becoming the big spoon, his arms wrapped securely around Harry's waist, his chest pressed flush against Harry's back. He buried his nose into the back of Harry's neck, pressing gentle kisses to the sensitive skin right behind his ear.

"You're safe, Haz," Louis murmured, his hand resting over Harry's stomach, gently stroking. "I'm right here."

But Harry couldn't just settle. The proximity, the overwhelming affection, and the slick heat pooling between his thighs made him restless. He shifted back against Louis, his hips moving in a slow, deliberate grind against Louis's lap.

"Lou," Harry whispered over his shoulder, his voice thick and raspy. "I want you. Please."

"Haz, sweetheart, we don't have to—"

"I want to," Harry interrupted softly, reaching down between them.

With quiet, deliberate movements, Harry slipped his hand into the waistband of his own loose lounge pants, pushing his boxer briefs down just enough. He reached behind himself, guiding Louis’s slick, heavy length toward his warm skin. Using the natural wetness leaking from his own body as slick, Harry slowly lowered his hips back, pressing the tip right against his entrance.

"Harry..." Louis gasped, his breath catching in his throat as he felt the intense, searing heat. "Are you sure? Tell me if it's too much."

"It's not too much. I need you, Lou," Harry breathed, grinding back slowly.

Because Harry was already so slick and relaxed from the quiet warmth of their affection, Louis slid inside him with a quiet, wet smoothness.

Both of them froze, letting out a simultaneous, trembling exhale into the dark room.

The heat inside was tight, unbelievable, and completely familiar. It felt like coming home after a decade in the cold.

"Oh, god, Haz," Louis choked out softly, his hand coming up to gently rest over Harry's hip, his fingers digging in softly. He leaned over, pressing his forehead against the back of Harry's shoulder. "You feel... so good. So soft."

"Don't move fast," Harry whispered, his hands clutching the bedsheets in front of him, his voice barely audible so as not to wake the kids down the hall. "Just... slow, Louis. Please."

"I've got you, baby. Easy," Louis murmured warmly.

Louis began to move in slow, agonizingly sweet thrusts, sliding in and out with a quiet, rhythm. Every movement was gentle, deliberate, and soaked in reverence. He wasn't rushing; he was taking his time, worshipping every inch of Harry's body with steady, shallow rolls of his hips.

Harry let out tiny, breathy whimpers with every push, his head falling back against Louis's shoulder. "Lou... so good... feels so good..."

"You're doing so well for me, Haz," Louis praised softly into his ear, his voice a soothing, low vibration against Harry's skin. "Such a good boy. Look at how well you take me. Always been so perfect for me."

Harry bit his lower lip to muffle a higher gasp, his body trembling with the overwhelming warmth blooming in his chest. The praise sent a wave of pure, emotional pleasure crashing over him.

Louis shifted slightly, reaching around Harry’s waist to gently wrap his fingers around Harry’s slick length, stroking him in perfect sync with the slow, steady rhythm of his hips.

"Lou... I'm gonna—" Harry gasped out, his body tightening completely around Louis.

"Go ahead, baby," Louis whispered, kissing the side of Harry's neck over and over, his pace remaining soft, steady, and unhurried. "I've got you. Let go for me, Haz. I love you so much."

Hearing those words spoken right against his skin was the final push. Harry let out a long, quiet, shuddering sigh as he came, his body spilling warmth over Louis's hand, his inside contracting tightly around Louis’s length.

Louis held him tightly, letting out a raspy groan as the tight contractions pulled him over the edge a few seconds later. He buried his face in Harry's hair, breathing heavily as he finished quietly inside him, his arms wrapped securely around Harry's chest, holding him grounded through the gentle waves of aftershocks.

For several minutes, neither of them moved. The room fell back into a deep, peaceful quiet, save for their synchronized, heavy breathing.

Louis carefully pulled out, grabbing a corner of the spare blanket on the armchair to gently clean them both off under the covers. Once they were settled, he pulled the heavy duvet back over their shoulders, pulling Harry tightly against his chest once again.

Harry rolled over in Louis's arms, facing him in the dark. He buried his face into Louis's neck, his arms wrapping tightly around Louis's waist.

"Don't leave tomorrow." Harry whispered, his voice steady, sure, and entirely devoid of fear for the first time in five years.

Louis tightened his hold, resting his hand on the back of Harry's waist, pressing a long, warm kiss to Harry's forehead.

"I'm not going anywhere, Haz," Louis promised softly into the quiet room. "I'm right here. We're going to fix this, us."

🍄

The morning sun filtered through the kitchen blinds, painting bright streaks of gold across the countertops. The house was quiet, save for the quiet sizzle of bacon in the heavy iron skillet and the low hum of the kettle heating up.

Louis stood by the stove in a pair of Harry’s old gray sweatpants and a dark t-shirt, a wooden spatula in his hand. He hadn't slept this deeply or woken up this early with a light heart in five long years. His reflection in the glass microwave showed a faint, unshakeable smile that he couldn't have wiped off his face even if he tried.

Out in the living room, Ivy came padding down the stairs in her oversized pajama pants, rubbing her eyes. She froze near the hallway archway, her jaw dropping slightly as she took in the sight of Louis flipping pancakes at seven in the morning, humming a low tune under his breath.

"Dad?" Ivy asked, her voice cracking slightly with sleep. "Are you... making actual breakfast?"

Louis turned around, offering her a bright, glowing grin. "Morning, Evie. Eggs, bacon, and blueberry pancakes. Go wake up your brother—or, well, drag him off the sofa gently."

Ivy stared at him for two seconds, taking in the absolute light radiating off her father. A huge, triumphant smile spread across her face. She practically skipped over to the sofa, where Finn was groggily sitting up, his big white cast propped on a pile of cushions.

"Finn," Ivy whispered frantically, shaking his shoulder. "Look at Dad. Look at his face!"

Finn squinted through the morning light toward the kitchen, catching sight of Louis whistling as he poured fresh orange juice into four glasses.

"Holy shit," Finn muttered under his breath, a massive grin breaking out across his pale face. "He looks... he looks like he just won the lottery."

"Better than the lottery," Ivy giggled, settling on the rug next to Finn's sofa. "They did it. I told you! I knew if they slept in the same room—"

"Shh! Keep it down, he'll hear you," Finn wheezed, laughing quietly as he winced, holding his ribs. "God, it feels so weird seeing him this happy. He usually looks like a depressed ghost in the mornings."

"I heard that, Finn," Louis called out pleasantly from the kitchen, not even turning around as he plated the second stack of pancakes. "And for your information, ghosts don't make blueberry pancakes."

"You look great, Dad!" Ivy called back, beaming at her brother.

A moment later, the soft sound of footsteps echoed down the stairs.

Harry walked into the living room, dressed in a sharp beige linen suit with a soft white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his hair styled in loose, glossy curls. He looked pristine, professional, and entirely refreshed—though a faint, rosy flush hit his cheeks the second he met the twins' staring eyes.

"Morning, my loves," Harry said softly, leaning down to press a sweet kiss to the top of Ivy's head before stepping over to the sofa. He crouched down beside Finn, his touch gentle as he checked the temperature of Finn's forehead with the back of his hand. "How's the leg feeling today, sweet boy? Pain relief still working?"

"It's okay, Papa," Finn said, his eyes darting toward the kitchen with a sly glint. "Slept pretty well, actually. How about you? Did you... sleep well upstairs?"

Harry’s hand froze against Finn's cheek for half a second. He narrowed his green eyes at his son, though his blushing cheeks gave him away instantly. "I slept fine, Finn. Mind your business."

"I'm just asking!" Finn grinned innocently. "It's a big bed. Glad you didn't roll off."

"Eat your toast when it's ready and stop teasing your father," Harry grumbled affectionately, standing up and smoothing down his trousers.

He turned and walked through the archway into the kitchen.

The moment Harry stepped onto the tile, his breath caught in his throat. Louis was standing by the island, pouring hot water into two mugs—one with a splash of oat milk and no sugar, prepared exactly the way Harry had taken his tea for sixteen years.

Harry stopped near the counter, leaning his hip against the edge, just watching him. The simple, domestic sight of Louis in his kitchen—hair messy, shoulders relaxed, wearing Harry's old sweatpants—hit him with a wave of warmth so thick it made his eyes prickle with happy tears. He had missed this. He had missed this exact view for five excruciating years.

"Morning, beautiful," Louis murmured, turning around with the two mugs in his hands.

He stopped when he saw Harry standing there. Louis's blue eyes softened, scanning Harry's face, taking in the subtle glow in his green eyes, the smooth curve of his lips, and the faint, hidden mark beneath the linen collar of his shirt.

"Morning," Harry whispered, his voice raspy and full of quiet affection. "You didn't have to get up so early to cook, Lou."

"Nonsense," Louis said, setting the mugs down on the island and stepping directly into Harry's personal space. "It's nice not having to buy breakfast on the way to work. And besides... I wanted to make sure you ate before your big day at the gallery."

"You're spoiled," Harry murmured, a small, helpless smile tugging at his lips.

"I'm taking care of my husband," Louis corrected softly, reaching up to rest his warm hands gently on Harry's waist. "Or, well... taking care of you."

Harry’s heart did a slow, heavy flip in his chest. He reached up, his long fingers gently smoothing the soft fringe on Louis's forehead. "Feels nice. Not having to wake up an hour early to get everything ready by myself."

"You don't have to do anything by yourself anymore, Haz," Louis said, his voice dropping low, steady, and earnest. "Look at you. You look so pretty today. Linen suits really ought to be illegal on you."

Harry let out a breathy, soft laugh, his cheeks flushing a deeper pink. "Shut up."

"I'm serious," Louis murmured, leaning in slightly, his thumb stroking the soft fabric at Harry's hip. "So gorgeous."

Louis leaned up, pressing a gentle, lingering peck to Harry's left cheek. Harry closed his eyes, leaning into the warmth. Then Louis shifted, pressing another soft kiss to his right cheek, before sliding his lips over to brush gently against the corner of Harry's mouth.

Harry let out a soft sigh, turning his head just a fraction to capture Louis's lips properly.

The kiss started sweet and simple—a quiet exchange of gratitude and morning affection. But as Louis's hands tightened on Harry's waist, pulling his long frame flush against his own, the kiss deepened. Harry’s arms wrapped around Louis's neck, his fingers threading into the soft brown hair at the nape of his neck, his mouth opening softly to let Louis in. It was slow, warm, and rich with all the love they had reclaimed in the dark hours of the night.

Harry pulled back slowly, looking into Louis's bright blue eyes, seeing the complete lack of fear, distance, or resentment. For the first time in five years, the air between them was completely clear.

"Come on," Harry murmured softly, reaching for his mug of tea. "Let's feed the monsters before they start throwing pillows at us."

"Right behind you, baby," Louis smiled, picking up the heavy plate stacked high with pancakes.

They walked out into the dining space together, setting the food down on the wooden table. The next twenty minutes were filled with the loud, chaotic, wonderful noise of family—Finn complaining about his heavy cast while eating four pancakes, Ivy babbling about her upcoming art project, and Louis constantly leaning over to steal bites of bacon off Harry's plate while Harry pretended to be annoyed, his green eyes sparkling with absolute joy.

By eight fifteen, Harry stood by the front door, his leather briefcase in hand, checking his watch.

Louis walked him to the door, stepping out onto the small porch with him while the cool morning air brushed against their skin.

"Call me if Finn's pain meds give him any trouble, alright?" Harry said, turning around on the top step to look up at Louis.

"I've got it covered, Haz," Louis promised softly, reaching out to fix the lapel of Harry's linen jacket. "Focus on your auction today. Knock 'em dead."

Harry looked at him for a quiet moment, then stepped up, pressing a quick, sweet kiss to Louis's lips. "I'll see you tonight."

"See you tonight, love," Louis murmured, watching with a steady, peaceful smile as Harry walked down the driveway toward his car, turning back once to wave before driving off into the bright morning sun.

🍄

The porcelain of the gallery’s private office sink was freezing against Harry’s knuckles as he gripped the edges, his chest heaving. The third wave of nausea hit him like a physical punch, leaving him gasping for air, a bitter taste sitting heavy on his tongue.

He reached up with a trembling hand, turning on the cold tap and splashing water over his pale, sweaty face. He looked up into the mirror. The dark circles under his eyes were prominent, his cheeks looked gaunt, and his skin had an unhealthy, yellowish hue.

For the past two weeks, he’d felt completely off. The dizziness hit him whenever he stood up too fast, his head constantly throbbed with a dull ache, and his mood was a volatile minefield. One minute he was crying over an old coffee commercial, and the next he was snapping at his assistant over a misplaced catalog.

A soft knock sounded on his office door.

"Harry? Are you alright in there?" his secretary, Sarah, asked gently through the wood. "You’ve been in the washroom for fifteen minutes."

Harry grabbed a paper towel, drying his face and pressing a cold, wet sheet against his throat. "I'm fine, Sarah," he called out, his voice raspy. "Just a bit of food poisoning, I think. Give me two minutes."

He unlocked the door and stepped back into his office, sinking heavily into the leather chair behind his mahogany desk. The room spun slightly before settling.

Things at home had been... complicated over the last three weeks. Finn’s leg had healed up well enough that he was back on his feet with just a light wrist brace and a walking boot. The twins were back to their routine, and because St. Jude’s was closer to Louis’s office, Louis had been driving them to school every morning.

Louis hadn't really gone back to his own apartment. He’d stayed at Harry's place almost every night, though he still kept a small bag at his own flat that he visited occasionally. But despite sleeping in the same bed and sharing quiet morning teas, they hadn't magically erased five years of trauma. They were still figuring it out. They tiptoed around the heavy stuff, exchanging quiet pecks on the cheek or soft kisses on the mouth only when Harry was in a good mood and didn't feel overwhelmed by the closeness.

Harry rested his temples in his hands, closing his eyes against the throbbing headache.

There was another knock on the door, slightly firmer this time.

"Harry?" Sarah stepped in, holding an iPad against her chest, looking hesitant. "Sorry to bother you, but there's a gentleman in the lobby asking to see you. He doesn't have an appointment, but he said it's urgent."

Harry didn't open his eyes. A soft, tiny spark of hope flickered in his chest. "Is it Louis? Did he bring lunch?"

"No," Sarah murmured awkwardly. "It's Mr. Liam Payne."

Harry’s eyes snapped open. The room seemed to grow cold.

A heavy, sickening knot tightened in the pit of his stomach. Liam.

God, he had completely forgotten. In the absolute whirlwind of Finn’s accident, Louis moving into the house, and trying to navigate his own raw emotions, Harry hadn't sent a single text to Liam in over two weeks. He had literally ghosted a man he was casually seeing, leaving his messages unread and his calls ignored.

"Harry? Should I tell him you're busy?" Sarah asked, noticing the sudden pallor on his face.

Harry swallowed hard, rubbing his forehead. "No. No, it's fine. Send him in, Sarah. Thank you."

A minute later, the heavy oak door opened and closed.

Liam stood in the middle of the office. He wasn't wearing his usual relaxed smile. He wore a dark navy trench coat, his jaw set, his dark eyes carrying a sharp mixture of hurt and cold frustration.

"Liam," Harry said softly, standing up slowly from behind his desk, holding onto the edge of the wood as a sudden wave of dizziness threatened to knock him off balance. "Hi."

"Two weeks, Harry," Liam said, his voice quiet, flat, and devoid of the warmth he usually carried. "You vanished for two whole weeks."

"I know," Harry murmured, his hand pressing flat against his stomach to ease the sudden, sharp cramp. "I'm so sorry, Liam. Things... things got extremely chaotic at home."

"Chaotic?" Liam took a step closer, crossing his arms over his chest, his brow furrowed. "Your phone works, doesn't it? It takes ten seconds to send a text saying 'Hey, I need some space' or 'I can't talk right now.' I called you four times, Harry. I thought something happened to you."

"Something did happen," Harry said, his voice rising a fraction, a defensive edge slipping through despite his exhaustion. "My son broke his leg in a severe fall. He had a concussion. He was in the hospital."

Liam paused, a brief flicker of sympathy crossing his face, but he didn't let his guard down. "I'm sorry to hear that about Finn. Truly. But that was three weeks ago, Harry. I saw Ivy's social media post two days ago. He's fine. He's walking around."

Harry closed his eyes, his breath hitching. He didn't have the energy for this. The air in the office felt too thick, smelling faintly of Liam's cologne, which suddenly made Harry's stomach turn over violently.

"Look, Liam," Harry whispered, leaning back against his chair, his face pale. "I handled it badly. I know I did. But I just... I can't do this right now."

"Can't do what?" Liam asked, his voice sharp with frustration as he stepped closer to the desk. "Can't treat me like a human being? You used me, Harry. That night after your birthday... you came over, you didn't even want to talk to me, you just wanted a distraction. And then you completely discarded me the second you walked out the door."

The words hit Harry like a cold slap, mainly because they were true. Guilt washed over him, hot and suffocating.

"I didn't mean to use you," Harry choked out, placing a hand over his mouth as another wave of severe nausea surged up his throat. "I'm sorry. I really am. But I’m not feeling very well and I need you to leave. Please."

"You're unbelievable," Liam muttered, shaking his head, his eyes cold with disappointment. "You preach about communication and maturity, but the second things get real, you just run away and shut down. Is your ex-husband back in the picture? Is that what this is?"

"Liam, stop," Harry gasped out, his vision blurring slightly at the edges. "Please... just go."

"Fine," Liam said tightly, stepping back toward the door. "I'm going. Don't worry about calling me back, Harry. I'm done."

The heavy door clicked shut behind Liam, leaving the office in absolute, ringing silence.

Harry collapsed back into his chair, his breathing rapid and shallow. His stomach gave a violent heave. He scrambled out of the chair, barely making it back to the private washroom before he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, dry-heaving painfully into the bowl.

There was nothing left in his stomach to bring up, just a painful, burning sensation in his chest. He lay his forehead against his arm on the cold porcelain rim, tears leaking out of his closed eyes, trembling from head to toe.

He couldn't stay here. He couldn't look at spreadsheets, he couldn't talk to Sarah, and he certainly couldn't pretend he was fine.

Ten minutes later, Harry managed to stand up, his legs shaking like leaf stems. He grabbed his coat and his keys, walking past Sarah's desk without looking her in the eye.

"Harry? Are you leaving already?" Sarah asked, standing up in concern. "You have the curation meeting at three."

"Cancel it," Harry croaked out, his voice barely a thread. "Reschedule everything. I'm going home."

He barely remembered the drive back across town. The road was a blur of gray asphalt and red taillights, his hands clutching the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. Every red light felt like a test of endurance against the dizziness clouding his brain.

When he finally pulled into his driveway, he killed the engine and let his head drop against the steering wheel. The house was quiet. The driveway was empty—Louis was still at work, and the twins weren't due home for another three hours.

Harry stumbled up the front steps, unlocked the door, and dropped his keys onto the console table. He didn't even bother taking off his coat or his shoes. He just dragged his exhausted, aching body up the stairs, collapsed face-down onto the unmade king-sized bed, and pulled Louis’s side of the duvet over his shoulders, burying his nose into the pillow that still smelled faintly of cedarwood and tea.

He closed his eyes, shivering under the covers, completely consumed by the strange, frightening sickness that seemed to be pulling him under.

The steering wheel felt cold under Louis’s hands as he sat parked outside St. Jude’s Academy, the engine idling smoothly. He stared down at his phone screen for the fifth time in ten minutes.

Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system…

Louis pulled the phone away from his ear with a tight, frustrated breath, tapping the screen to end the call. Harry hadn't answered since two o'clock. It was almost four now. Harry never ignored his calls, especially on a Monday when they usually coordinated who was picking up the twins or what they needed from the market.

Just as a knot of worry began to twist in Louis's chest, his phone buzzed with a text.

Sarah (Gallery): Hi Louis, just wanted to let you know Harry went home early around 1:30. He really wasn't looking well at all—pale, nauseous, and dizzy. He cancelled his 3 PM meeting. Hope he's okay!

Louis stared at the text, his heart dropping. He immediately fired off a message to Harry.

Louis: Sarah told me you went home sick, Haz. I’m picking up the kids now. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be home soon.

He watched the message sent, but the little status under the text remained unread.

The back door of the car clicked open, and Ivy slipped into the passenger seat while Finn carefully navigated his booted leg into the back.

"Hey, Dad," Ivy said, pulling off her backpack. "Where’s Papa? Isn't he usually here on Mondays?"

"Papa went home early today, love," Louis said, pulling out of the school parking lot. "He's not feeling well."

Finn leaned forward between the front seats, his brow furrowed in genuine concern. "What's wrong with him? Is it his stomach again? He was looking really pale yesterday during dinner."

"Sarah said he was dizzy and nauseous," Louis replied softly, glancing at Finn in the rearview mirror. "So we're going to make a quick stop at the shop, grab some light soup, some hydration salts, and painkillers, and then head straight home."

"He's been throwing up a lot lately," Ivy murmured, looking out the window, her tone laced with quiet worry. "Last week, I heard him in the bathroom before school. He said it was just a migraine, but he never used to get migraines like this."

"I know," Louis said, his voice dropping into a tender, gentle tone. "Don't worry, Evie. I'll take care of him. We'll get him sorted."

Twenty minutes later, Louis unlocked the front door, balancing a bag of takeaway chicken broth, fresh bread, and a small pharmacy bag in his arms. The house was dead quiet, dark, and chilly.

"Alright, you two," Louis whispered, setting the bags on the kitchen island. "Ivy, help your brother set his leg up on the sofa. There's warm broth and bread here—eat your dinner, do your homework, and keep the TV volume down, okay? I'm going up to check on him."

"Tell him we hope he feels better, Dad," Finn said quietly from the hallway, leaning on his crutches.

"I will, mate," Louis promised.

Louis poured a fresh glass of room-temperature water, grabbed the pharmacy bag, and walked softly up the carpeted stairs. He reached the master bedroom, pushing the cracked door open without a sound.

The room was dim, the heavy curtains drawn tight against the late afternoon sun. Harry was buried beneath a mountain of covers, curled tightly into a ball on Louis's side of the bed, his face partially hidden in the pillow.

Louis set the water glass and the medicine on the nightstand, stepping quietly around the bed. He knelt beside the mattress, reaching out to gently touch Harry's shoulder.

"Haz?" Louis whispered softly. "Haz, baby, wake up for a second."

Harry stirred, letting out a small, weak moan. He shifted slowly, his green eyes opening halfway, unfocused and heavy with feverish exhaustion. When he recognized Louis's face hovering above him, his lower lip trembled slightly.

"Louis?" Harry croaked out, his voice practically gone.

"Hey, love," Louis murmured, his heart breaking at how small and fragile Harry looked. He reached out, pressing the back of his warm hand against Harry’s forehead, then down to his cheek. "God, you're so warm, Haz. You're burning up a bit."

"Everything hurts," Harry whimpered, his fingers blindly reaching out from under the duvet to search for Louis's hand. "My head... my stomach feels terrible, Lou. I feel so sick."

Louis instantly caught Harry's cold fingers, wrapping his hand around them and squeezing gently. "I know, sweetheart. I know. Sarah texted me and told me you had to leave the gallery."

"I threw up twice in my office," Harry whispered, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, his cheeks flushing pink. "It was awful. I couldn't even stand up without the room spinning."

"Oh, baby," Louis cooed softly, leaning down to press a tender kiss to Harry's warm temple, lingering there for a long moment. "Why didn't you call me to come get you? You shouldn't have driven home like that."

"Didn't want to bother you at work," Harry mumbled, burying his nose against Louis's wrist, soaking in the familiar, comforting scent of him. "You had meetings."

"Don't ever say that," Louis said, his voice sharp with gentle scolding, though his eyes were brimming with pure affection. "I don't give a damn about meetings when you're like this, Haz. You know that."

Louis stood up, gently pulling back the heavy duvet just enough to help Harry sit up against the pillows.

"I brought some light chicken broth from the place down the street," Louis said, sitting on the edge of the mattress beside him. "And some anti-nausea medicine. You need to eat a few spoonfuls so you can take the pills, alright?"

Harry shook his head weakly, leaning his head back against the headboard with his eyes closed. "No... no food, Lou. Please. Just thinking about it makes me want to gag."

"Just three spoonfuls, Haz," Louis coaxed softly, reaching over to pick up the small container of warm broth he’d brought up on a tray. "For me? Your stomach is empty, love. That's why you're so dizzy."

Harry opened his eyes, looking at Louis with a quiet, exhausted plea. But seeing the deep, genuine worry etched into Louis's blue eyes, he gave a tiny, resigned nod.

Louis blew on a small spoonful of the warm broth, bringing it carefully to Harry's pale lips. "There you go. Slowly, baby."

Harry took the soup, swallowing hard, his throat working as he fought down the sudden flare of nausea. He managed four small spoonfuls before he placed his hand weakly against Louis's wrist, pushing it away.

"That's enough... please, Lou. No more."

"Okay. Good boy," Louis murmured, setting the bowl down. He popped a small anti-nausea tablet out of its foil packet and handed it to Harry, along with the glass of water. "Here. Take this, and then you can lie back down."

Harry swallowed the pill with a quick sip of water, leaning back instantly and closing his eyes as a sudden bout of lightheadedness hit him.

Louis set the glass down, then carefully climbed onto the bed beside him. He pulled the duvet back over Harry’s shoulders, sliding his arm under Harry's neck and pulling his long body tight against his chest. Harry immediately melted into the embrace, burying his warm face into the crook of Louis's neck, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of relief.

"I think we need to go to the clinic tomorrow morning, Haz," Louis whispered into Harry's curls, his hand gently stroking up and down Harry's back. "This isn't just a day-long bug. You've been off for almost three weeks now."

"No," Harry mumbled against his skin, his hand clutching the fabric of Louis's shirt tightly. "No clinic. I hate clinics."

"Harry, be reasonable," Louis said softly, his thumb gently smoothing over Harry's cheekbone. "You're nauseous every day, you're dizzy, your moods are all over the place... I'm worried about you."

"I don't want to go, Lou," Harry whimpered, his tone turning childishly stubborn, the way it always did when he was sick and miserable. "I just want to stay here with you. Just stay with me? Please?"

Louis let out a quiet, affectionate sigh, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of Harry's head. He knew there was no point in arguing with Harry when he was this weak and emotional.

"Alright," Louis murmured softly into the quiet room. "We won't go tonight. But if you're still burning up tomorrow, I'm taking you whether you like it or not."

"Okay," Harry whispered, his breathing already beginning to slow down as the medicine began to take effect, his body relaxing entirely against Louis's warmth. "Thank you."

"Always, baby," Louis whispered back, tightening his arms around Harry in the dim, peaceful bedroom. "I'm right here."

The soft, rhythmic sound of the rainfall against the bedroom window blended with the quiet hum of the air conditioner. Inside, the master bedroom was bathed in a gentle, warm light from the bedside lamp.

Harry’s fever was beginning to break, leaving his skin cool and clammy. He was curled up on his side, his face buried comfortably in Louis’s neck, one long arm wrapped tightly over Louis’s waist. Louis sat propped up against the headboard, his hand lazily running his fingers through Harry’s damp curls, keeping his thumb resting gently against the side of Harry’s neck to feel his steady, calm pulse.

A faint, cautious knock sounded on the bedroom door.

"Dad?" Ivy’s voice came through the crack, barely above a whisper. "Papa?"

Louis paused his hand in Harry’s hair, looking toward the door. "Come in, sweethearts. Keep it quiet, Papa’s resting."

The door swung open slowly. Ivy stepped in first, holding two steaming mugs of chamomile tea. Behind her came Finn, carefully maneuvering his crutches while balancing a small bowl of sliced apples under his arm.

Seeing their father propped up with their papa held securely against his chest, both twins stopped in their tracks. A shared, quiet look passed between them, their faces instantly softening into identical, fond smiles.

"How is he?" Finn asked quietly, shuffling over to the side of the bed and carefully resting his crutches against the nightstand before sinking down onto the edge of the mattress.

"Fever’s coming down," Louis murmured, offering them a warm, tired smile. "The anti-nausea meds kicked in, so he’s finally getting some sleep. Did you two finish your dinner?"

"Yeah," Ivy said, walking around to the other side of the bed and setting the mugs on the nightstand. She climbed onto the mattress, curling her legs under herself right near Harry’s head. "We ate all the soup. And I made tea for you guys."

"Thank you, love," Louis said softly, reaching out with his free hand to gently pull a loose lock of hair behind Ivy's ear. "You're a lifesaver."

Harry stirred slightly at the sound of their voices. He let out a low, breathy sigh, his eyelids fluttering open slowly. He blinked through the dim light, his green eyes still glossy from sleep, taking a second to register the two familiar faces sitting on either side of the bed.

"Ivy?" Harry croaked out, his voice raspy and small. "Finn?"

"Hey, Papa," Finn said gently, leaning over to carefully stroke Harry’s forearm. "You woke up. How are you feeling?"

"Better," Harry whispered, a tiny, weak smile touching his lips. He shifted slightly, burying his face deeper into Louis's shoulder before peeking out at his children. "Did you two eat?"

"We ate, Papa," Ivy reassured him, reaching over to softly smooth down the curls on Harry's forehead. "You don't need to worry about anything. Dad gave us soup and bread."

"See?" Louis murmured into Harry’s ear, his arm tightening around Harry's waist in a quick, affectionate squeeze. "Told you I had it under control. The kids are looking after us now."

"We're looking after you," Finn corrected with a sly grin, pointing an apple slice at Louis. "Papa’s the one who's sick. You just look like you haven't slept in three days."

"Hey, respect your elders," Louis chuckled quietly, throwing a spare pillow at Finn’s chest, making Finn laugh out loud before quickly catching himself so he wouldn't startle Harry.

"It's true, Dad," Ivy giggled, leaning her head against Louis’s shoulder on the other side. "You looked like a crazy person rushing into the house with all those pharmacy bags earlier."

"I was concerned," Louis said defensively, though his blue eyes were shining with pure warmth as he looked at his daughter. "Your papa is terrible at taking care of himself when he's sick."

"I am not," Harry mumbled defensively into Louis’s neck, though his hand squeezed Louis's shirt tightly, contradicting his own words.

"You literally refused to go to the clinic fifteen minutes ago," Louis pointed out fondly, leaning down to press a sweet, lingering kiss to the top of Harry's nose. "You're a terrible patient."

"Because you're here," Harry whispered softly, his voice thick with unrefined, honest emotion. "I don't need a clinic when you're here."

The room went completely quiet for a beat.

Ivy looked at Finn, a massive, radiant smile breaking across her face. Finn shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he picked up another apple slice.

"You guys are so gross," Finn said fondly, though his eyes were shiny with happy tears. "Seriously. Five years of yelling, and now you're like this."

"Shut up, Finn," Harry murmured, though a rosy flush bloomed across his cheeks as he opened his eyes to look at his son. "Come here."

Finn didn't hesitate. He leaned forward, awkwardly resting his top half over the bed so he could wrap his arms around both Harry and Louis, leaning his head against Harry’s shoulder. Ivy slid down from her position, wrapping her arms around Louis's side, burying her face into her father's arm.

For the first time in five long, painful years, the four of them were tangled together in one big, warm pile on the master bed. There were no harsh words, no awkward silences, no lingering bitterness—just the simple, unshakeable comfort of a family that had finally found its way back together.

Louis rested his chin on top of Harry’s head, his arms wrapped around both Harry and Ivy, while his hand reached out to hold Finn’s shoulder securely.

"We're gonna be okay, aren't we, Dad?" Ivy whispered into the quiet room, her voice soft and hopeful.

Louis closed his eyes, pressing his lips gently against Harry's forehead, feeling the steady, healthy warmth of Harry's breathing against his chest.

"Yeah, Evie," Louis promised, his voice steady, soft, and full of deep conviction. "We're gonna be just fine."

The soft click of the bedroom door closing signaled that the twins had finally retreated to their own rooms for the night. The house fell back into a peaceful, heavy quiet, saved only by the faint tapping of rain against the windowpane.

Louis stretched his legs out under the duvet, letting out a long, contented sigh as he pulled Harry closer against his side. Harry was still a bit warm, his cheek resting flat against Louis’s chest, his fingers loosely looping through the hem of Louis’s t-shirt.

"Lou?" Harry murmured into the dark, his voice thick and raspy from sleep.

"Yeah, baby?" Louis replied softly, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Harry's messy curls. "What is it? You in pain?"

"No," Harry whispered, shifting slightly, his green eyes opening to look up at Louis in the dim amber light of the bedside lamp. "I'm hungry."

Louis let out a quiet, affectionate chuckle. "Well, that’s a good sign. The meds must be working. Do you want me to go downstairs and grab you some toast?"

"No, not now," Harry said, pouting his lips slightly, his thumb absentmindedly stroking Louis’s hip. "Tomorrow morning. For breakfast. I want you to make me pancakes."

"Pancakes?" Louis smiled, amused by the sudden request. "I just made pancakes for everyone this morning, Haz."

"Not those pancakes," Harry corrected quickly, his tone turning surprisingly intense for someone who had been practically unconscious an hour ago. "I want the oats one. But don't use white sugar, Lou. Use the wild forest honey from the second pantry shelf. And don't put butter on the pan, use the coconut oil. And I want three sliced bananas on top, but cut them thick. Not thin."

Louis blinked, staring down at him in mild disbelief. He pressed the back of his hand to Harry’s forehead again, checking his temperature. "Are you sure the fever isn't messing with your head? That is remarkably specific, Haz."

"I'm serious, Lou," Harry whined softly, burying his face back into Louis’s neck and giving his waist a small, demanding squeeze. "Promise me you'll make it like that. Exactly like that."

"Alright, alright," Louis murmured warmly, wrapping his arms securely around Harry's waist, assuming it was just the residual fever and exhaustion making him unusually demanding. "I promise. Wild honey, coconut oil, thick bananas. I'll make it the second we wake up. Now go back to sleep, love."

"Okay," Harry whispered, letting out a satisfied breath and closing his eyes, instantly relaxing into Louis’s heat.

The next morning, the sun had barely cracked through the blinds when Harry’s eyes snapped open.

He didn't even wait for Louis to properly stir. Harry immediately turned over, his hands coming up to shake Louis’s shoulder with insistence.

"Lou. Lou, wake up," Harry urged, his voice surprisingly bright despite the faint lingering paleness on his face.

Louis groaned softly, his eyes opening to narrow slits against the morning light. "Mmm... Haz? What time is it? You feeling alright?"

"I'm fine, I'm better, but I need the pancakes," Harry said, practically hovering over him, his lower lip pushed out in a desperate pout. "You promised last night, Lou. You said you’d make them the second we woke up."

Louis blinked slowly, trying to process the frantic energy radiating off the younger man. "Haz... it’s six-thirty in the morning. Let me at least brush my teeth first, bro. Calm down."

"I'm starving, Lou!" Harry pushed his shoulder again, his tone sharp and urgent, his mood swinging from needy to irritable in a split second. "I've been thinking about the honey and the coconut oil all night. Please just go down and make them now."

Louis stared at him for a moment, completely taken aback by the sheer aggression behind Harry's breakfast craving. But seeing the genuine, desperate look in Harry’s green eyes, Louis just shook his head with a fond, bewildered smile.

"Alright, alright, don't throw a fit," Louis chuckled, throwing the covers off his legs. "I'm going. God, you're pushy when you're recovering."

Twenty minutes later, the kitchen smelled strongly of warm coconut oil and melted honey. Louis was plating up a stack of four thick, golden oat pancakes, carefully arranging the thick-cut banana slices on top just as instructed.

Harry came hurrying down the stairs, already seated at the dining table before Louis even set the plate down.

"Here you go, your majesty," Louis teased, setting the plate down alongside a fork and a glass of orange juice. "Four oat pancakes with wild honey and thick—"

Before Louis could even finish his sentence, Harry picked up his fork and practically dove into the food. He cut off a massive chunk, shoving it into his mouth and chewing with absolute, pure bliss closing his eyes.

"God, Lou," Harry mumbled around his food, his cheeks stuffed like a squirrel’s. "This is so good. This is literally the best thing I've ever eaten."

Louis sat down across from him, resting his chin in his hand, watching in absolute shock. For the past three weeks, Harry had barely picked at his food, eating half a piece of dry toast or a few spoonfuls of broth before complaining of nausea. Now, he was inhaling his third pancake in less than two minutes.

The kitchen door opened, and the twins walked in, dressed in their school uniforms. Finn was leaning on his crutches, stopping dead in his tracks as he saw Harry practically scraping the plate clean.

Finn looked at Ivy, then back at Harry. "Holy shit, Papa. Did you just come back from a famine?"

Harry froze, his fork halfway to his mouth, his cheeks turning a bright, flustered red. "What?"

"That's why I told you to eat dinner yesterday," Finn scoffed playfully, shuffling over to grab an apple from the counter. "Now you're starving and eating like a monster."

Harry’s face dropped instantly. The embarrassment swept over him, quickly twisting into a sudden, volatile flash of annoyance. He set his fork down with a loud, sharp click against the ceramic.

"I am not eating like a monster, Finn," Harry snapped, his voice tight, his eyes suddenly welling up with dramatic, unexpected tears. "I was sick! I haven't eaten properly in days!"

"Whoa, Finn, leave your papa alone," Louis said quickly, giving Finn a stern look before turning his attention back to Harry.

Finn held his hands up in surrender, looking thoroughly confused by the dramatic reaction. "I was just joking, Papa, sorry..."

Harry made a bitter face, shoving his plate an inch away, his appetite suddenly ruined. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, pouting like a teenager.

Louis immediately stood up, walking around the table and resting his hands gently on Harry’s shoulders, leaning down to speak softly against his temple. "Hey. It's okay, baby. Don't listen to him. You eat as much as you want. I'm just happy seeing you with an appetite."

Harry sniffled, refusing to look up at Louis, his lower lip trembling. "He's mean."

"He's a sixteen-year-old idiot," Louis murmured fondly, pressing a sweet kiss to Harry’s cheek. "Eat the rest of your pancake, Haz. It's fine."

Harry took a small, hesitant bite, still sulking, but the delicious taste quickly won him over.

Louis chuckled softly, smoothing down Harry's wild morning curls. "Man, seeing you like this... you know what this reminds me of?"

Harry chewed slowly, looking up at him through his eyelashes. "What?"

"You remember when you were pregnant with the twins?" Louis smiled softly, his eyes filling with nostalgic warmth. "You were craving those weird peanut butter and pickle sandwiches at three in the morning. And if I didn't get the exact brand of peanut butter, you'd cry for an hour."

Louis meant it purely as a sweet, fond memory of their past. He didn't think for a single second that Harry was pregnant—after all, they had been separated for five years, and they had only reconnected weeks ago.

So when Louis said it, he expected a small laugh or a soft memory in return.

Instead, Harry’s brain went entirely renegade.

The word pregnant echoed in Harry's head, instantly twisted by his volatile, hormone-riddled brain. Harry’s eyes widened, his head snapping up to stare at Louis with absolute, wounded shock.

"Are you calling me fat?" Harry gasped out, his voice cracking dramatically.

Louis froze, his hands still on Harry's shoulders, his expression going entirely blank. "What? No! Haz, how did you even—"

"You think I'm eating too much and getting fat!" Harry stood up so fast his chair scraped violently against the floorboards. Tears spilled over his cheeks as he pointed an accusing finger at Louis. "First Finn calls me a monster, and now you're bringing up when I was bloated and carrying twins! You think I look terrible!"

"Harry, no, baby, wait!" Louis pleaded, his hands coming up in total panic as he tried to grasp what had just gone wrong. "I didn't say that at all! I was just remembering how cute you were when—"

"I don't want to talk to you!" Harry huffed out, his chest heaving, his face bright red as he turned around and marched straight out of the dining room, his heavy footsteps echoing up the stairs before his bedroom door slammed shut.

In the kitchen, the twins stood frozen.

Finn slowly turned to look at Louis, his jaw slightly open. "Dad... what just happened?"

Louis pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. "I have no idea, mate. I literally have no idea."

Ten minutes later, Louis knocked softly on the master bedroom door.

"Haz? Love? Can I come in?"

There was a heavy, moody silence, followed by a muffled, "No."

Louis opened the door anyway, stepping into the room. Harry was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back turned, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his shoulders tense.

Louis walked over softly, sinking onto his knees right in front of Harry, resting his hands on Harry’s thighs. He looked up at Harry’s pouty, tear-stained face with endless patience and gentle devotion.

"I'm so sorry, baby," Louis whispered, reaching up to gently wipe a stray tear from Harry's cheek with his thumb. "I promise you, in my life, I never thought you were fat. You are the most beautiful person I have ever laid eyes on. I was just missing our past, Haz. That was all."

Harry looked down at him, his green eyes wet, his lower lip still pushed out in a lingering pout. "Really?"

"Really," Louis promised softly, leaning up to press a lingering, sweet kiss to Harry’s mouth. "You're perfect, Haz. I love you so much. Please don't be mad at me."

Harry let out a small, shaky breath, his posture finally relaxing. He reached out, his long fingers gently running through Louis's hair. "Okay. I'm sorry for yelling."

"It's okay, love," Louis smiled, kissing his knuckles. "I took a day off today to stay with you, but I need to quickly drive the kids to school first. Will you be okay for twenty minutes while I run them over?"

"Yeah," Harry whispered softly, giving him a small, weak nod. "Go ahead. I'll just stay in bed."

"Good boy," Louis murmured, pressing one last kiss to Harry's forehead before standing up. "I'll be right back."

Once the front door clicked shut and the sound of Louis’s car engine faded down the driveway, the house descended into complete silence.

Harry lay in bed for a few minutes, staring up at the white ceiling. The lingering moodiness was starting to fade, replaced by a strange, hollow sensation in his chest. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, deciding to go downstairs to get a glass of water.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, stepping into the living hallway—and suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks.

A sharp, violent wave of revulsion hit him like a physical blow.

His nostrils flared as a scent invaded his senses. It was the soft, vanilla-and-sandalwood reed diffuser sitting on the console table in the living room.

It was the exact same scent he had used for the last four years. He bought the refills in bulk. He had lived with this fragrance every single day without a second thought.

But right now, in this exact second, the smell hit his throat like toxic chemicals. It tasted bitter, sickening, and completely intolerable.

"Ugh, god," Harry gasped out, his hands slamming over his nose and mouth as his stomach violently churned.

He lunged forward, grabbing the glass bottle off the console table with shaking hands, not even caring that a few drops of oil spilled onto his fingers. He practically ran into the kitchen, shoved the pedal on the dustbin, and threw the entire diffuser into the trash, slamming the lid shut.

He stood over the bin, leaning his hands against the kitchen counter, his chest heaving as he fought down a surge of dry-heaving.

Why did I just do that?

The thought popped into his head, cold and sudden.

Harry stared down at the dustbin lid. I’ve used that scent for four years. Why did it make me want to throw up?

His brain, previously clouded by fever and emotional mood swings, suddenly connected the dots with terrifying, razor-sharp clarity.

The dizziness. The severe nausea for three weeks. The extreme, irrational mood swings. The intense, hyper-specific food cravings at seven in the morning. The sudden, violent hatred of a familiar smell.

Harry’s blood ran completely cold. His breath caught in his throat, a sudden, suffocating panic seizing his heart.

"No," Harry whispered out loud to the empty kitchen, his voice trembling violently. "No, no, no... what the fuck?"

He turned around, his legs moving on pure adrenaline as he rushed back up the stairs, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He burst into his private master bathroom, pulling open the drawers beneath the sink in a frenzy.

He shoved aside extra soap bars, bandages, and old medicine bottles until his fingers brushed against a small, forgotten white box tucked in the very back corner.

After he and Louis had divorced five years ago, Harry had kept a small, discrete stash of emergency supplies in his bathroom—condoms, birth control pills, and two pregnancy tests. He had never needed them. They had sat in the back of the drawer, untouched, gathering dust.

Until today.

With trembling, icy fingers, Harry ripped the cardboard box open, pulling out the clear plastic wrapping. His hands were shaking so hard he almost dropped the white stick onto the tile floor.

"Please," Harry whimpered, tears pouring down his cheeks as he sat on the toilet lid, his chest rising and falling in rapid, terrified gasps. "Please, god, no..."

He took the test.

He set the small white stick flat on the edge of the marble sink counter, stepping back two paces as if it were an unexploded bomb. He covered his mouth with both hands, staring at the small, blank digital window.

The timer on his phone ticked down. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes.

The small digital screen flickered.

A bold, unmistakable dark line appeared. And then, right beside it, a second dark line settled firmly into place.

POSITIVE.

Harry’s knees completely gave out. He collapsed onto the cold bathroom tile, staring up at the counter in absolute, paralyzed terror, his breath hitching as a sob tore out of his throat.

He is pregnant.

The cold marble tile of the bathroom floor offered no comfort as Harry sat slumped against the wall, the white plastic stick resting heavy in his palm. Two solid, dark lines stared back at him with unapologetic clarity.

He was thirty-four years old. He had sixteen-year-old twins who were practically old enough to learn how to drive. And now, he was sitting on a bathroom floor, pregnant with his ex-husband’s baby—weeks after they had finally stopped tearing each other apart.

"God," Harry choked out, burying his face into his knees, his shoulders shaking with silent, terrified sobs. "God, what am I going to do?"

Panic surged through his veins, thick and suffocating. Everything was so fragile. They had only just started sleeping in the same bed again. They hadn't talked about the future. Louis hadn't mentioned remarrying, hadn't mentioned moving back in permanently, hadn't said a single word about what they were actually doing. How could Harry walk up to him and say, 'Surprise, I'm pregnant again, five years after our divorce'?

The pressure pressed down on his chest like a ton of bricks. He wanted Louis to want him first. He wanted a proposal, a ring, a proper commitment—not a shotgun reunion forced by an unexpected pregnancy.

Hearing the faint sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway, Harry snapped into motion.

"Shit, shit, shit," he whispered frantically, wiping his wet face with his sleeves. He grabbed the test, wrapped it in three layers of toilet paper, and shoved it deep into the very bottom of his personal washbag, zipping it shut. He ran cold water over his face, scrubbing his cheeks until he looked somewhat composed, then smoothed down his curls.

By the time the front door unlocked, Harry was sitting on the living room sofa, a soft blanket draped over his lap, holding a book he wasn't actually reading.

"Haz?" Louis’s voice carried down the hallway, warm and grounding. "I'm back, love. How are you feeling?"

Louis walked into the living room, tossing his keys into the bowl. He looked relaxed, his dark hair slightly windswept, a small, affectionate smile playing on his lips as he stepped toward the sofa. He leaned down, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to Harry’s forehead.

"You look a bit better," Louis murmured, sitting down on the cushion right beside him, taking Harry’s cold hand into his own. "Fever gone?"

"Yeah," Harry lied, his voice remarkably steady despite the chaotic storm raging in his mind. "Fever's gone. I... I just felt a bit tired."

"Good," Louis said softly, stroking the back of Harry's hand with his thumb. "I'm glad. I'm gonna make us some lunch around twelve, alright? You just stay here and rest."

"Okay," Harry whispered, leaning his head against Louis's shoulder.

As Louis’s arm came around him, pulling him close, Harry closed his eyes. The familiar scent of cedarwood and tea washed over him, and for a second, Harry’s mind drifted backward, escaping the overwhelming terror of the present into the safety of the past.

The tiny, cramped one-bedroom flat in Doncaster smelled like damp laundry and stale toast. The heating was broken again, leaving the small living room freezing cold.

Eighteen-year-old Harry sat on the sagging sofa, wrapped in three mismatched blankets, his bottom lip trembling as he stared down at his small, rounded stomach. He was six months pregnant with the twins, his body aching, his emotions wild and unpredictable.

Twenty-year-old Louis had just stumbled through the door after a sixteen-hour shift—eight hours at the garage, followed by eight hours loading crates at the local warehouse. His face was pale with exhaustion, dark circles heavy under his eyes, his hands grease-stained.

"Haz?" Louis had rasped out softly, dropping his heavy work boots by the door. He instantly noticed the silent tears streaming down Harry's cheeks. "Baby? What's wrong? Are you in pain? Is it the baby?"

Harry had shaken his head frantically, sobbing louder as he pulled the blanket over his face. "No... no, I'm fine..."

Louis was on his knees in front of the sofa in two seconds flat, gently pulling the blanket down to cup Harry’s tear-stained face in his calloused hands. "Haz, talk to me, please. What happened? Did something hurt?"

"I want strawberries," Harry had wept, his lower lip pushing out in a devastating, heartbroken pout. "The fresh ones from the bakery down the lane. The ones with the thick cream."

Louis had blinked, taking a slow breath. A punnet of those bakery strawberries cost six pounds—money they genuinely did not have. They had eleven pounds total in their joint bank account to last until Friday.

"Haz..." Louis had murmured softly, his heart breaking at the sight of Harry’s tears. "Sweetheart, you know we're a bit tight this week..."

"I know!" Harry had wailed, burying his face into Louis’s shoulder, his small hands clutching Louis's dirty work jacket. "That's why I'm crying, Lou! I don't want you to spend money! You're working sixteen hours a day, you're exhausted, and I'm sitting here being useless and craving six-pound strawberries! I'm crying because I hate that I want something you can't give me!"

Louis had gone completely still. He had wrapped his arms tight around Harry's waist, holding him close, kissing the side of his neck while Harry sobbed out his guilt.

"You're not useless, Haz," Louis had whispered fiercely into his neck. "You're carrying our babies. Don't you ever say that."

An hour later, after Harry had finally cried himself to sleep on the sofa, Louis had quietly slipped his coat back on. He had walked three miles in the freezing rain to his manager’s house, offering to clean the warehouse floor overnight for an extra tenner in cash.

When Harry woke up at seven the next morning, a fresh, cold punnet of bakery strawberries and a thick jar of cream were sitting on the small wooden table beside the sofa. Louis was fast asleep on the floor beside him, still wearing his wet jacket, holding Harry's hand tightly in his sleep.

Harry blinked, coming back to the present. He looked at Louis, who was currently sitting beside him on the sofa, scrolling on his phone while lazily rubbing Harry's hip.

He loved me so much back then, Harry thought, a lump forming in his throat. He worked himself to the bone for me. But we were kids. Now we're adults with a whole history of pain between us. How does he feel now?

"Alright," Louis said, snapping Harry out of his thoughts as he stood up with a stretch. "It's past twelve. I'm gonna go toss together some lunch. How about some grilled salmon and asparagus? I bought fresh fish yesterday."

The mere mention of grilled salmon made Harry's stomach do a violent, sickening flip.

"No," Harry said quickly, his voice high-pitched with panic. "No salmon. Please, no."

Louis turned around, looking amused. "No salmon? You love salmon, Haz."

"Not today," Harry mumbled, shifting uncomfortably on the cushions, crossing his arms over his chest to hide his abdomen. "I... I don't want fish. Just make whatever you want, but keep the smell away from me."

"Alright, alright, sensitive nose today," Louis chuckled, stepping into the kitchen.

Harry listened to the sounds of pans clattering. A few minutes later, the kitchen pedal bin clicked open.

There was a pause.

"Haz?" Louis called out from the kitchen, his voice carrying a tinge of confusion.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. "Yeah?"

Louis walked back into the living room doorway, holding the glass diffuser bottle Harry had thrown away an hour ago. "Why is this in the dustbin? It's three-quarters full. Did it leak or something?"

Harry’s breath hitched. He quickly looked away, his fingers clutching the blanket tightly. "Oh. Yeah. It... it cracked. The oil was getting everywhere."

Louis frowned, turning the bottle over in his hand, examining the glass. "Cracked? It looks completely fine, Haz. And it smells nice, it's that vanilla stuff you always buy—"

"I said it's broken, Louis!" Harry snapped suddenly, his voice sharp, dramatic, and laced with immediate defensive anger. "Just throw it out! Why are you digging through the trash anyway?"

Louis froze, staring at Harry in absolute astonishment. "Whoa. Calm down, Haz. I was just asking a question. You don't have to bite my head off."

Harry’s eyes instantly filled with hot, uninvited tears. The sudden burst of anger melted into overwhelming embarrassment and panic. He buried his face in his hands, letting out a small, miserable sob.

Louis set the diffuser down on the dining table immediately, rushing over to sink onto the sofa beside Harry, his arms wrapping tightly around Harry’s shaking shoulders.

"Hey, hey... Haz, what is going on with you today?" Louis coaxed softly, his voice dripping with deep concern and tenderness. He pulled Harry’s hands away from his face, kissing his wet cheeks. "Sweetheart, talk to me. You've been a bundle of nerves all morning. Are you still feeling sick? Are you stressed about work?"

"I'm just tired," Harry whimpered, burying his face in the crook of Louis's neck, clinging to his shirt like a lifeline. "I'm just really tired, Lou."

"I know, baby," Louis whispered, his hand gently smoothing down Harry's curls, holding him tight. "I've got you. You don't have to eat the salmon. I'll make you some plain pasta, okay? Whatever you want."

"Okay," Harry whispered against his skin, tears soaking into Louis's collar.

He held onto Louis tightly, his mind racing, hiding his secret close to his chest. He knew he couldn't hide it forever. But for today, sitting in Louis’s arms, Harry just held on, terrified of what tomorrow would bring.

🍄

Two weeks had passed, and the quiet rhythm of the house felt like walking on eggshells.

Harry’s body was changing in ways he couldn't hide anymore. His usual sleek, tailored trousers were getting painfully tight around the waist, and his favorite silk shirts hung differently over his torso. A faint, soft curve had settled over his lower stomach—not a full bump yet, but enough that his fitted knit tops strained against it.

Along with his changing body came a senses overload. Smells overwhelmed him, his dizziness lingered, and his emotions were volatile. One minute he was cuddled up on the sofa, and the next, a single misspoken word could trigger an absolute avalanche of tears or explosive anger.

It was Thursday evening, and the four of them were sitting around the dining table for a dinner of roasted chicken and vegetables.

"So then Mr. Harrison literally told Marcus that if he didn't put his phone away, he'd have to sit in the front row for the rest of the term," Ivy said, laughing as she cut a piece of chicken. "And Marcus looked like he was about to cry."

Finn chuckled, reaching across the table to grab the salt shaker. "Serves him right. Marcus is an idiot anyway."

Harry sat at the head of the table, wearing an oversized beige cardigan over a simple white t-shirt. He was picking absently at his roasted potatoes, his jaw set, his green eyes dark with exhaustion.

Finn looked over at Harry, noticing his untouched plate, and offered a playful, familiar smirk. "What's wrong, Papa? You've been staring at that same potato for ten minutes. Are you trying to intimidate it?"

Usually, Harry would roll his eyes, offer a witty comeback, or flip a pea at Finn's forehead.

Instead, Harry set his fork down with a loud, sharp clatter against the ceramic plate. His face flushed a dark, angry red.

"I am eating, Finn," Harry snapped, his voice tight and sharp as a whip. "Can I not sit at my own dinner table without you scrutinizing every single mouth movement I make?"

The table went dead silent. Ivy’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Finn blinked, completely stunned, his smirk vanishing instantly.

"Papa, I was literally just joking—" Finn started softly, looking thoroughly bewildered.

"Well, it's not funny!" Harry raised his voice, his chest heaving under his cardigan as he stood up so fast his chair scraped violently against the floorboards. "I am sick and tired of the endless commentary on what I eat, how I look, and what I do! You two think you can just sit there and pick at me constantly!"

"Harry, love, hey," Louis said quickly, his hands coming up in a placating gesture as he stood up beside him. "Take a breath, Haz. He didn't mean anything by it."

"Don't tell me to take a breath, Louis!" Harry whipped his head toward Louis, his eyes welling up with sudden, furious tears. "You always take their side! I am exhausted, my body aches, and I am sick of being treated like a punchline in my own house!"

"Papa, we're so sorry," Ivy pleaded softly, her eyes wide with genuine distress. "We really didn't mean to upset you."

"We were just bantering, Papa," Finn added, looking down at his plate, his voice quiet and genuinely guilty. "We won't joke about it anymore. Promise."

"Just... stop," Harry choked out, a sob breaking through his throat. He turned around, pulling his cardigan tightly over his stomach, and hurried up the stairs, his bedroom door slamming shut seconds later.

Down in the dining room, the three of them stood in heavy silence.

Finn looked at Louis, rubbing the back of his neck in utter confusion. "Dad... what the fuck is going on with Papa? He’s been screaming at us over nothing for two weeks."

"Finn, language," Louis checked him automatically, though his own expression was deeply troubled and thoughtful.

"No, but seriously, Dad," Ivy said, crossing her arms and looking at Louis. "Why do you always take his side when he gets like this? He just yelled at Finn for asking about a potato!"

"Because your papa is going through something, Ivy," Louis said firmly, his blue eyes intense as he looked at both of his children. "And as long as I am in this house, I am going to back him up. He's tired, he's overwhelmed, and he needs our patience right now. Do you understand me?"

Ivy and Finn exchanged a quiet, resigned look before nodding softly.

"We're sorry, Dad," Finn murmured. "We'll go clean up the kitchen."

"Thank you, mate," Louis said, his tone softening. "I'm going to go check on him."

Louis walked up the stairs with slow, deliberate steps.

Over the past two weeks, pieces of a puzzle had been slowly clicking together in Louis's mind. The threw-away vanilla diffuser. The sudden craving for specific honey pancakes. The morning nausea that lasted for weeks. The subtle weight gain around Harry's hips and soft stomach. The wild, dramatic mood swings that mirrored the exact months Harry was carrying the twins eighteen years ago.

Louis wasn't stupid. He knew Harry's body better than anyone on earth.

He pushed the master bedroom door open softly.

The room was dark. Harry was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back turned to the door, his head buried in his hands as quiet, miserable sobs echoed through the space.

Louis walked over quietly, sinking down onto his knees right in front of Harry, just like he had weeks ago. He gently took Harry's wrists, pulling his hands away from his face.

"Haz," Louis whispered, his heart breaking at the raw distress in Harry's green eyes. "Hey... look at me, baby."

Harry looked down at him, his cheeks soaked with tears, his lower lip trembling. "I'm a terrible father, Lou. I just screamed at Finn over a potato. What is wrong with me?"

"You're not a terrible father, Haz," Louis said softly, reaching up to gently wipe the tears from Harry's cheeks. "You're just overwhelmed."

Louis stood up, shifting to sit beside Harry on the mattress. He wrapped one strong arm around Harry's shoulders, pulling him tight against his chest. Harry instantly buried his face into the nook of Louis's neck, letting out a long, shuddering sigh as his body relaxed against Louis's warmth.

Louis leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Harry's temple, then down to his cheek, before capturing Harry's lips in a slow, sweet, incredibly gentle kiss. Harry kissed him back with a quiet desperation, his fingers clutching tightly at Louis's shirt.

When Louis pulled back slightly, his hand slid down from Harry's back, moving toward Harry's waist.

For the past two weeks, Harry had avoided physical touch around his stomach—he wore loose clothes, pulled blankets up high, and gently pushed Louis's hands away whenever they wandered near his midsection. Louis had always loved resting his hand on Harry's stomach, tracing the faint, silvery stretch marks from when he carried Ivy and Finn.

As Louis's palm stroked over the side of Harry's waist, heading toward his lower stomach, Harry went completely rigid.

Harry reached down frantically, grabbing Louis's wrist and jerking his hand away from his body.

"Don't," Harry gasped out, his eyes wide with sudden panic as he pushed himself back toward the headboard.

Louis didn't pull away this time. He stayed seated on the edge of the bed, watching Harry with a soft, steady, and intensely knowing look in his blue eyes.

"Haz," Louis murmured gently, his voice smooth and remarkably calm. "Why won't you let me touch you?"

Harry swallowed hard, his throat working as he pressed his back against the headboard, pulling his knees up to his chest to cover his stomach. "Because... because I've gained weight. I look terrible. My clothes don't fit, I'm fat, and I didn't want you to look at me like this."

Louis stared at him for a beat, a small, incredibly fond smile slowly tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Haz... you know I don’t care if you've gained a bit of weight." Louis said softly, sliding closer to him on the bed. "I'd love you anyway. You could gain fifty pounds and you'd still be the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen."

Harry bit his lower lip, a fresh wave of heavy tears pooling in his eyes.

Louis reached out, his hand gently resting over Harry's crossed arms, his thumb stroking his skin. "But that's not why your stomach is soft, is it, Haz?"

Harry froze. The air in the room seemed to stop entirely.

"What?" Harry whispered, his voice barely a breath.

Louis looked right into Harry's green eyes, his expression melting into something so full of adoration, reverence, and soft emotion that Harry felt his breath catch.

"How many weeks along are you, baby?" Louis whispered softly.

Harry’s jaw dropped. He stared at Louis in absolute, paralyzed shock. "You... you know?"

"Haz, I've lived with you for sixteen years," Louis chuckled quietly, a tear glistening in his own eye as he reached out and gently moved Harry's arms out of the way. "You threw away a diffuser because of the smell, you demanded honey on your pancakes, you're nauseous every morning, and you screamed at Finn over a potato. I’ve been suspecting it."

Harry let out a loud, broken sob, burying his face in his hands. "Oh, god... Lou..."

Louis didn't hesitate. He reached out, gently pulling Harry's hands down, and slid his warm, broad palm flat over the soft curve of Harry's lower stomach. He pressed his hand there, feeling the quiet, incredible warmth beneath his palm.

"Hey," Louis murmured, leaning in to press a long, sweet kiss to Harry's forehead. "Why are you crying, love? This is amazing."

Harry looked up at him, thoroughly bewildered, his voice shaking. "You're... you're happy? You're not angry?"

Louis blinked, looking genuinely stunned by the question. "Angry? Haz, why on earth would I be angry? We're having a baby!"

"Because we just got back together!" Harry wept, clutching Louis's shirt. "We’re in our thirties. We have sixteen-year-old twins, Louis. Everything was so fragile between us, and I wanted... I wanted us to fix us first! I didn't want you to feel trapped into staying with me just because I got pregnant again!"

Louis stared at him, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. The worry, the distance, the secretiveness over the last two weeks—it all made sense now.

"Oh, Haz," Louis whispered, his voice thick with deep emotion. He pulled Harry into his lap, wrapping his arms securely around his waist, pressing Harry tight against his chest. "You absolute idiot. You thought I felt trapped?"

"I wanted a ring, Lou," Harry sobbed into Louis's neck, spilling his heart out completely. "I wanted you to choose me because you love me, not because of a baby. I wanted to be your husband again before we did any of this. I thought if I told you, you'd think I did it on purpose or that we were moving too fast, and you'd leave..."

Louis squeezed his eyes shut, pressing a firm, desperate kiss to the side of Harry's neck, holding him so tight Harry could feel the rapid beat of Louis's heart.

"Listen to me, Harry Edward," Louis said fiercely, pulling back to hold Harry's face in both his hands, forcing Harry to look him dead in the eye. "I have loved you since I was eighteen years old. I have spent the last five years of my life regretting every single day I wasn't married to you. I didn't stay in this house because of Finn's leg, and I'm not staying because of this baby. I am here because I love you. Only you."

Harry sobbed softly, resting his forehead against Louis's. "Really?"

"Really," Louis promised, his voice cracking with emotion. He brought his hand back down, resting it reverently over Harry's stomach, stroking the faint curve with endless gentleness. "I want a future with you, Haz. I want to grow old with you. I want to raise this baby with you, and I want to spend the rest of my life making up for the five years we lost."

Harry let out a long, shaky exhale, the heavy, suffocating weight that had rested on his chest for two weeks finally evaporating completely. He smiled through his tears, leaning in to press his lips against Louis's in a sweet, deep, lingering kiss.

"So," Louis whispered against his lips, a sly, radiant grin breaking across his face as he pulled back. "You said you wanted a ring?"

Harry blushed, looking down, his thumb nervously catching on the hem of his cardigan. "Well... yeah."

Louis stood up from the bed, grabbing Harry's hand and gently pulling him up with him.

"Where are we going?" Harry asked, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, still looking a little unsteady on his feet.

"Downstairs," Louis said softly, his blue eyes shining with quiet, absolute certainty. "Not to tell the kids about the baby just yet. Just to apologize for you yelling at Finn over a potato, and then tomorrow morning, first thing, we are going down to the register office and signing the marriage papers. I am not waiting another second to make you my husband again."

Harry let out a breathless, soft laugh, relief washing over him in warm waves. "Okay. Okay, yeah. Tomorrow."

Downstairs, the kitchen was quiet except for the low hum of the dishwasher. Ivy was leaning against the counter, scrolling on her phone, while Finn was putting away the clean dish towels.

When they heard footsteps, both kids looked up.

Harry walked in first, his face still a bit flush, his hands tucked nervously into his cardigan pockets. Louis stayed a pace behind him, a steady, grounded presence.

"Finn?" Harry called out quietly, stopping near the kitchen island.

Finn set the towel down, turning to face him. "Yeah, Papa?"

"I'm sorry," Harry said, his voice small, genuine tears rising in his green eyes again. "I shouldn't have raised my voice at you earlier. You were just making a harmless joke, and I completely overreacted."

Finn stared at him for a second, then let out a soft, breathy chuckle, waving a hand dismissively. "Papa, it's fine. Seriously. I was just surprised."

"It's not fine, love," Harry pressed, stepping closer to wrap his arms around Finn, burying his face into his son's shoulder. "I've been so moody and unbearable these past two weeks. I'm really sorry to both of you."

Ivy walked over, wrapping her arms around Harry's waist from the side, resting her head against his hip. "We know you haven't been feeling well, Papa. It's okay. We love you."

"Yeah," Finn murmured, hugging Harry back tightly. "Just don't throw any more forks at me."

"I didn't throw a fork at you," Harry sniffled, though a soft, wet laugh escaped him as he pulled back to kiss the top of Finn's and Ivy's heads.

Louis stood by the doorway, watching the three of them with a soft, affectionate smile resting on his lips, his heart completely full.

The next morning, the local register office was quiet and sunlit.

The paperwork took less than twenty minutes. There were no elaborate flower arrangements, no big crowds—just the two of them sitting across from a registrar, holding hands under the mahogany desk.

When Louis slipped the simple silver band back onto Harry’s left ring finger, Harry’s breath hitched. He stared down at it, the metal cool and familiar against his skin.

"There," Louis whispered, sliding his thumb over the ring, his eyes bright as he looked at his husband. "Back where it belongs."

Harry looked up, his green eyes glowing as he leaned in, pressing a slow, deep kiss to Louis’s lips. "I love you, Lou."

"I love you more, Haz."

When they pulled up to the house an hour later, the twins were on the living room sofa watching a morning show.

Louis walked in first, casually tossing the car keys into the bowl. "Hey, kids. Come here for a second."

Ivy peeked over the back of the sofa, frowning slightly. "Where did you guys go so early? Dad, you didn't even make coffee."

Harry walked in behind Louis, his hand raised slightly, his silver ring catching the morning sunlight pouring through the window.

Finn’s eyes landed on Harry’s hand first. He froze. "Wait. What is that?"

Ivy practically scrambled over the back of the couch, her jaw dropping. "No way. Did you guys...?"

"We went to the register office," Louis said, his voice brimming with pride as he pulled Harry by the waist, pressing a sweet kiss to the side of his head. "We're officially married again."

"Oh my god," Ivy squealed, throwing her arms around Louis's neck before pivoting to hug Harry so tightly he gasped. "Finally. God, you guys took forever."

Finn came shuffling over, a massive, genuine grin covering his face as he patted Louis's shoulder and pulled Harry into a quick, warm hug. "Congrats, Papa. Congrats, Dad. Does this mean we get a celebration dinner?"

"Better," Louis grinned, wrapping an arm around Harry’s shoulders. "We're going out for the whole day. Shopping, lunch, whatever you guys want."

By mid-afternoon, the local shopping mall was bustling. Louis had treated the twins to new clothes and shoes, while Harry walked beside Louis, quietly holding a paper bag from a bookshop.

As they passed a large department store, Louis stopped near a bench.

"Alright, you two," Louis said, looking at Ivy and Finn. "Here's two hundred pounds. Go grab whatever else you want, get some boba, and meet us back at the main entrance in two hours."

Finn raised an eyebrow, looking between Louis and Harry. "Why? Where are you guys going?"

"Your papa has a quick follow-up appointment for his stomach bug at the clinic down the street," Louis said smoothly, not missing a beat. "We'll be right back."

"Alright," Ivy said, taking the cash with a bright smile. "Don't take too long."

Once the twins walked off toward the electronics store, Louis turned to Harry, taking his cold hand into his. "You ready, love?"

Harry swallowed hard, nodding nervously. "Yeah. Let's go."

The private clinic was quiet, smelling faintly of clean linen and lavender. Ten minutes later, Harry was lying on the examination table, his t-shirt pulled up just enough to expose his soft lower stomach.

The doctor squeezed a cold dab of gel onto his skin, making Harry flinch slightly. Louis immediately leaned in, taking Harry's hand and lacing their fingers together, pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles.

"Alright, Mr. Styles," the doctor said softly, moving the ultrasound transducer over his skin. "Let's see what's going on in here."

The screen flickered from black to gray, and then, a faint, rhythmic tapping sound filled the small room.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Tears immediately welled in his green eyes as he stared at the screen, where a tiny, bean-shaped flicker was pulsing clearly.

"There's the heartbeat," the doctor smiled warmly. "Strong and steady. You're measuring right at eight weeks."

Louis stared at the monitor, his grip on Harry’s hand tightening. His blue eyes were glossy with unshed tears, a look of pure, breathtaking awe resting on his face.

"Look at that, Haz," Louis whispered, his voice cracking slightly as he leaned down, pressing his forehead against Harry's temple. "That's our baby."

Harry let out a small, wet sob, nodding continuously, his thumb stroking Louis's wedding ring. "It's really there."

By seven in the evening, they were back home, sitting around the dining table after finishing a takeout dinner. The atmosphere was light, filled with the twins chatting about their new shoes and school projects.

Harry, however, was barely touching his food. His fingers were trembling slightly under the table, his heart racing.

Louis noticed. He reached out under the table, finding Harry’s hand and squeezing it reassuringly.

"Hey," Louis spoke up loudly, cutting through Ivy's story about her friend's cat. "Your papa and I have something else to tell you guys."

The table quieted down instantly. Ivy and Finn both looked over, noticing how pale and nervous Harry looked.

"Papa, are you okay?" Ivy asked softly, her brow furrowing in concern. "You look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm fine, love," Harry whispered, trying to offer a small smile, but his voice quavered.

Louis took a deep breath, looking at both of his children with a calm, steady expression. "When we went to the clinic earlier... it wasn't for a stomach bug."

Finn set his glass of water down, looking confused. "Then what was it for?"

Louis shifted his chair closer to Harry, keeping his hand wrapped tightly around Harry's. "Your papa is pregnant."

Silence descended over the dining room.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body tensing up, terrified of what he was about to hear. The thoughts that had plagued him for weeks—that they'd be embarrassed, that they'd think thirty-four was too old, that sixteen-year-olds wouldn't want a newborn sibling—flooded his brain all at once.

"Wait," Finn said, his voice entirely flat. "Seriously?"

Harry opened his eyes, tears spilling over his eyelashes. "Finn, Ivy, please... I know it's weird, and I know you guys are sixteen and almost grown up, and I know it's a lot—"

"Papa, shut up," Ivy interrupted, her voice breathless as a massive, stunned smile broke across her face. "Are you actually serious? You're having a baby?"

Harry blinked, thoroughly caught off guard. "You're... you're not mad?"

"Mad?" Finn scoffed, a genuine laugh bursting out of his chest as he shook his head in utter disbelief. "Papa, why would we be mad? That's insane. We're gonna have a little brother or sister?"

"We get to be the cool older siblings!" Ivy squealed, hopping out of her chair and running around the table to wrap her arms around Harry's neck, hugging him so tight Harry let out a breathless, happy gasp. "Oh my god, Papa, don't cry! This is amazing!"

Finn walked over too, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder, looking at Louis with an amused smirk. "So that's why you were throwing pillows at me for making jokes about his food."

"Exactly," Louis laughed, pulling Finn into a quick, affectionate headlock. "Show some respect to your pregnant papa."

Harry buried his face in Ivy's neck, weeping openly now, but the tears were entirely filled with overwhelming relief and pure joy. "I thought you guys would be embarrassed of me..."

"Papa, you're thirty-four, not eighty," Finn chuckled, squeezing his shoulder. "We're happy for you guys."

Later that night, the house was silent once again.

The bedroom was bathed in the soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp. Harry was lying on his back, wearing an oversized t-shirt, his hair spread out wildly over the white pillowcases.

Louis was propped up on his side beside him, his gaze soft and completely devoted. His large hand was resting flat over Harry’s stomach, his thumb softly tracing slow, soothing circles over the faint, warm curve.

"Told you they'd be fine," Louis murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Harry’s neck.

"I was so scared, Lou," Harry admitted softly, his hands coming up to gently cup the back of Louis's head, guiding Louis's lips up to his own. "I felt so ridiculous."

Louis kissed him deeply, lingering against his mouth, tasting the sweetness of Harry's sigh. "You're never ridiculous, Haz. Never."

Harry wrapped his legs loosely around Louis's waist, pulling him closer as their kisses turned deeper, warmer, and full of slow, passionate affection. Louis shifted his weight carefully, keeping his pressure off Harry's body, his hands trailing up Harry's side to cup his warm face.

When Louis pulled back for air, his forehead rested against Harry’s, both of them breathing softly into the quiet room.

"You know what I kept thinking about today?" Louis whispered, his blue eyes dark and shiny in the dim light.

"What?" Harry murmured, his fingers softly playing with the hair at the nape of Louis's neck.

Louis smiled, a small, tender expression touching his lips. "Back when you were pregnant with Ivy and Finn... we were eighteen and twenty, Haz. We had forty pounds in our bank account, a broken heater, and no idea what the hell we were doing."

Harry let out a quiet, nostalgic laugh. "We were so terrified."

"We were terrified," Louis agreed softly, his hand sliding back down to rest over Harry’s stomach again, his palm warm against the thin cotton of the shirt. "We worked ourselves to death just to afford rent and baby formula. But now..."

Louis leaned down, pressing a long, sweet kiss directly over Harry's lower stomach, right through the fabric, before looking back up into Harry's tear-filled green eyes.

"Now, we're in our thirties," Louis whispered, his voice thick with unrefined, honest emotion. "We have a stable home, we have money, we have two amazing teenagers to help us, and most importantly... I have you back. I get to do this right with you this time, Haz. I get to take care of you properly. I can't wait to raise this baby with you."

Harry’s heart swelled so heavily in his chest he felt like he couldn't breathe. He pulled Louis up by the back of his shirt, kissing him with everything he had, letting his love and gratitude spill into every touch.

"I love you, Louis," Harry whispered against his lips, tears of absolute happiness slipping down his cheeks. "So much."

"I love you, baby," Louis murmured back, wrapping his arms around Harry tight, pulling him into his chest as they drifted off to sleep, whole and complete at last.

🍄

The smell of melted honey, toasted oats, and fried bananas filled the bright kitchen as sunlight streamed across the dining table.

Louis stood by the stove, flipping a thick oat pancake with practiced ease. Harry sat at the head of the island, propped up on a cushion, wearing one of Louis’s oversized grey hoodies. He was nine weeks along now, and while his stomach only showed a soft, subtle rounding, his appetite had doubled.

"Here you go, your majesty," Louis murmured, sliding a plate stacked with three massive, honey-drenched pancakes in front of Harry, topping it off with extra sliced bananas. "Nine-week special."

Harry’s green eyes lit up, a soft, radiant smile spreading across his face. "You're the best, Lou. Honestly."

"Yeah, Dad's definitely working hard for that 'Husband of the Year' title," Finn joked, sitting across from Harry as he reached for a glass of orange juice. His leg cast was finally off, replaced with a light brace, allowing him to walk much easier.

"Let him," Ivy giggled, buttering her toast. "At least Papa’s stopped throwing forks at us now that he gets his specific breakfast every morning."

"I did not throw a fork," Harry pouted, though his cheeks flushed a pretty pink as he cut off a giant piece of pancake, shoving it into his mouth with absolute satisfaction. "And besides, word has already spread at the gallery. Everyone knows we're married again. I don't have to hide my ring anymore."

Louis walked around the island, pouring himself a cup of coffee, then leaned down to press a warm, lingering kiss against the side of Harry’s neck. "Good. Let them talk. I want the whole world knowing you're mine."

Harry leaned into the touch, a breathless laugh escaping his lips.

"Alright, wrap it up, lovebirds," Finn groaned, though his eyes were shining with fond amusement. "Some of us have school, and Papa has to get to work."

Since registering their marriage, the separate commutes were officially a thing of the past. Louis drove everyone now—one big, happy family crammed into Louis's SUV.

After dropping the twins off at school with the usual affectionate ribbing and hugs, Louis pulled the car up to the curb outside Harry's art gallery. The streets were busy with morning commuters, but inside the quiet, warm interior of the car, time seemed to slow down.

"Call me after your eleven o'clock meeting?" Louis asked softly, shifting the car into park and turning in his seat to look at his husband.

"I will," Harry murmured, his green eyes dark and sweet. He reached across the console, grabbing the lapels of Louis's coat and pulling him in.

Instead of a quick goodbye kiss, Harry pressed his lips firmly against Louis's, deepening the kiss until both of their breathing hitched. Louis’s hand automatically came up to cup the back of Harry's neck, pulling him closer, deepening the stroke of their tongues until Harry let out a quiet, needy noise against his mouth.

When Harry finally pulled back, his lips were kiss-bruised and red, a soft smirk on his face. "Have a good day at work, Mr. Tomlinson."

"You're terrible for my blood pressure." Louis rasped out, a breathless grin on his face as he watched Harry step out of the car and wave goodbye.

By two in the afternoon, Louis was sitting in his executive office on the upper floor of his network security firm. He had just finished a long phone call with Harry, who had spent ten minutes complaining about a client before giggling about what they were going to have for dinner.

Louis was still smiling at his desk, typing up an email, when his intercom buzzed.

"Mr. Tomlinson?" his assistant’s voice came through the speaker. "There's a gentleman down in the lobby asking to see you. He doesn't have an appointment, but he says it's urgent and personal."

Louis frowned, looking at his schedule. "Personal? Who is it, Brenda?"

"Mr. Liam Payne."

Louis paused, running the name through his head. He didn't know Liam Payne. He had never heard the name in his entire life.

"Did he say what it was regarding?" Louis asked, shifting in his chair.

"No, sir. Just that it involves Harry."

A cold, faint prickle of unease settled in the pit of Louis’s stomach. He leaned forward, tapping the speaker button. "Send him up."

A minute later, a firm knock sounded on the heavy oak door.

"Come in," Louis called out, standing up from behind his massive desk, adjusting his suit jacket.

The door swung open, and a tall, broad-shouldered man in a tailored dark coat stepped into the room. He had sharp feature, short hair, and an posture that oozed an arrogant, quiet confidence. His eyes swept over the spacious, sleek office before settling directly on Louis.

A slow, mocking smirk touched Liam’s lips.

"Mr. Tomlinson," Liam said, his voice smooth, laced with a heavy, deliberate edge. "Nice office. I bet you sit at that desk thinking you've got everything figured out. Thinking that baby Harry's carrying is yours."

The temperature in the room dropped to sub-zero instantly.

Louis went entirely still. His jaw clenched tight, his blue eyes turning dangerously dark as he locked eyes with the stranger. "Who the fuck are you, and why are you speaking about my husband?"

Liam let out a dry, quiet chuckle, taking a slow step further into the room, leaning casually against the edge of the leather armchair across from Louis's desk.

"Husband," Liam repeated, rolling the word around his mouth as if it were a joke. "Right. Re-married, wasn't it? Just a couple of weeks ago. Very romantic."

"You have five seconds to explain why you're in my office before I have security throw you out the window," Louis said, his voice drop-dead quiet, a lethal calm settling over him.

"I'm Liam," he said simply, tilting his head. "And for the three weeks right before you magically slid back into his bed... Harry and I were in a situationship."

Louis felt the air leave his lungs, but he didn't move a single muscle. His hands tightened into fists at his sides.

"We slept together, Louis," Liam continued, his tone nonchalant, as if he were discussing the weather. "Multiple times. In fact, I fucked him right on his living room sofa just days before he suddenly vanished. He completely ghosted me. Didn't answer my texts, didn't return my calls. Later I found out his kid had some emergency at the hospital."

The hospital.

The words hit Louis like a physical punch to the chest.

His mind flashed backward—to the exact night Finn had been brought to the emergency room with his broken leg. The night Harry was frantic, pale, and crying in the waiting room. The night Louis had taken Harry home, held him, and they had slept together for the first time in five long years.

Right before that... Harry was with him.

The timeline clicked together in Louis’s brain with sickening, ruthless precision. Nine weeks pregnant. The exact window of time.

Liam watched the color drain slightly from Louis's face, his smirk widening into a cold, cruel grin.

"See?" Liam murmured softly, taking another step forward. "It clicks, doesn't it? He used me when he was lonely, and the second his ex-husband showed up with a bit of comfort, he ran straight back to you. He’s a whore, Louis. He sleeps around when he's sad, and now he's got you thinking—"

Before Liam could finish the sentence, Louis crossed the space between them in a flash of pure, unadulterated rage.

Louis’s right fist connected brutally with Liam’s jaw. The impact echoed through the high-ceilinged office, the force sending Liam stumbling back against the leather chair, his lip instantly splitting open.

"Keep his name out of your fucking mouth!" Louis roared, his chest heaving, his face dark with fury.

Liam wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. He didn't punch back. He didn't even raise his hands to defend himself. He just stood there, looking at Louis with cold, mocking eyes, a sickeningly calm smile on his face.

"Hit me again, Tomlinson," Liam sneered softly, his voice dripping with venom. "Go on. Beat me up all you want. It doesn't change the math, does it?"

Louis took a step toward him, his knuckles white, trembling with the violent urge to smash the man's face in.

"How can you be so sure?" Liam taunted quietly, his eyes burning into Louis’s. "How can you stand there, so proud, so confident, and be so fucking sure that the baby inside him is yours?"

Liam straightened his jacket, completely unbothered as he wiped a smear of blood from his torn lip with his thumb. He looked down at his hand, then back up at Louis, a slow, malicious chuckle rumbling in his chest.

"You've got a good right hook, Tomlinson," Liam murmured, leaning his lower back casually against the edge of the mahogany desk. "A bit unhinged, but I suppose I’d be losing my mind too if I were standing in your shoes."

Louis stood breathing heavily, every muscle in his body pulled taut like a bowstring. His knuckles burned red from the impact, but the dull pain in his hand was nothing compared to the roaring, deafening noise echoing inside his head.

"Get out," Louis rasped, his voice dropping an octave, so low and laced with poison it barely sounded human. "Get the fuck out of my building before I kill you."

"Why? Because you can't handle a few basic facts?" Liam challenged softly. He tilted his head, his dark eyes locking onto Louis with ruthless precision. "You really think you're the only one who knows what he sounds like when he's desperate? You think you're special, Louis?"

Louis lunged forward, grabbing Liam by the lapels of his coat and slamming him hard against the wall. The heavy wooden frame of an art print rattled violently against the plaster.

"I said shut your fucking mouth!" Louis snarled right into his face, his blue eyes bloodshot, his grip so tight the fabric groaned under his hands.

Liam didn't even flinch. He just looked down at Louis’s hands, then back up into his eyes, his expression calm, detached, and utterly merciless.

"You can break my jaw, Louis," Liam whispered, his voice dangerously smooth. "You can throw me out of this office. But you know I'm telling the truth. Think about the timeline. Go on, do the math in that security-expert head of yours."

"Shut up," Louis growled through gritted teeth, though his grip trembled slightly.

"He came over to my place four days before his kid broke his leg," Liam said, laying out the words like poison drip by drip. "We spent the entire weekend in my bed. He didn't mention an ex-husband once. He didn't mention you at all. He was warm, he was sweet, and he was completely mine."

"You're lying," Louis breathed out, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. The memory of Harry’s frantic, guilty eyes from weeks ago flashed behind his eyelids, burning like acid.

"Am I?" Liam smirked, a cruel, mocking curve of his mouth. "He left his silver rings on my nightstand on Sunday morning. He called me 'baby' when he was coming. Does that sound like a lie to you?"

A choked, strangled sound escaped Louis's throat. His mind was racing, throwing images at him that he violently tried to crush—Harry’s soft skin, Harry’s needy gasps, Harry crying in his arms on the couch, begging for pancakes, terrified of telling him about the pregnancy.

Was he terrified because he didn't know whose it was?

The thought struck Louis right in the chest like a physical blade, severing his breath. His heart thundered against his ribs, heavy and sickening.

Liam saw the exact moment the doubt clawed its way into Louis’s brain. His smirk deepened, satisfied.

"He’s a needy little thing when he’s lonely, isn't he?" Liam continued quietly, pushing the knife in as deep as it would go. "The second thing get tough, he looks for the nearest warm body to hold him. I filled that spot for weeks. And the moment his kid ended up in the hospital, he panicked, ran back to the familiar old safety net, and let you comfort him right into bed."

"Don't call him that," Louis whispered, his knuckles turning stark white as he shoved Liam against the drywall again. "Don't you fucking dare call him a whore."

"Then what do you call a man who sleeps with me on Thursday, sleeps with you on Sunday, and then lets you put a ring on his finger a month later without saying a damn word?" Liam asked softly, leaning in slightly, his dark eyes gleeful. "He played us both, Tomlinson. But at least I didn't marry him. At least I'm not stuck wondering if another man's kid is growing inside him right now."

"He's my husband!" Louis screamed, the control completely snapping as he pulled Liam forward and threw another brutal punch straight into Liam's cheekbone.

Liam’s head snapped back hard against the wall. He stumbled, his knee hitting the coffee table, sending a glass water pitcher crashing onto the hardwood floor, shattering into a hundred glittering pieces.

Breathless, panting, and shaking violently, Louis stood over him, his chest heaving up and down. Blood dripped from Liam's split lip onto the pristine collar of his white shirt.

Liam wiped his cheek, letting out a sharp, wet spit onto the floor. Slowly, he pushed himself up, resting his hand against the wall to balance himself. He didn't look angry. He looked entirely victorious.

"Keep the ring on his finger if it makes you feel like a man, Louis," Liam said quietly, his voice tight with pain, but his words dripping with pure venom. "Go home to him. Eat your little family dinner. Touch his stomach. But every single time you look at that baby, every time you hear its heartbeat... you're going to wonder about me."

Louis stood paralyzed, his hands shaking at his sides, his throat locked tight as his heart splintered into a million jagged pieces.

Liam adjusted his coat, smoothed down his lapels, and stepped carefully over the broken glass on the floor. He paused at the door, turning his head just enough to offer one last, devastating glance.

"Ask him about the weekend of the twelfth, Tomlinson," Liam murmured softly. "Ask him why he turned his phone off for three days."

The heavy oak door clicked firmly shut behind him, leaving Louis standing completely alone in the silent, ruined office.

Louis sat back down at his desk, his chest aching as if every breath he took was laced with glass. His knuckles were bruised, bleeding slightly onto his white cuffs, but he couldn't bring himself to care. His eyes stared blankly at the ruined glass shattered across the floor.

He wanted to throw something. He wanted to scream. He wanted to break down and cry until his ribs hurt, but nothing came out. The emotions inside him were too tangled, a suffocating mixture of rage, betrayal, panic, and an overwhelming, crushing terror.

Just weeks after putting the ring back on his finger.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, resting his elbows on the cold wood of the desk. Nine weeks pregnant. The timeline spun in his head over and over like a broken record. Harry was vulnerable. He was carrying a life. If Louis went home and lost his temper, if he screamed, if he broke down—the stress could hurt Harry. It could hurt the baby. And no matter how much his own heart was splintering into pieces, the thought of Harry losing the pregnancy or getting hurt was a nightmare Louis couldn't bear.

A sharp chime broke the heavy quiet. His phone buzzed on the desk.

Louis looked down with numb eyes. It was a notification from the family group chat.

Finn: Dad, Papa, is it cool if me and Ivy stay over at Lucas's tonight? His parents are hosting a bonfire thing and everyone's staying.

Harry: Of course, sweetie. Do you need us to drop off your clothes or toothbrushes? Or are you coming home first?

Ivy: No need! Lucas’s sister said we can borrow hoodies, and we have our overnight bags in the car. Can we just go straight after school?

Harry: Alright, love. Just keep your phones charged, okay? Call me or your dad the second you need anything. Have fun! x

Louis stared at the screen, his fingers trembling as he typed out a response, trying desperately to sound normal.

Louis: Have fun, kids. Stay safe. Text when you get there.

He set the phone face down. Hours dragged by. Louis didn't touch a single piece of work. He just sat there in the quiet room, watching the sun dip lower in the sky, fighting the storm raging in his mind.

By five o'clock, Louis pulled up outside Harry's gallery.

He took a deep breath, staring at his reflection in the rearview mirror. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, his face pale. He rubbed his cheeks, forced his shoulders to relax, and waited.

The car door opened, and a rush of cold evening air filled the vehicle, followed by the sweet, familiar scent of vanilla and orange blossom. Harry slid into the passenger seat, his cheeks flush, his eyes bright as he pulled off his scarf.

"Hey, Boo," Harry murmured softly, using the childhood nickname that usually made Louis’s heart warm instantly. Today, the word pierced straight through Louis’s chest like a needle.

Harry leaned over the center console, wrapping his arms loosely around Louis's neck and pressing his soft, warm lips against Louis's cheek, then sliding over to kiss the corner of his mouth.

Louis forced himself to melt into the touch, leaning his head slightly into Harry's hand, swallowing down the dry lump in his throat. "Hey, love. How was work?"

Harry pulled back, his green eyes scanning Louis's face. His smile faltered just a fraction, his brow furrowing as he reached out, his long fingers gently touching Louis’s cheek.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked softly, his tone laced with immediate concern. "You look tired. Did something bad happen at the office?"

If only you knew, Louis thought, his heart breaking all over again.

"Just... a long day, baby," Louis murmured, offering a small, tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. He reached over, lacing his fingers with Harry's, bringing Harry’s hand up to press a soft kiss to his knuckles. "Lots of meetings. Stressful clients. Nothing to worry about."

Harry sighed fondly, leaning over to kiss Louis's jawline again, his thumb stroking Louis's wrist. "Well, the twins are at a sleepover tonight. It's just you and me. You get to rest, and I get to have my husband all to myself."

Louis swallowed hard, shifting the car into drive. "Yeah."

The house was eerily quiet without the twins.

Harry kicked off his shoes in the hallway, immediately wrapping his arms around Louis's waist from behind as Louis walked into the kitchen. Harry rested his chin on Louis’s shoulder, humming happily.

"What do you want for dinner, Haz?" Louis asked gently, keeping his voice as steady as possible while Harry’s soft stomach pressed against his back.

"Can we have creamy mushroom pasta?" Harry mumbled against his neck, kissing the skin right behind Louis's ear. "And garlic bread. Lots of garlic bread."

"Anything you want, sweetheart," Louis murmured.

While Louis cooked, Harry sat on the kitchen counter, kicking his legs lazily, chatting endlessly about a new painting that had arrived at the gallery, munching on a small bowl of strawberries. Louis listened, nodding in the right places, stirring the sauce, his hands operating on pure muscle memory while his mind felt miles away.

After dinner, they moved to the living room. The dim light of the TV illuminated the dark room.

Harry curled up sideways on the sofa, pulling his knees up, resting his head directly on Louis's lap. Louis sat back against the cushions, his heart pounding in his chest, his fingers automatically reaching out to smooth down Harry's soft curls, tracing gentle, slow circles against Harry's hip.

Harry looked up, a sweet, affectionate look in his eyes. He reached up, cupping Louis’s face, pulling Louis down into a kiss.

It started soft, but Harry was feeling clingy. He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against Louis's, his hands moving up to clasp at the back of Louis’s neck. He pulled Louis closer, kissing him with a warm, desperate sweet intimacy.

Louis kissed him back, but as Harry’s lips moved against his, the weight of the day finally cracked through Louis’s composure.

A hot tear slipped out of Louis's eye, trailing down his cheek and dropping onto Harry's cheekbone.

Harry froze. He pulled back instantly, his eyes widening in complete shock as he saw the silent tears spilling down Louis's face.

"Louis?" Harry whispered, his voice cracking with immediate panic. He sat up straight on the couch, taking Louis’s face in both of his hands. "Lou, what's wrong? Why are you crying?”

Louis quickly lifted his hand, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, letting out a long, shaky breath. He looked at Harry’s frightened, sweet face, seeing the genuine worry in those green eyes.

"Haz," Louis said softly, his voice trembling slightly. He reached out, taking Harry’s hands gently in his own, holding them tight. "Baby... can we talk?"

Harry swallowed hard, his stomach dropping. "Yeah... yeah, of course. What is it?"

Louis guided Harry to sit properly facing him, keeping his physical touch constant. He kept one hand firmly cupping Harry’s knee, his thumb stroking the soft fabric of Harry's trousers, while his other hand gently stroked Harry's hair.

"Someone came to my office today, Haz," Louis murmured, his voice so quiet, so careful, trying with everything in him to keep the room calm.

Harry frowned, looking confused. "To your office? Who?"

"A man named Liam Payne," Louis said softly.

The moment the name left Louis’s mouth, Harry went entirely, dead pale.

The color drained from his face so fast he looked like he might faint. His mouth parted, his breath catching sharply in his throat, his green eyes dilating with pure, unadulterated terror.

Seeing that reaction—the undeniable confirmation that the man hadn't been lying about knowing Harry—sent a fresh, unbearable ache through Louis's chest. But Louis forced himself to stay grounded. He reached out, his large palm cupping the side of Harry’s neck, his thumb soothingly rubbing Harry's jaw line.

"Hey, hey," Louis whispered gently, seeing Harry start to tremble violently. "Breathe, baby. Look at me. Take a breath."

"Lou—" Harry gasped out, a tear spilling over his lower lash line, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow gasps. "Lou, please—"

"Shh, listen to me," Louis coaxed softly, leaning in to press a gentle, comforting kiss to Harry's forehead, rubbing his arms. "I'm not going to yell at you, Haz. I'm not mad at you. I just need you to talk to me, okay? I just need the truth."

Harry’s hands came up, clutching frantically at Louis's shirt sleeves, his body shaking. "What...did he say anything?"

Louis swallowed down the pain in his throat, keeping his touch warm and constant as he cupped Harry’s lower back, pulling him a fraction closer.

"He told me... he told me you two were in a relationship before we got back together," Louis said quietly, looking directly into Harry's eyes. "He said you slept together. And he told me... he told me that I couldn't be sure the baby is mine."

"What? No!" Harry cried out, a loud, heartbroken sob ripping from his chest as he shook his head frantically. "No, no, no! Lou, please, that's not—it's not like that! I swear to god!"

"Hey, hey, calm down, Haz," Louis urged quickly, his heart hammering as he wrapped both arms around Harry, pulling him right into his lap, rubbing his back firmly. "Calm down, sweetheart. Remember the baby. Take a deep breath for me. Come on."

Harry buried his face in the crook of Louis's neck, sobbing uncontrollably, his hands gripping Louis's shoulders like he was drowning. "He lied to you, Lou! He lied!"

"Tell me what happened then, baby," Louis whispered against Harry's hair, his own eyes burning with tears, holding Harry tightly against his chest. "Just tell me the truth. I'm right here. I'm listening."

Harry pulled back slightly, his face completely tear-stained, his green eyes wide and desperate as he looked at Louis.

"I was lonely, Louis," Harry wept out, his voice raw with vulnerability. "When we were separated... I was so lonely and miserable. I met Liam through work. We had a... a casual thing. It wasn't serious. I never loved him. But... but we slept together. Once. A week before Finn had his accident."

Louis went still, his breath catching. "A week before?"

"Yes!" Harry cried, clutching Louis’s face, searching his eyes desperately. "A whole week before. After that weekend, I realized I didn't want him. I wanted to end it. And then Finn broke his leg, and you came to the hospital, and... and we slept together that night. I haven't touched Liam since. I blocked his number. The baby is yours, Louis. I swear on my life, I swear on Finn and Ivy, the baby is yours."

Louis stared at him, processing the words. The timeline in his head shifted. A week before. The mathematical window aligned far more strongly with the night they had reconnected.

A heavy, overwhelming wave of relief washed over Louis, so intense his own tears spilled over his eyelashes. But right behind the relief came the residual ache—the pain that Harry had been with someone else just days before coming back into his arms, and the fear that had consumed Louis all afternoon.

"It’s okay, baby" Louis whispered, his voice cracking, his hands gently holding Harry’s waist. "I trust you."

"I'm so sorry," Harry sobbed, his head dropping against Louis's chest, his tears soaking right through Louis's shirt. "I'm so, so sorry, Louis. I should have told you about him. I was just so ashamed. I was scared you'd judge me, or that you wouldn't want me back."

Louis closed his eyes, pulling Harry tighter into his embrace, burying his face in Harry's soft curls. Even through his own hurt, seeing Harry so utterly broken and terrified tore Louis apart.

"Hey," Louis murmured softly, his hand sliding down to rest flat over Harry's stomach, feeling the slight, warm curve beneath his palm. 

Harry slowly raised his head, his lower lip trembling, his eyes red and swollen, looking at Louis as if waiting for a execution sentence. "Are... are you going to leave me?"

"No," Louis said firmly, his voice steady, dripping with fierce, unwavering devotion. He reached up, gently wiping the tears from Harry's cheeks with his thumbs. "I am not leaving you. Never."

"Even... even after this?" Harry whimpered, his voice small and terrified.

Louis leaned in, pressing his forehead against Harry's, his hand gently pressing over Harry's midsection, cradling the hidden life inside.

"Listen to me, Harry," Louis whispered, his voice thick with deep, unconditional love. "I believe you. I know this baby is mine. But even if the whole world spun upside down... even if the impossible happened, no matter whose baby this is, I love you. I love this baby, and I am staying right here with you."

Harry froze, staring at Louis in absolute, stunned silence. The sheer depth of Louis's love, the total absence of cruelty or malice, hit Harry like a tidal wave.

A loud, breathless sob burst from Harry's lips, and he threw his arms around Louis's neck, clinging to him with every ounce of strength he had, crying a river of tears against Louis's shoulder.

"I love you so much," Harry wept out, kissing Louis's neck, his cheek, his lips, over and over again. "I love you so, so much. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I know, baby," Louis whispered warmly, wrapping his arms securely around Harry, pulling the blanket over both of them as he rocked Harry gently back and forth on the sofa. "I know. It's okay. We're okay."

As the quiet night settled over the house, Louis held his husband tight in the dark, kissing his temples, keeping his hand rested safely over Harry's stomach, holding their family together through the storm.

🍄

Seven months into the pregnancy, Harry was a gloriously chaotic, incredibly grumpy mess.

At thirty-one weeks, his stomach was a prominent, solid bump that made walking a delicate waddle and sitting down an entire production. His feet were constantly swollen, his ankles had temporarily vanished, and his beloved wardrobe of fitted knits and cropped tops had been relegated to the back of the closet, replaced by Louis’s oversized hoodies that stretched hilariously tight over his midsection.

It was a rainy Saturday morning, and the atmosphere in the kitchen was thick with high drama.

"I don't want it," Harry grumbled, sitting at the island in a pair of Louis's grey sweatpants and a pastel pink cardigan that couldn't close over his belly. His lower lip was pushed out in a massive, tragic pout, his curls messy and sticking up in every direction.

Louis paused, holding a plate with a fresh stack of oat pancakes topped with strawberries—the exact breakfast Harry had demanded forty-five minutes ago.

"Haz, love," Louis said gently, setting the plate down carefully in front of him. "You asked for oat pancakes. With extra honey and sliced strawberries."

"That was forty-five minutes ago, Louis," Harry sniffled, crossing his arms over his chest and turning his head away dramatically. "Now the smell of honey is making me feel like I’m going to vomit. Take it away."

Finn, sitting across the island in his school hoodie, slowly lowered his fork and stared at his father. "Papa, Dad stood by the stove for twenty minutes making those. You literally cried yesterday because we ran out of oats."

Harry whipped his head toward Finn, his green eyes instantly swimming with dramatic tears. "Oh, so now I'm a burden? I'm carrying your baby brother, Finn, my back feels like it's going to snap in half, my feet look like raw potatoes, and you're lecturing me about oats?"

Finn raised his hands in immediate surrender, looking over at his twin sister. "I didn't say anything. I'm out. Ivy, help."

Ivy didn't even look up from her phone, casually sipping her juice. "Nope. I gave up on trying to understand Papa three weeks ago when he cried because the refrigerator door was 'too heavy'."

"It was heavy," Harry whimpered, a fat tear spilling over his cheek as he rested his heavy bump against the edge of the kitchen counter. "Everything in this house is against me."

Louis let out a soft, hopelessly fond sigh. He didn't look annoyed for a single second. Instead, he took the plate of pancakes, set it aside on the stove, and walked around the island. He sank down onto his knees right in front of Harry’s stool, bringing himself eye-level with his tear-stained husband.

"Hey," Louis murmured softly, his hands gently coming up to rest on Harry’s thighs, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the fabric of his sweatpants. "Look at me, sweetheart."

Harry sniffled, looking down at Louis with pouted lips, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. "I'm huge, Lou. None of my clothes fit. I tried putting on my favorite floral crop top this morning and I looked like a stuffed sausage."

Finn covered his mouth to choke back a snort, while Ivy quietly pushed her chair back to retreat into the living room, whispering, "Dad's got this."

"You don't look like a sausage, Haz," Louis said softly, a sweet, warm smile gracing his lips. He reached up, gently wiping the tears from Harry's cheeks before sliding his broad, warm palm over the side of Harry's round stomach, feeling the tiny, restless kick from inside. "You look stunning. You're growing our baby, and you're the most beautiful thing in this entire house."

"My ankles are gone, Louis," Harry whined, leaning forward so his forehead rested against Louis's shoulder, his hands clutching the back of Louis’s shirt. "They're just thick logs."

"Then let me rub them," Louis coaxed gently, pressing a soft kiss to Harry’s temple. "Come on. Let's move you to the sofa. I'll get the foot massager, and I'll make you those white chocolate cookies you liked on Tuesday. How does that sound?"

Harry pulled back slightly, blinking his glossy green eyes. "With the warm milk?"

"With the warm milk," Louis promised softly, reaching up to stroke Harry's wild curls back from his face. "Anything you want, baby."

Harry let out a shuddering breath, his dramatic mood swing dissolving instantly into soft affection. "Okay. Thank you, Boo."

An hour later, the living room had been transformed into a full nest.

Harry was sprawled out on the long sofa, propped up by four pillows, a thick fleece blanket draped over his legs. Louis was sitting on the rug at the end of the sofa, Harry’s swollen feet resting in his lap as he methodically rubbed thick lotion into Harry’s arches and ankles.

Finn was lying on the armchair nearby, playing a game on his phone, while Ivy was on the carpet, flipping through a magazine.

"Dad, you're enabling him," Finn remarked casually, not taking his eyes off his screen. "Yesterday he made you drive to three different shops at eleven at night because the ice cream wasn't 'vanilla enough'."

"It tasted like freezer burn, Finn!" Harry defended himself from the sofa, taking a small bite of his white chocolate cookie and chewing happily. "I have delicate taste buds right now."

"He's allowed to have delicate taste buds," Louis chimed in smoothly, pressing a firm, soothing squeeze to the heel of Harry's left foot. "Your papa's doing hard work."

"See?" Harry preened, looking down at Louis with absolute adoration. "Your dad loves me."

"We know he loves you, Papa," Ivy chuckled, looking up from her magazine. "He literally carried you up the stairs two nights ago because you said the carpet felt 'too scratchy' for your bare feet."

"It was scratchy," Harry mumbled, though a deep blush crept up his neck as he took a sip of his warm milk.

Louis chuckled warmly, leaning over to kiss the top of Harry's foot before standing up. He shifted to sit on the edge of the sofa right next to Harry's hip, taking the empty milk glass from his hands and setting it on the side table.

Harry immediately shifted, wriggling his body closer until he could rest his heavy head on Louis’s lap, his large, round belly pressing firmly against Louis's thigh.

"Tired now?" Louis whispered softly, his fingers immediately finding their way into Harry's soft curls, playing with the ends.

"Mmh," Harry hummed, closing his eyes, a soft, content sigh escaping his lips. "Baby's kicking."

Louis lowered his hand, resting his broad palm flat over the center of Harry’s stomach. A second later, a solid, distinct thump pressed against his palm from the inside.

"Whoa," Finn said, looking over from his chair, genuinely curious despite himself. "That was a hard one."

"He's active today," Louis smiled, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, soft reverence as he stroked Harry's belly through the thin cardigan. "Just like his papa. Always making a fuss."

"I do not make a fuss," Harry mumbled sleepily, his hand reaching up to blindly clasp around Louis's wrist, keeping Louis's hand anchored to his bump.

"Right. You're an angel," Louis murmured sarcastically, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to Harry's pouty lips. "My grumpy, beautiful angel."

Harry smiled against Louis's mouth, his eyelids growing heavy as the warmth of the room and Louis's soothing touch settled over him. Within minutes, his breathing evened out into slow, deep rhythm.

Ivy looked over from the floor, watching her parents with a faint, affectionate smile. "Is he finally asleep?"

"Yeah," Louis whispered, carefully draping the blanket higher over Harry's shoulders, his thumb softly stroking the side of Harry’s face. "He's out."

Finn set his phone down, leaning back in his chair with a soft laugh. "I don't know how you do it, Dad. He's been a nightmare all morning."

Louis looked up at his son, his blue eyes soft, full of an quiet, unbreakable warmth that made both kids quiet down.

"He carried you two when I was just a terrified kid with no money in my pocket," Louis said softly, his voice thick with gentle emotion as he smoothed down Harry's curls. "He cried back then because he couldn't have six-pound strawberries. Now, I have everything in the world to give him. If he wants to sulk, cry over pancakes, or make me drive across town at midnight, I'll do it every single day. He deserves all of it."

Ivy smiled softly, resting her chin on her knees. "You really love him a lot, don't you?"

"More than anything," Louis whispered, leaning down to press one more sweet kiss to the crown of Harry's head, holding his husband close as the rain continued to fall softly outside.

🍄

The house was completely silent.

Ivy and Finn had gone to a friend’s house for a movie marathon, leaving the entire place quiet, dimmed by the soft glow of the evening lamps.

Harry sat on the edge of the large bed in the master bedroom, wearing only one of Louis’s black silk button-down shirts, completely unbuttoned at the top to expose his collarbones and the upper swell of his chest. His seven-month bump pushed against the fabric, his thighs bare, his heart hammering against his ribs like he was an overly eager teenager about to sneak into someone's bedroom.

They hadn't had proper, passionate sex in almost two months.

It wasn't because Louis didn't want him—Louis kissed him every day, held him, stroked his stomach, and showered him with endless affection. But Louis was always so careful, so overwhelmingly protective. Ever since the doctor mentioned Harry needed extra rest, Louis had treated him like precious glass, prioritizing Harry's comfort above everything else.

Harry was sick of being treated like glass. He felt needy, heavy, sensitive, and completely starved for his husband.

The bathroom door clicked open, and Louis stepped out, wiping his wet face with a small towel. He was wearing low-slung sweatpants, his bare chest damp from the sink, his dark hair messy.

"Haz?" Louis paused, his blue eyes dropping to where Harry was sitting on the bed. His gaze swept over Harry's bare thighs, the open collar of his shirt, and the flushed pink on his cheeks. "What are you doing up, love? You should be resting."

Harry swallowed hard, his green eyes dark and intent as he held Louis’s gaze. "I don't want to rest, Lou."

Louis frowned slightly in confusion, walking over to the side of the bed. He leaned down, reaching out to stroke Harry’s warm cheek. "Are you in pain, baby? Is the bump feeling heavy?"

"No," Harry rasped out, his hand coming up to slap Louis's wrist away—not hard, but firmly. Before Louis could process it, Harry grabbed Louis’s hands, pulling him down onto the mattress. "Stop treating me like I'm made of glass, Louis."

Louis blinked, stunned, as Harry straddled his lap, settling his weight carefully over Louis’s thighs. The heat of Harry’s body pressed against him, his broad bump resting firmly between them.

"Haz... wait," Louis breathed out, his hands automatically rising to steady Harry’s hips, his fingers digging gently into the soft skin of Harry’s bare thighs. "Careful. You can't strain yourself—"

"I'm thirty-four weeks pregnant, not broken," Harry whispered fiercely, leaning down so his mouth was a hair’s breadth away from Louis’s. "I want you. I’ve wanted you for weeks, and you keep pulling back."

Louis’s breath hitched, his blue eyes darkening as he looked up at Harry’s mouth. "Haz, I just want to make sure you're safe. The doctor said—"

"The doctor said gentle physical activity is completely fine," Harry interrupted, pressing a hot, demanding kiss to Louis's lips, cutting off his words.

Louis let out a low, ragged gasp against Harry's mouth. His control, held together by months of careful restraint, instantly cracked. His hands gripped Harry’s hips tighter, pulling him down firmly against his lap, his tongue sliding against Harry's in a deep, desperate kiss that tasted like pure hunger.

Harry let out a needy, soft whimper against Louis’s lips, rolling his hips forward just a fraction. "See?" Harry rasped out, pulling back just enough to look into Louis's eyes, his breath hitching. "I'm fine, Lou. I need this."

"You're unbelievable," Louis groaned, his voice thick and deep, his thumb stroking the hot skin of Harry’s hip. "You sit there looking like a bloody angel, acting like a needy teenager."

"I feel like one," Harry confessed, a breathless, flushed laugh escaping him as he unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, letting it slide off his shoulders onto the mattress. "Every time you touch me, every time you kiss my neck... I just want you inside me, Louis."

Louis’s jaw tightened, a dark, heavy desire flaring in his eyes. He reached up, his large palms cupping Harry’s cheeks, pulling him into another slow, filthy kiss that made Harry’s toes curl.

"I don't want to hurt you, Haz," Louis murmured against his lips, his hand sliding down to rest reverently over the side of Harry’s stomach, feeling the firm curve. "I love you too much to risk anything."

"You won't hurt me," Harry whined softly, leaning down to press hot, wet kisses along Louis’s jawline, down his throat, his hands working quickly to push Louis’s sweatpants down his hips. "Let me do it. Let me take care of it. Just stay still."

Louis let out a strained, breathless laugh, his hands resting on Harry’s waist as Harry carefully shifted, guiding Louis’s hips into position.

"Haz, slow down." Louis coaxed softly, his hands holding Harry securely, his thumbs stroking his skin to keep him grounded. 

Harry rested his forehead against Louis’s shoulder, his breathing rapid and heavy, his hands trembling slightly as he slowly lowered himself down. A high, sweet gasp escaped Harry’s throat, his fingers clutching tightly at the bedsheets on either side of Louis’s head.

"God, Louis" Harry whimpered, tears of sheer pleasure welling in his green eyes as the fullness overwhelmed his senses.

"Look at me, baby," Louis commanded gently, his voice smooth and steady despite the tight, desperate clench of his jaw. He reached up, gently wiping a tear from Harry's cheek, his fingers sliding into Harry’s hair to keep him close. "You okay? Tell me if it's too much."

"It's perfect," Harry sobbed softly, pressing a desperate, hot kiss to Louis’s lips. "It's so good, Lou... please."

Louis didn't let Harry do all the work. He couldn't.

His hands moved to Harry’s hips, supporting his weight completely, guiding Harry’s movements in a slow, deep, agonizingly sweet rhythm. Every time Harry moved, Louis met him with gentle, firm pressure, making sure Harry didn't strain his lower back or stomach.

"You're doing so good, Haz," Louis praise-whispered into the crook of Harry’s neck, his lips kissing the sensitive skin behind his ear, making Harry shiver violently. "So sweet for me. So tight."

"Louis," Harry gasped out, his head throwing back, his hands gripping Louis's shoulders as his body rode the swelling waves of intense, suffocating pleasure. "More please”

"I've got you," Louis rasped, his own breath ragged, his hips arching up just enough to hit the exact spot that made Harry cry out, a sweet, broken sound echoing through the quiet room. "Feels good, baby?"

Louis brought his hand around, his thumb finding the sensitive peak between Harry’s thighs, stroking with practiced, devastating precision while his other hand kept Harry anchored to his chest.

Harry’s breath completely hitched. His body went rigid, his green eyes wide and glossy as a powerful, violent wave of release crashed through him. He shattered in Louis’s arms, sobbing out Louis’s name over and over as his muscles trembled against Louis’s body.

Louis held him tightly through the climax, his hips rolling twice more until he let out a low, heavy groan against Harry’s shoulder, his own release spilling through him, warm and deep.

For long minutes, the only sound in the room was their loud, ragged breathing.

Harry collapsed forward, his heavy, exhausted body resting completely against Louis’s chest. Louis immediately wrapped both arms around him, pulling the duvet up over Harry’s bare back, his lips pressing endless, sweet kisses to Harry’s sweaty forehead and temples.

"That was good" Harry murmured weakly into Louis’s neck, a small, triumphant smile tugging at his flushed lips despite his utter exhaustion. "I needed that."

Louis let out a soft, wet laugh, his hand gently stroking down the smooth curve of Harry’s back, resting flat over his stomach where the baby was stirring slightly.

"You’re cute when you’re needy" Louis whispered affectionately, kissing the tip of Harry’s nose. "Making it very impossible for me to resist."

"And you like it, and you love me" Harry hummed happily, closing his eyes and nuzzling deeper into the crook of Louis’s neck, his body completely warm, satisfied, and loved.

"Course I do, you idiot." Louis chuckles, holding his husband close in the quiet dark, keeping him safe in his arms.

🍄

The soft, rhythmic hum of the heart monitor chimed gently in the quiet hospital room.

Early morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting warm golden stripes across the bed. Harry was propped up against a mountain of white pillows, his hair messy, his face pale and exhausted, but his green eyes were glowing with a profound, radiant peace.

Wrapped in a soft, cream-colored knitted blanket resting against his chest was a tiny, bundle of warmth—little Flora. She had a faint dusting of dark hair, a tiny button nose, and delicate fingers that were tightly hooked around Harry’s pinky finger.

Louis was sitting on the edge of the mattress right beside Harry, his arm wrapped securely around Harry's shoulders, his face buried against Harry's temple as he stared down at his daughter with unrefined, tearful devotion.

"Look at her, Lou," Harry whispered, his voice raspy from hours of labor, a sweet, tired smile touching his lips. "She's so tiny."

"She's perfect, Haz," Louis choked out softly, his voice thick with emotion as he reached down, his thumb stroking Flora’s silky cheek. "Absolute perfection."

A gentle knock sounded at the door, and Finn and Ivy peeked their heads into the room, both looking hesitant and completely awestruck.

"Can we come in?" Ivy asked quietly, stepping in first, holding a small pink teddy bear in her hands.

"Come here, guys," Harry smiled warmly, waving them over with his free hand. "Meet your little sister."

Finn walked over to the other side of the bed, leaning over to look down at the baby. His jaw dropped slightly, a genuine, soft grin spreading across his face. "Whoa. She's ridiculously small, Papa."

"She weighed six pounds, Finn," Louis chuckled, reaching out to ruffle Finn's hair. "You were seven pounds, so don't go calling her small."

Ivy carefully sat on the edge of the bed right next to Harry, leaning in close. "What's her name, Papa? Did you guys finally decide?"

Harry looked up at Louis, a tender, knowing glance passing between them, before looking back down at the baby in his arms.

"Flora," Harry murmured softly. "Flora Tomlinson-Styles."

"Flora," Ivy repeated, her eyes shining with sudden, sweet tears. "Oh, I love it. Can we call her Flossie?"

"Flossie," Louis smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the baby's forehead. "Yeah. Flossie fits her just right."

Finn reached down cautiously, extending his index finger. Baby Flossie let out a tiny, soft squeak, her sleepy little fist instinctively wrapping around Finn's finger. Finn's eyes widened, a breathless laugh escaping his chest.

"Dad, look," Finn whispered, thoroughly enchanted. "She's holding my finger."

"She likes you, mate," Louis murmured, his arm tightening around Harry's waist, pulling his husband closer into his side. "She knows her big brother's going to protect her."

"I definitely am," Finn said proudly, gentle care in his voice as he stroked Flossie's tiny arm. "No one's picking on her. Ever."

Harry rested his head against Louis's shoulder, taking a long, deep breath, letting the incredible warmth of his family wash over him.

"Thank you, Boo," Harry whispered softly into Louis's neck, so quiet only Louis could hear him.

Louis turned his head slightly, pressing a long, sweet, lingering kiss to Harry’s lips, tasting the salt of Harry's joyful tears.

"What for, love?" Louis whispered back against his mouth.

"For everything," Harry breathed, looking down at Flossie resting on his chest, then up at Ivy and Finn, who were currently whispering to the baby in silly voices. "For taking care of us. For coming back to me. For giving me this whole, beautiful life."

Louis swallowed the lump in his throat, his blue eyes bright with endless love as he cradled Harry’s face in his hand, his thumb stroking Harry’s cheekbone.

"I didn't give you this life, Haz," Louis murmured, his voice filled with unwavering devotion. "We built it together. Sixteen years ago, now, and forever."

Harry smiled, his green eyes glowing as he leaned into Louis's touch, closing his eyes as Louis kissed his forehead.

Around them, the room was quiet, filled only with the soft sounds of a newborn's breath, the quiet giggles of their teenagers, and the steady, unbreakable beat of two hearts that had finally found their way home.