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Chapter Text

Have I found you, flightless bird?

Louis' POV

Louis is going to die surrounded by glitter and mediocrity.

The auditorium smells like sweat and desperation. It’s the third day of auditions and he’s seen every wannabe vocalist in Concordia try to convince him they’re the soul of Flightless Bird. They’re not. They’re just kids who think vibrato equals emotion and that crying on cue makes them deep.

He slumps into the front row, script in hand, chewing the end of his pen like it owes him rent. Miss Nicks’ piece deserves better than this. Flightless Bird isn’t just a musical—it’s her story. Their story. Small-town nobodies clawing their way into the spotlight. She made it. Louis’ trying. And these rich kids? They’re just playing dress-up.

Niall plops down beside him, balancing two coffees and a half-eaten croissant. “You look like you’ve aged ten years.”

“I feel like I’ve aged ten years,” Louis mutters. “And I’ve still got no lead.”

He shrugs. “Maybe you’re being too picky.”

“Maybe everyone’s just crap.”

Before he can argue, Miss Nicks strides down the aisle, her heels clicking like a countdown to doom. She’s radiant, as always—sharp bob, sharper eyes. She stops in front of Louis and smiles like she’s about to ruin his life.

“I have a suggestion,” she says.

Louis braces himself. “Please don’t say Zayn Malik. God knows everyone here’s harassing me about him. He’s already in Cadence and thinks subtlety is a disease.”

She laughs softly. “No. But I think you should consider Harry Styles.”

Silence.

Even worse. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

Louis blinks at her. “He’s a drummer.”

“I promise you he’s more than that.”

“Yeah, he’s more than that. He’s a walking scandal in sequins.”

Miss Nicks’ gaze doesn’t waver. “He’s got the voice. I know it. And he understands the story in a way I think you’ll be surprised by.”

Louis scoffs. “He understands eyeliner and how to get photographed leaving clubs with his shirt half open.”

Niall snorts into his coffee. “I mean…”

Miss Nicks leans in, voice low. “Just give him a chance. One audition. That’s all I ask. I'd do it myself if I could.”

Louis wants to say no. Louis wants to scream. But she’s the reason Louis is here. The reason Louis even has this shot. So he nods, reluctantly. “Fine. One audition. But if he sings like he dresses, I’m walking.”

She smiles, victorious. “You won’t regret it.”

She walks off, leaving Louis with a pit in his stomach and a thousand curses he can’t say out loud.

Niall nudges him. “Maybe he’ll surprise you.” It sounds more like a question than a statement.

“Maybe he’ll combust mid-note and save me the trouble.”

But deep down, Louis knows this is going to be a disaster. And somehow, he also knows it’s going to change everything.

If Concordia had a royal court, Cadence would be its glittering, scandal-ridden monarchy.

They’re omnipresent—plastered across hallway posters, whispered about in bathroom stalls, and dominating half the school’s Spotify playlists. Cadence isn’t just a band; they’re an empire. A polished machine of privilege, stitched together with leather, legacy, and a touch of arrogance.

Zayn Malik, the enigmatic frontman with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, is the crown prince of Malik & Co. Management. Taylor Swift, the keyboardist and lyrical savant, shares dominion over the school with Zayn through Swift Enterprises, a label nested under Malik & Co. Then there’s Liam Payne, guitarist and son of Geoff and Karen Payne—the power couple of the music PR world, also tethered to Malik & Co. And finally, Mitch Rowland, the bassist: quiet, easily overlooked, but with parents whose names echo in the liner notes of countless Top 100 hits.

And then there’s Harry Styles—heir to Desmond Styles of Styles Studios, one of the most influential and sought-after music production empires in the business.

The drummer. The disaster. The diamond.

He’s Concordia’s most scandalous export. Long curly hair like he’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial, skirts that swirl like he’s dancing through a fever dream, boots that stomp louder than his snare, and enough glitter to blind a small village. Sequins, silk, sheer tops—he’s a walking mood board for chaos and seduction.

Harry doesn’t walk through the halls. He saunters. Like he knows every eye is on him. Like he’s the climax of every song ever written in this school. And maybe he is.

It’s an open secret that he hooks up with Zayn. Childhood friends turned bandmates turned occasional lovers. But if it’s not Zayn, it’s Luke from Five Seconds of Summer, or Austin Jacobs from Jaws, or Brad Gould from Centennial—his longest fling to date. At least, according to BackBeat, Concordia’s official unofficial gossip vine. The school’s bands have practically turned their heartbreak into a genre. Niall once told Louis that She Looks So Perfect was written by Luke about Harry.

Louis liked that song. He really liked that song.

And then Niall ruined it.

“Did you know it’s about Harry Styles?” he said, casually, like he wasn’t detonating Louis’ entire musical taste. “They hooked up for a bit. You didn’t know?”

He nearly choked on his sandwich. He did not need to know.

It’s ridiculous. Half the songs Louis loves are apparently about Harry Styles getting railed in a dress. And the other half are about the emotional fallout of loving him. It’s like he’s the muse of every boy with a guitar and a broken heart.

And Niall—sweet, oblivious Niall—doesn’t understand why Louis hates him.

“He’s talented,” he says. “He’s magnetic.”

“He’s a rich, spoiled brat who only cares about his sticks and boys’ dicks,” Louis snaps.

Niall raises an eyebrow. “You sound obsessed.”

“I sound accurate.”

Because Louis knows his type. He’s seen his type. The kind who gets everything handed to them and still acts like they’re the main character. The kind who turns heartbreak into headlines and glitter into gospel.

And now Miss Nicks wants him to be the lead in Flightless Bird?

Over Louis’ dead, scholarship-funded body.

The theater is quiet, save for the hum of the old speakers and the occasional creak of the rafters. Louis sits center stage, script in hand, legs dangling over the edge like he’s waiting for gravity to make a decision.

He’s read Flightless Bird a hundred times. Maybe more. Destiny is everything Louis wanted to create when he was sixteen and stuck in Doncaster with nothing but a busted keyboard and dreams too big for his postcode. He’s gentle. He’s hopeful. He’s broken, but still believes the world can be kind. He’s the kind of boy who sees beauty in rust and poetry in silence.

And Miss Nicks thinks Harry Styles can play him.

Louis stares at the script like it might rewrite itself if he glares hard enough. Sweet, brilliant Miss Nicks. The woman who pulled Louis out of the fog and gave him a scholarship to Concordia. Who believed in him when no one else did. And now she wants him—the school’s glitter-drenched scandal—to play the lead in her most personal work.

It’s absurd.

Destiny is innocence lost. Harry Styles is innocence auctioned off in sequins and eyeliner.

Louis sighs and presses play on the sound system, hoping music will drown out his thoughts. But the universe is cruel, and instead of something neutral, She Looks So Perfect starts blaring through the speakers.

Louis curses.

Luke’s voice fills the room, smooth and aching:

“You look so perfect standing there in my American Apparel underwear…”

He groans. Of course it’s this song.

Louis used to play that song on repeat—he knew every word by heart. It was his anthem for the first three weeks of its release. That’s the kind of energy Concordia students carry: iconic, prolific, and unapologetically loud. At Concordia, releasing music isn’t just encouraged—it’s required. Students drop albums, form bands, shoot music videos, even stage original modern musicals. Their tracks flood the school radio and light up the cafeteria’s towering LED screen like they’re already signed artists.

She Looks So Perfect was Louis’s go-to—a sugary pop love song that once felt like everything. But aimed at Harry Styles? That changes the entire meaning. Now, every lyric feels like a betrayal.

“Your lipstick stain is a work of art. I got your name tattooed in an arrow heart…”

What is it about Harry Styles that makes boys lose their minds and write chart-worthy breakup songs, anyway? What does he offer besides his body and his attitude? He struts around like he’s the school’s Venus flytrap—beautiful, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.

But love? Real love? That takes more than glitter and a good jawline.

Harry’s got issues. Everyone knows it. He’s a walking contradiction—seductive and distant, affectionate and aloof. He’s the kind of boy who’ll kiss you like you’re the only person in the world and then disappear for three days to party with someone else.

And that’s who Miss Nicks wants to play Destiny?

Destiny, who believes in second chances and quiet mornings and the kind of love that doesn’t need to be loud to be real?

Louis tosses the script aside and lie back on the stage, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer answers. The music fades, but the lyrics linger.

“Let’s get out, let’s get out, ’cause this deadbeat town’s only here just to keep us down…”

Louis escaped his deadbeat town. He worked his arse off to be here. And now he’s supposed to hand over the role that means everything to him to someone who’s never had to fight for anything?

He curses again.

Louis walks into the cafeteria like he’s marching to his own execution.

Niall’s beside him, practically bouncing. “This is exciting,” he says, like they’re about to meet Santa Claus and not the glitter-drenched spawn of nepotism.

Louis grunts. “It’s humiliating.”

“Miss Nicks asked you to do it.”

“Exactly. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

They scan the room. It doesn’t take long. Cadence is impossible to miss—center table, surrounded by their entourage of nepo posies, all designer jackets and inherited charm. The overhead speakers are playing She's Not Afraid, because of course they are. Concordia’s cafeteria is basically Cadence FM.

“She’s not afraid of all the attention. She’s not afraid of running wild. How come she’s so afraid of falling in love?”

Louis also used to love this song. It was catchy, raw, and kind of vulnerable. Then Niall, ever the bearer of bad news, told him Zayn wrote it for Harry.

Of course he did.

“She likes the way we kiss in the dark…”

Louis glares at the speaker like it personally betrayed him.

They approach the table. Cadence turns to look—Zayn, Taylor, Liam, Mitch. And Harry. Perched on Zayn’s lap like he didn’t just publicly break up with Brad Gould last week. Back to his favorite fallback fuck, apparently.

Harry’s wearing a sheer top, glitter dusted across his collarbones, a skirt that swishes when he shifts, and boots that could kill a man. He smiles at Louis—dimples and all. It’s infuriating.

“I don’t want to be here any more than you want me to be here,” Louis says, skipping pleasantries. “But Miss Nicks asked me to tell you she thinks you’d be good enough to audition for the lead in Flightless Bird.”

Everyone knows Flightless Bird. It’s the kind of production that splits the school down the middle—half speak about it with reverence, the other half act like it doesn’t exist. On the surface, it’s Destiny’s story: a boy stepping beyond his comfort zone, chasing something bigger than himself. But beneath that, it’s a scathing portrait of the music industry’s underbelly—corruption, exploitation, and the abuse of power that festers at its core.

The play doesn’t shy away from calling out the industry’s giants. Miss Nicks nearly lost her position trying to get it published, risking everything to tell the truth. Somehow, she weathered the storm. The play earned accolades, and now it’s finally hitting the stage—unfiltered, unapologetic, and aimed straight at the system. It exposes the machinery. The nepotism. The rot.

So yes, ever since its announcement, the student body’s been split—some buzzing with anticipation, others steering clear like it’s radioactive.

And now that Louis has spoken its name aloud—right in front of the children of the very people the play condemns—the table falls into a heavy, pointed silence.

Then laughter—sharp, amused—from the hangers-on around them. Cadence doesn’t laugh. Taylor looks concerned, eyes flicking to Harry like she’s reading something in him. Zayn’s jaw tightens. Mitch and Liam exchange glances.

Harry laughs, too. But it’s fake. His eyes are empty, like he’s playing a part he’s tired of.

Louis grits his teeth. “I don’t want you to audition either. But Miss Nicks does. So I’m here.”

Harry tilts his head, still smiling. “Lucky for you, then. I don’t want to audition.”

Louis blinks. “You don’t?”

“I’m a drummer,” he says, voice light. “Not a vocalist.”

Louis ought to feel relieved. He should turn and leave. But there’s something in the way Harry says it—like he’s using the label as a shield—that makes Louis hesitate. He’s bracing for arrogance, maybe even a bit of drama. And honestly, he’s more than ready to throw punches if it means defending Miss Nicks and Flightless Bird from these entitled brats.

But there’s none of it. Louis feels slightly disappointed. Harry’s refusal is so candid and plain, it almost feels underwhelming.

The exchange is so quick, that She’s Not Afraid isn’t even over in the background.

She’s not afraid of all the attention. She’s not afraid of running wild. How come she’s so afraid of falling in love?

Miss Nicks clearly sees something Louis doesn’t.

“I talked to him,” Louis says, arms crossed, voice clipped. “He doesn’t want to audition.”

Miss Nicks doesn’t look surprised, like it's not the first time she's heard it. She just sighs, soft and sad, like she’s been holding her breath, hopeful for a more favorable response.

“He’s a drummer,” he adds, like it’s proof. “He doesn’t even take vocal classes.”

She nods slowly, eyes distant. “He used to.”

Louis blinks. “What?”

“Before college,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “Harry was the best vocalist I ever taught. A musical genius. A poetic lyricist. Sweet. Bright. He used to write songs that made me cry.”

Louis stares at her, uncertain if he's hearing her correctly. “Harry Styles?”

She smiles, but it’s the kind that hurts. “He changed. That summer after high school… something happened. He came here different. Switched to drums. Dropped my classes and never looked back. Formed Cadence. And the boy who used to sing about stars and soulmates became the one who danced in glitter and kissed boys in the dark.”

Louis doesn’t know what to say. He can’t reconcile the image she’s painting with the Harry he knows—the one who struts through Concordia like he owns it, who perches on Zayn’s lap like heartbreak is a game.

Miss Nicks watches me carefully, reading his expression. It’s not a secret to Miss Nicks how Louis feels about Harry. “If he’s so hollow, Louis…” Louis remembers using that word to describe Harry, yes, “Why do you think so many heartbreak songs are written about him?”

Louis shrugs. That’s an easy question with a simple answer. “They’re just fake heartbreak songs. Words. No heart.”

Louis actually knows Liam Payne from Cadence—they cross paths in a few classes since Liam’s also minoring in Contemporary Songwriting. They chat occasionally, nothing deep, but enough for Liam to once mention his parents’ work in PR. He talked about the mechanics behind the scenes: fabricated relationships, manufactured songs, entire albums built around drama because that’s what sells. It stuck with Louis. Even in a place like Concordia, where music is supposed to be pure, the PR machine hums quietly in the background.

She doesn’t argue. She just walks to her desk, pulls out her laptop, and opens a video file.

“Be that as it may, watch this,” she says, cueing up the video. “It’s one of Cadence’s earliest performances—back in freshman year. The song’s called The Idea of You. Zayn was already one of my students, so I’d heard it before they ever played it as a band. It was powerful then. But something about this performance… it was different. Elevated. Raw. More emotional than I expected.”

Louis sits beside her, reluctantly. The screen flickers to life.

The lights dimmed. The crowd hushed. And Cadence took the stage, a fresh new Concordia band.

Harry Styles was already seated behind his drum kit, legs crossed, skirt shimmering under the spotlight, glitter dusted across his collarbones like stardust. He looked like a painting—beautiful, untouchable, and entirely too aware of it.

Zayn stepped forward, mic in hand, eyes locked on Harry instead of the crowd.

The song began.

“Never even dared to write a song before. Not until you put your faith in me…”

Harry didn’t look up. His fingers twitched over the sticks, but he didn’t play yet. He was trying not to look at Zayn. But Zayn—Zayn was unashamed. Every word was a confession. Every note bled heartbreak.

“I used to believe that love’s gonna fade. But there’s no way to put out this flame…”

The crowd didn’t know. Or maybe they did. Maybe they just didn’t care. But Louis saw it. The way Zayn’s voice cracked on the word flame. The way Harry’s jaw clenched like he was holding back something dangerous.

“So I’ll wait a lifetime or two. With the idea of you…”

Harry finally looked up. Just for a second. And Zayn smiled—soft, sad, and so full of love it made Louis’ chest twinge.

“To get me through…”

When the song ended, the applause was thunderous. The new monarchs of Concordia had just performed for the first time. But Miss Nicks doesn’t clap in the present. She turns to Louis, eyes glistening.

“I've been using this clip to teach Authentic Vulnerability in my vocal classes for years now. You think that performance was just words, no heart?” she asks. “There’s a reason Zayn flourished as Cadence’s lead vocalist, and it's not just because he owns half the school, dear boy.”

Louis doesn’t answer. Louis doesn't know what to say.

So he asks instead, “Then why is he like that?”

She tilts her head, asking to elaborate.

“Why does he play Zayn like that? Fuck other guys, then go back to him like nothing happened? And Zayn… he accepts it. The whole school knows about it—talks about it. Zayn Malik sits on a throne in this school, but he bends the knee for a heartless prick. It’s so fucked up. What’s wrong with Harry Styles?”

Miss Nicks sighs, eyes distant and regretful, “I wish I knew.”

Louis doesn’t know what possesses him to try again. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s Miss Nicks’ sad smile the day before. Maybe it’s the way she speaks about Flightless Bird like it’s a piece of her soul stitched into sheet music.

He doesn’t understand her faith in Harry Styles. But he understands her. And that’s enough.

So he finds himself walking through the Percussion Suite, dodging bursts of instruments echoing through the halls. Thank God for soundproof walls—this place would’ve been a migraine factory otherwise. Every room is a different rhythm, a different chaos.

At the reception desk, he asks, “Harry Styles?”

The receptionist barely looks up. “Free practice day. He’s probably in one of the big studios.”

Louis nods, mutters a thanks, and starts searching.

It takes him three tries, but he finds him.

Studio 4.

Harry’s alone, seated behind a sleek black drum kit, sheet music in hand. His usual glitter is absent. No sequins, no sheer tops. Just a loose sweater, black jeans, and boots. Still annoyingly pretty. That’s Harry’s whole MO—pretty with an attitude.

Louis steps inside.

Harry looks up, startled, clearly not expecting to be interacting with anyone during his Free Day. His eyes flick to Louis, then back to the sheet, then back again. A flicker of annoyance crosses his face, quickly masked by that lifeless grin he wears like armor.

“Well,” Harry says, voice light, “how can I help?”

Louis hesitates. Then steps forward.

“I’m here because I respect Miss Nicks,” he says, voice steady. “She worked hard on Flightless Bird. Fought for it. Nearly lost her job trying to get it published. And now it’s finally getting the recognition it deserves.”

Harry blinks, silent.

“I’ve been assigned to direct its first theater production,” Louis continues. “And I don’t want to fail. It means a lot to me. It pulled me out of the small town I came from. It gave me a future.”

Harry’s expression shifts—something flickers in his eyes. Sadness. Maybe guilt. Maybe something else. Louis can’t quite read him. He’s trying hard to put on a facade.

“So even if I don’t get why she picked you,” Louis says, “Miss Nicks is kind. Generous. And she believes in you. That’s why I’m here, giving this another shot.”

He clears his throat, steadying himself. “She told me you’d understand Destiny—that you could step into the role like it was written for you. I’ve never heard you sing, not once in all my years at this school. But when Miss Nicks called you the greatest vocalist she’s ever taught, it sounded like she was mourning something she lost.”

He meets Harry’s eyes, his voice gentler now. “I doubt this is the first time she’s asked. But if you ever respected her as a mentor, then do this for her. You don’t have to accept the role. Just don’t be a stranger and give her no answer.”

A long silence stretches between them.

Then Harry nods. He takes a deep breath, eyes dropping to the sheet music, then back to Louis. “Okay,” he says softly. Hesitantly. Like the word costs him something.

Louis blinks. “Okay?”

Harry looks vulnerable for a moment. Just a moment. Then the mask slides back into place and he grins.

“Okay,” he repeats. “I’ll come. Just so she’ll stop bothering you about me.”

Louis has no words, so he simply nods. Somehow, these moments always end faster than he anticipates. But talking to the real Harry—this quiet, grounded version—is strangely easier than the one he’s built up in his head. Less dramatic. More human.

He leaves the room feeling strangely off-kilter.

Louis is late.

Traffic’s brutal, and his flat is a solid forty-minute haul from Concordia—on a lucky day. LA gridlock is its own kind of punishment. He lives way out to cut costs, far enough that the skyline feels like it belongs to someone else’s life. Most of his scholarship goes straight to tuition and whatever he can stash away. There’s a beat-up truck he’s been eyeing at the impound lot, slowly saving for it—his plan is to have it ready by the time his year-long internship kicks off next year. But today’s low-stakes, anyway. No rehearsals. No urgent theater deadlines. Just prep. It should be manageable.

He jogs through the college gates, breath fogging in the morning air, and heads toward the Production Hall. He’s expecting quiet. Maybe Niall setting up props, maybe a few tech kids fiddling with lights.

Instead, he finds Niall rushing past him, eyes wide, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Hey, what’s the fuss?” Louis asks, catching up.

Niall scans the hallway, then leans in close. “Keep it quiet, yeah? Don’t go shouting it across the school, but Harry Styles showed up to audition.”

Louis halts mid-step, still surprised that Harry actually stayed true to his word. Louis has prepared himself meantally in case he's a no-show. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Miss Nicks is inside. It’s happening right now. She only let a handful of people in—strictly her call.”

They break into a quick stride. Louis isn’t sure what he’s walking into. He’s mentally preparing for sequins, theatrics, maybe a cocky grin and a performance that’s more flash than feeling.

They slip into the back of the auditorium just in time.

Harry’s already on stage.

He’s dressed to dazzle—sequined jacket catching the light, sheer shirt clinging like smoke, boots polished to perfection. But his face tells a different story. He’s trying to wear confidence, but Louis sees through it. There’s hesitation. Unease. His gaze flicks to Miss Nicks, and something in him stumbles.

Then Harry opens his mouth to speak.

“I’m here because your production director told me you still believed in me. Like you once did.”

He pauses. The room goes still, breath caught in collective suspense. Seeing Harry Styles—Concordia’s glittering rockstar darling or its most chaotic force, depending on who’s telling the story—standing center stage in the Theater Wing is strange enough to pull every attention in the department.

Louis figures he’s not the only one caught off guard—he doubts anyone else knew Harry could sing either. And now, standing there, waiting for whatever’s about to happen, he realizes he has no idea what to expect. Not from Harry. Not from this moment.

“I don’t sing anymore, Stev–Miss Nicks,” Harry starts saying. “It’s been ages since I’ve even held a mic—honestly, I wouldn’t be shocked if nothing came out when I try today. I walked away from singing. It just… stopped feeling like mine. But I owe you this. I finished the song a while back, though I didn’t think you’d want it because…we lost touch.”

He settles into the chair, cradling a plain acoustic guitar—no sequins, no spectacle. Just stripped-down sincerity. Louis hadn’t even known Harry could play anything besides drums.

“This is called Flightless Bird, American Mouth,” Harry murmurs, voice low and uncertain. “I wrote it five years ago. For your play.”

Louis goes still. Wrote? Harry Styles wrote a song? The realization crashes into him—sharp, disorienting. Of all the things he thought he understood about Harry, songwriting wasn’t on the list. And somehow, that revelation feels even more jarring than hearing he sings.

Harry begins. His voice falters, cracks. He mutters a curse under his breath at the failed start, heaves a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment, clears his throat, and tries again. His fingers hover over the strings, trembling slightly, like the music might slip away if he moves too fast. He's never looked less like Harry than this moment.

This time, his voice carries.

“I was a quick-wit boy, diving too deep for coins…”

Louis hadn’t braced for this. He’s frozen, unable to move.

Harry’s voice is… something else. Stripped down, raw, accompanied only by a single guitar. Not dazzling, not showy—aching. It’s the kind of sound that sinks into you. He sings like the lyrics are etched into his bones, like each note is a truth he’s finally letting go of. It’s not a performance. It’s a confession.

Miss Nicks doesn’t move either. But her eyes glisten, already filling with tears.

“Have I found you, flightless bird? Jealous, weeping. Or lost you, American mouth? Big pill looming.”

Harry’s eyes stay shut, lashes brushing his cheeks as his fingers quiver gently over the strings. The song pours out of him, soulful and haunting. It’s not just music; it’s memory. A story only he knows how to tell.

Louis can’t look away.

Up there, Harry doesn’t shine like someone chasing attention. He doesn’t burn like a tabloid headline. He glows like a star that never asked to be seen, but can’t help being luminous. Something far-off. Something real.

“Have I found you, flightless bird? Grounded, bleeding. Or lost you, American mouth? Big pill stuck going down.”

By the time the final note slips into silence, Miss Nicks is quietly crying, her gaze fixed on Harry like she’s seeing someone she thought she’d lost forever.

Harry blinks, his eyes wet, visibly rattled by what just came out of him—just as stunned as the rest of the room. He stands slowly, returns the guitar to its stand with care.

“I’m not auditioning,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I just came to give you what I owed.”

Then he turns and walks off stage.

“Have I found you, flightless bird?”

In that moment, everything Louis thought he knew about Harry Styles shifts.

Louis doesn’t think. He just moves.

The moment Harry steps off the stage, glitter catching the last of the spotlight, Louis is already pushing through the crowd. Miss Nicks is still wiping tears, stunned in her seat, the auditorium buzzing with whispers, but Louis only sees Harry—walking fast, head down, like he’s trying to outrun something.

“Harry!” Louis calls out, catching up in the hallway.

Harry turns slowly, his expression already shifting—guarded, unreadable. The mask slides on effortlessly, like muscle memory. He flashes a smile, all dimples and practiced charm, but his eyes are vacant.

“What?” he says, voice feather-light, too polished to be real.

Louis studies him. “You actually wrote that?”

Harry lets out a laugh, dry and brittle. “Yeah. Back when I still believed the world was kind. Not exactly on-brand for me now, huh?”

Louis doesn’t plan the next question. It just tumbles out. “Miss Nicks said your songs used to make her cry. Like today. What happened to that version of you?”

Harry shrugs. “He figured out the world’s just one big stage. You either perform or fade into the background.” He pauses, then adds with a smirk that never touches his eyes, “So I turned it into my runway.”

He turns to leave.

Louis watches him go, heart thudding. Harry looks like the boy he’s always disliked—glitter, swagger, attitude. But something’s off. Something cracked.

He looks like the Harry he always knew. But somehow… not.

Louis slumps into the theater’s back row later, arms crossed, eyes still stuck on the memory of Harry Styles on stage. The glitter, the guitar, the voice—that voice. It’s been hours, but it’s still echoing in his head like a haunting.

Niall plops down beside him, practically glowing.

“That was insane,” he says, eyes wide. “I mean, Harry? That song? I didn’t even know he could play guitar like that.”

Louis groans. “You sound like a fanboy.”

“I am a fanboy,” Niall says proudly. “You saw him. He was perfect. That song was perfect. He’s Destiny.”

Louis scoffs. “He’s a drummer. And a seduction machine. He’s not Destiny.”

Niall shrugs, unfazed. “He’s exactly Destiny. Sweet, broken, hopeful. Just buried under all that glitter and attitude.”

Louis doesn’t respond. He’s still trying to wrap his head around it. That song—Flightless Bird, American Mouth—was beautiful. Honest. It sounded like it was written by someone who’d lived every word. And apparently, that someone was Harry Styles.

He shakes his head. “I still can’t believe he wrote that.”

Niall leans back, thoughtful. “It’s too bad he doesn’t want to be Destiny. He’d be brilliant.”

Louis stays quiet. He’s thinking, about Harry’s voice, about the way he looked on stage—less like a performer, more like a confessor. About the way he said I owe you this and walked away. He left his demo on the song, and that was it.

Then Niall nudges him. “Don’t forget, party tonight. Ezra’s place.”

Louis groans. “Ugh. Another Nepo party.”

Niall flashes a grin. “Come on, it’ll be a blast—free drinks, rooftop view, maybe even a hot tub.”

“You say that every time.”

“And I’m right every time.”

Louis rolls his eyes. Niall’s technically a Nepo baby too—his uncle runs one of the biggest music venues in Manhattan, which means Niall’s on every guest list, every VIP lounge, every ridiculous party with champagne fountains and overpriced hors d’oeuvres. And he drags Louis to all of them.

“Also, drop the whole ‘I hate rich kids’ act. You’re literally surrounded by them. Hell, you hang out with them. Just accept it, Louis. You’re part of the system now.”

Louis sighs. “Fine. But if Harry Styles shows up in glitter and starts singing again, I’m leaving.”

Niall smirks. “You won’t.”

Louis doesn’t answer. Because he’s not so sure anymore.

The mansion is pulsing.

Music thumps through the marble floors, bass vibrating in Louis’ ribs. The air smells like champagne, weed, and too much cologne. Someone’s making out against a statue –a 137cm statue of Orpheus– in the foyer. Someone else is dancing on a table in nothing but glitter and bravado.

It’s the usual Nepo baby chaos.

Louis hates these parties. He always has. He comes because Niall drags him—Niall, who’s one of them, with his backstage passes and family-owned venues, but surprisingly never dresses or cares. Louis tags along, drinks the free booze, and tries not to gag at the excess.

Normally, he avoids Harry Styles like the plague.

If he catches a glimpse of sequins or hears a familiar laugh, he turns the other way. He’s seen Harry snogged against walls, tangled in limbs, glitter smeared across someone else’s neck. It’s always loud. Always messy.

But tonight, something’s different.

Louis spots him instantly—Harry, wrapped in Zayn’s arms, swaying gently to the music. Honestly, it’s harder not to notice Harry in a crowd. He’s a walking spotlight, glitter catching the chandelier’s glow, eyes half-lidded, lips curled in a lazy, intoxicated smile. He looks high. Or drunk. Or maybe just lost in the moment.

But Louis’ gaze shifts—to Zayn.

He watches. Observes. Focuses.

Zayn’s hand rests possessively on Harry’s waist, steadying him like he’s something fragile. Harry leans in, weightless, like gravity’s just a suggestion tonight. He laughs—bright, unburdened, spinning like he was born to orbit. And Zayn watches him with a quiet intensity, like he’s terrified Harry might vanish mid-spin.

A theater kid bumps into Louis, rambling about the lighting cues for Flightless Bird. Louis nods without really hearing, his mind elsewhere.

When he glances back, Harry’s already tugging Zayn toward the stairs. Zayn doesn’t fight it. He trails behind willingly, a soft smile playing on his lips, eyes warm and unguarded.

Louis hesitates. Something in him pulls forward, something else holds back. But his recklessness wins, and then he moves. Follows. Gets sidetracked on his way.

A classmate from his Musical Theatre Direction & Production class corners him near the stairwell, rambling about prop placements. Louis nods, distracted, eyes flicking toward the hallway upstairs. He’s not sure why he’s still thinking of following, really. He tells himself it’s curiosity. Or concern. Or something else he doesn’t want to name.

When Louis finally makes it to the second floor, the atmosphere shifts. The hallway is hushed, bathed in low, amber light that casts long shadows across the polished floor. The thrum of music from downstairs is barely audible now—just a faint pulse beneath the quiet. In its place, there’s the soft murmur of distant voices and the occasional echo of footsteps against marble, like the building itself is holding its breath.

They’re gone. But Louis feels it—like a thread tugging him forward.

He passes a few closed doors, each one grander than the last, until he stops outside one. A bathroom, probably absurdly luxurious, the kind of place that could host a dinner party and still have room for a string quartet. From inside, a sound reaches him.

A voice. Soft. Breathless. Undeniably Harry.

Louis doesn’t need confirmation. He already knows. But still, he lifts his hand and knocks. Once. Then again, when silence answers back. His heart is loud in his chest. Everything else is quiet.

Louis hears the thud, feels it in his chest more than the door. Zayn’s voice—gruff, clipped—calls out, “Occupied, mate.”

But Louis doesn’t wait. Doesn’t think. His hand moves before his mind catches up, and the knob turns.

The door swings open, and the scene hits him like a punch to the ribs.

Harry’s perched on the marble counter, skirt bunched around his thighs, blouse undone and slipping from his shoulders. The soft glow of the bathroom lights dances across his tattoos, casting shadows that feel too intimate. His head is tilted back, lips parted, eyes glazed with something Louis doesn’t want to name.

Zayn stands inches away, hands planted firmly, his body tense, his face frozen in surprise.

Louis doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. The moment stretches.

“I said occupied,” Zayn repeats, voice sharper now.

Louis lifts a shoulder, casual and dismissive. “Relax. Just need to take a quick piss. Won’t bother anyone.”

As if barging in mid-thrust was nothing. As if this wasn’t a deliberate intrusion. But he’s committed now, too deep into the act to back out. So he steps inside, shuts the door behind him, and heads for the toilet like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Zayn hesitates, caught in the collision of impulse and intrusion. His body is tense, eyes flicking to Louis with something unreadable—anger, confusion, maybe shame.

But Harry doesn’t flinch. He exhales a soft, needy sound, the kind that cuts through hesitation like a blade. “Zayn, don’t stop,” he murmurs, voice low and distant, like he’s somewhere else entirely.

And Zayn listens.

He moves again, slow at first, then with purpose. Louis stands at the toilet, back turned, but the air behind him is thick with motion and breath and everything he’s trying not to feel. He keeps his eyes locked on the cold geometry of the tiles, trying to anchor himself in something solid. He pretends he’s deaf to the sounds behind him. Pretends his pulse isn’t racing. Pretends his thoughts aren’t unraveling faster than he can catch them.

He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. Maybe it’s the liquor—whatever overpriced, gilded poison they serve in places like this. Maybe it’s the music. Or the glitter. Or it’s Harry’s face that won’t leave him. That unguarded expression. That rawness. That trust in Zayn. It clings to Louis like smoke.

So, he stays in the bathroom longer than he should. The door is closed, but the room is far from silent. He hears them.

Soft moans, breathy and broken. Harry’s voice, unmistakable—high, trembling, threaded with pleasure. Zayn’s deeper, steadier, a low hum of control and closeness. The sounds between them are rhythmic, wet, and intimate. The kind of sounds that don’t need visuals to be understood.

Louis keeps his eyes at the tiled wall, heart pounding.

He knows he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be listening. But he doesn’t move.

Then Harry’s voice rises, words slurred and sweet, “So deep… so good…”

Zayn chuckles, low and rough, and the rhythm shifts—faster, harder. Harry gasps, louder now, like he’s unraveling.

Louis grips the edge of the cistern, knuckles white.

He’s horrified to feel it—his body reacting, uninvited. A slow, unwelcome heat crawling up his spine. It’s not desire. Not really. It’s confusion. Curiosity. Something he doesn’t want to name. He squeezes his eyes shut.

This is Harry Styles. Glitter and chaos. The boy he’s disliked since day one. And yet…

There’s something about the way Harry sounds. Like he’s not just being touched, but seen. Like Zayn’s hands are the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

Louis breathes through his nose, steady, slow. He tells himself it’s just noise, just a moment. Just a mistake.

But when Harry whimpers again, soft and aching, Louis knows it’s something else. Something he doesn’t understand. Not yet. Not entirely unwilling to learn about either.

Or lost you?

Chapter Text

Wondering if I dodged a bullet...

OffBeat

@LukeHemmings_5SOS: “Talk so pretty, but your heart got teeth.” New single, Teeth, out later!

5.3k Notes. 2.7k Remixes. 4.3k Verses

            @_ashley: one guess whose heart got teeth

            @CliffordMaine: So excited, 5SOS! Rooting for you at the Battle of the Bands!

                           Counterpoint from @eliza_melodies: unless they’re NOT up against a band with Zayn and Harry in it, not holding my breath

            @TaylorSwift_Cadence: Sounds interesting. Good luck on the release!

BackBeat

@Miranda Ritz97 posted a 13s video. Closed Caption reads: So. New single from Five Seconds of Summer later today… You guys ready to update your ‘So Harry Styles’ playlist? Hahahahaha

12k Notes. 5k Remixes. 7.7k Verses

            @NiallerWhoreAn: YOU BET I AM

            @iambritneybitch: you’re so right gurllll

Louis' POV

The cafeteria is buzzing.

Louis sits with Niall and the rest of the theater kids, half-listening to a debate about stage lighting while picking at his sandwich. He’s doing his best to avoid glancing at the Cadence table—undeniably theirs now, like they’ve branded it with invisible ink. He won’t even let his gaze drift that way. Not even for a second.

But he fails. He always does lately.

After what he saw at the party—Harry in Zayn’s arms, Harry undone, Harry real—it’s like something rewired in his brain. He keeps glancing over, catching flashes of glitter, curls, and that damn smirk.

Harry’s laughing at something Mitch said, Zayn beside him, close as ever. Louis looks away quickly, heart thudding. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. He just knows it’s inconvenient.

The overhead speakers sputter to life. A voice cuts through the static: “Brand-new track from Five Seconds of Summer—‘Teeth.’ Just released this morning.” Instantly, the cafeteria buzzes with excitement as the song floods the room.

Louis lets out a silent groan. The last thing he wants right now is another emotional gut-punch disguised as a heartbreak anthem. But then the beat drops—rough, throbbing, unapologetically intense. And the lyrics? They land with way more force than he bargained for.

“Some days you're the best thing in my life. Sometimes when I look at you, I see my wife.”

Louis blinks. The song is good. Really good. Rocky, emotional, sharp-edged. He hates how much he likes it. And because it’s from Luke’s band, and with everything he’s pieced together lately, there’s a decent chance he knows exactly who inspired it. That’s just how it goes now. A familiar, maddening pattern.

“Fight so dirty, but you love so sweet. Talk so pretty, but your heart got teeth.”

Niall’s already nodding to the beat, “Cadence still takes the crown,” he says with a cheeky grin, “but man, 5SOS is killing it.”

Louis gives a reluctant nod. “Yeah. It’s solid.”

Then it happens.

Eleanor Calder, repping the Female Pop Department, calls out across the cafeteria, her voice pitched high with mockery. “Hey Harry, look—another track about you hooking up and ghosting by sunrise!” Her crew erupts in laughter, piercing and mean.

The room falls silent.

Harry doesn’t blink. He turns with deliberate calm, eyes glinting, and smile razor-edged.

“I must be one hell of a lay, Eleanor,” he says, voice smooth and lethal. “So good to still be his muse two years on. So fucking good he’s still writing songs about marrying me. That a foreign concept to you, sweetheart?”

The cafeteria explodes with howls and drawn-out “ohhhhhhs,” and someone in the back yells, “That burns!” and it only fuels the chaos. Laughter ricochets off the walls, gasps ripple through the crowd, and a few bold claps break the tension. Eleanor flushes crimson. Her entourage? Dead quiet.

Niall nearly chokes on his drink. “He really is something else.”

Louis laughs too. Quietly. But genuinely.

Because yeah. Harry Styles is something else. And Louis isn’t sure what that something is anymore.

The St. Cecilia auditorium is packed. It’s Concordia’s second-largest concert venue, and tonight, it’s a whirlwind of noise and nerves.

Lights dimmed, crowd buzzing, the air thick with anticipation and the scent of hairspray, sweat, and expensive cologne. It’s the 98th Battle of the Bands preliminaries—Concordia’s crown jewel of chaos and talent. Ten bands. One stage. A legacy carved in chords and controversy.

Louis usually skips this.

He knows how it ends—Cadence topping the scoreboard, glitter flying, Zayn brooding, Harry smirking like he’s already won. It’s predictable. Annoying. And, if he’s honest, kind of impressive.

But this year, he’s here. He insists it’s all professional—research for Flightless Bird, a chance to scope out fresh talent. That’s the story he’s sticking to. But the moment he crosses into the auditorium, heart pounding in sync with the crowd’s energy, the truth hums louder than any excuse.

He’s excited. Begrudgingly so.

The lineup reads like a fever dream of Concordia’s finest—and wildest.

Cadence, of course, sits at the top. The undisputed monarchs of the campus music scene, their name alone sends a ripple through the crowd. They don’t just perform; they dominate. Glitter, drama, and precision—every show feels like a coronation.

Then there’s 5 Seconds of Summer. Raw, emotional, and just gritty enough to keep things interesting. They’re the only ones who’ve ever come close to dethroning Cadence, and tonight, Luke Hemmings looks like he wants to win something—or someone.

Jaws rolls in next, led by Austin Jacobs and dripping in surf-rock swagger. Their sound is cinematic, their vibe pure California angst, even in the heart of Concordia. Centennial follows—Brad Gould’s moody masterpiece. Their breakup ballads are so pointed, you’d swear they were reading from someone’s diary. Names aren’t mentioned, but everyone knows. Velvet Chain is a synth-heavy mystery, fronted by the Composition Department’s elusive twins. No one’s sure if they’re brilliant or just bizarre, but their sound is hypnotic, like neon in a thunderstorm. The Rooks are jazz-fusion prodigies with a cult following and absolutely no stage presence. They play like gods and stand like statues. Somehow, it works.

Glasshouse brings the indie melancholy, with vocals that haunt and a cello player who cries—every single time. It’s not a gimmick. It’s just heartbreak, live on stage. Neon Hymn surprises everyone. Gospel-pop fusion? No one saw it coming. But they’re loud, tight, and unapologetically joyful. The kind of band that makes you believe in something—even if it’s just the music. Static Saints crash in with punk revival energy, smashing guitars mid-set like it’s a ritual. They don’t care if you like them. They care if you feel them.

And finally, Honeydrip. All-girl, all-fire, straight from the Female Pop Department. They’re fierce, they’re loud, and they don’t ask for space—they take it.

Louis can’t help but wonder, as he reviews the lineup again, if this is still the Battle of the Bands—or if it’s quietly morphed into the Battle of Harry’s Exes. The way the lineup’s shaping up, it’s starting to feel less like a musical showdown and more like a messy, melodic soap opera.

He scans the crowd, spotting familiar faces—Niall waves, making his to Louis from the tech booth, Eleanor is slouched a few rows away, visibly sulking, her mood as loud as her outfit. The whole auditorium is divided into factions.

To the left are the ones Louis calls the rebels—leather-clad rockers, punk kids with chipped nail polish and combat boots, and just behind them, the experimentalists in branded hoodies, radiating avant-garde energy like static.

On the right wing sit the groovers—smooth jazz players and funk aficionados, laid-back and effortlessly cool. A few rows back, the percussionists bounce in their seats, all rhythm and charisma, like Harry Styles if you stripped away the sequins and kept the swagger.

Louis lifts his gaze to the balcony, where the dreamers perch—folk artists and composers wrapped in scarves, sipping mystery brews from thermoses, notebooks open and minds somewhere between the clouds and the score.

And then there’s the main floor—the domain of the spotlights. Pop royalty front and center, glittering with entitlement, and just behind them, the virtuosi, all precision and pedigree.

Louis is down there too, thanks to Niall’s pull. But he doesn’t belong to either camp. He’s not royalty, not a prodigy. He’s the wildcard—wedged into whatever seat was free, watching it all unfold like a spectator at someone else’s dream.

His eyes land on the space reserved for the performers, specifically, Cadence—dead center, bathed in soft light, shimmering with confidence and glitter like they own the place. Which, in a way, they do.

Harry Styles still hasn’t shown, and Mitch’s seat remains conspicuously empty. Everyone knows they’re the only ones in the group who dabble in substances beyond the occasional joint. Louis figures Harry’s probably off somewhere getting himself mentally—or chemically—ready for the chaos that’s about to unfold.

BackBeat

@BradGould posted a 27s video. Closed Caption reads: Hey, Concords. Catch you at the Battle of the Bands Prelims later—Centennial’s bringing something wild. We’re performing the fastest track we’ve ever written, recorded, and mastered. It’s angry, it’s messy, and yeah… it’s obscene. Fitting, really, considering the muse behind it. I won’t spoil the details, but let’s just say: it’s a diss track. Buckle up.

26.9k Notes. 9k Remixes. 15.6k Verses

            @EleanorCalder15: Yikes. #cancelharrystyles

            @SamanthaJLo: hot tea for the hoes

#7: Centennial

The auditorium is dim, but the tension is electric.

“Ohhh, this is gonna be messy,” Niall snickers, nudging Louis with a grin. “Caught Brad’s post on BackBeat earlier—he’s practically foaming at the mic. Dude’s locked and loaded for a takedown.”

Brad Gould steps onto the stage, his band behind him, guitars tuned and eyes sharp. Louis leans forward in his seat, arms crossed, trying to act indifferent. But the moment the first chord hits, he knows this performance isn’t just music—it’s a message. Yeah, a proper diss track.

Brad sings Your Love Is a Lie like he’s bleeding through the mic.

“I fall asleep by the telephone. It's two o'clock and I'm waiting up alone. Tell me where have you been?”

Harry makes his entrance right on cue, glitter catching the light as he strides toward center stage like it’s his throne. Mitch trails close behind. Louis clocks the repeated scrunches of their noses—telltale, twitchy, and familiar. Yeah, he was right about what they’ve been up to.

He doesn’t seem fazed by Brad’s lyrics—if he is, he’s hiding it flawlessly. Otherwise, Harry looks completely at ease, radiating his signature flamboyance and eccentric charm. Just... dialed up. There’s a haze to him tonight, a little too loose, a little too lit.

“You look so innocent. But the guilt in your voice gives you away. Yeah, you know what I mean.”

Louis flinches at the lyrics. They’re brutal like a slap to the face—pointed, personal, not vague poetry, not metaphor. This is naming names without saying them.

“How does it feel when you kiss when you know that I trust you. And do you think about me when he fucks you? Could you be more obscene?”

The crowd ripples with reactions—gasps, smirks, low murmurs that buzz like static. Louis flicks his gaze toward the Cadence table.

Harry sits unbothered, cool as ever, glitter catching the light like armor. Liam’s barely containing his laughter, lips twitching with amusement. Mitch offers nothing more than a shrug, like drama’s just part of the setlist. Taylor leans in, animated and oblivious, chattering nonstop into Harry’s left ear. Only Zayn looks mildly uncomfortable.

Beside him, Niall winces. “Yikes.”

Louis stays silent, too absorbed in the music to react. The song is cutting—furious and unfiltered—but undeniably good. Brad’s voice is jagged with emotion, each line delivered like a wound reopened. It’s a breakup anthem soaked in betrayal and bitterness.

Then a voice slices through the moment. Eleanor Calder, just a few rows back, loud and laced with venom.

“I don’t know how he and Brad lasted almost a year,” she sneers, voice dripping with contempt. “It’s clear as shit Harry Styles has mental issues. I’m no Brad fan, but he practically worshipped him. And let’s be real—Harry was sleeping with Zayn while Brad was still in the picture. It’s pathetic. I can’t stand him.”

Her friends erupt in shrill laughter. One of them snickers, “Well, like he said—must be a damn good lay if guys are still writing chart-toppers about him.”

Eleanor shoots a glare in her direction, but doesn’t refute it.

Louis tenses. His jaw tightens. He wants to turn around, say something, anything—but Niall faces him first. His voice is low, steady, and sympathetic.

“I know Brad a bit,” Niall says. “Our families go way back. He really cared about Harry. Like, deep down. He knew about the cheating. But he chose to be blind. Harry didn’t even break up with him because Brad wanted to. He did it because Brad wouldn’t.”

Louis doesn’t speak.

He just watches the stage, listens to the last chorus, and wonders how many songs Harry Styles has inspired—and how many of them were written by people who cared for him more than he could ever reciprocate.

OffBeat

@MichaelAustinJacobs posted a picture. Image analyzer: a picture of Wonderland from Alice in Wonderland.

14.3k Notes. 2k Remixes. 4.8k Verses

            @RossLynch: Bro, you high?

                        Counterpoint from @MichaelAustinJacobs: Close enough, love.

            @_ashley: oh! is this a hint for your prelim song? it’s about alice in wonderland?

                        Counterpoint from @MichaelAustinJacobs: Close enough, love.

#4: Jaws

Next up is Jaws.

Austin Jacobs—frontman, guitarist, and one of Harry Styles’ more casual entanglements—saunters to the mic with that trademark lazy grin. He’s got that effortless cool down to a science: ripped jeans, caramel hair in artful disarray, and a voice that slides between velvet and smoke. He and Harry still get along, which, in the labyrinth of Concordia’s exes and almosts, is practically a miracle.

Niall leans closer, voice low and amused. “Ohh, this one’s definitely about Harry, too.”

Louis shifts uncomfortably, a flicker of dread tightening in his chest. Surely Jacobs wouldn’t go there—not another song dragging out Harry’s messy relationship history. Not with how amicable they still are.

A few seats over, Eleanor lets out a theatrical scoff, her entourage clustered around her like backup dancers. “Not everything’s about Harry Styles,” she snaps. “Not all his ex-flings are pathetically obsessed like Luke and Brad.”

Niall arches a brow, clearly unconvinced.

One of Eleanor’s friends chimes in with a smirk, “Not pathetic, no. But obsessed? Come on, El, a hundred percent.”

Louis doesn’t respond. He just keeps his eyes on the stage, bracing for whatever’s coming next.

The lights sink low, casting the auditorium in a hush. Then the first notes of Your Body Is a Wonderland unfurl—gentle, seductive, unmistakably tender. The guitar hums with warmth, the rhythm slow and deliberate, like a secret being whispered.

“One mile to every inch of your skin like porcelain. One pair of candy lips and your bubblegum tongue.”

Louis catches the shift immediately. This isn’t rage, not like the last one. It’s reverence. A love song, not a war cry. The same muse, but a different lens—one that softens, romanticizes, even idolizes.

“Something 'bout the way the hair falls in your face. I love the shape you take when crawling towards the pillowcase.”

Louis exhales through his nose, trying to keep his expression neutral. But the lyrics leave no room for ambiguity. This is a love song wrapped in lust, a tribute to someone unforgettable. Someone who’s clearly sitting front and center.

At the Cadence table, Harry is already on his feet.

“You want love? We'll make it. Swim in a deep sea of blankets. Take all your big plans and break them. This is bound to be a while.”

Glitter catches the lights as Harry moves with the music—fluid, intentional, like the melody was written into his bones. His short skirt sways with every step, and when Austin throws him a wink mid-verse, Harry responds with a theatrical spin, arms lifted, basking in the attention like it’s sunlight.

“Your body is a wonderland. Your body is a wonder, I’ll use my hands.”

Louis isn’t sure whether to laugh, groan, or crawl under his seat. The crowd is eating it up—hook, line, and glitter. Austin’s vocals are velvet-smooth, the band locked in, and Harry? He’s radiant, effortlessly magnetic.

As the final chord fades, Austin lifts a hand and gestures toward Harry, his voice ringing through the mic with a grin. “For everyone who liked that,” he says, “Send your thanks to the goddess in glitter down there. A damn wonderland.”

The crowd loses it. Cheers erupt, whistles pierce the air, and laughter bubbles over like champagne.

Harry takes it all in stride—bowing with theatrical flair, blowing exaggerated kisses, soaking up the spotlight like it’s his birthright.

Eleanor sneers, her voice low and acidic, but Louis doesn’t catch the words. He’s too lost in thought.

Wondering if the rest of the Battle of the Bands is just going to be a rotating playlist of Harry Styles tributes—some bitter, some worshipful, all unmistakably about him.

And wondering, with a quiet sort of resignation, why he doesn’t actually mind. Not really, not anymore. In fact, he’d like to know more.

BackBeat

@MichaelClifford_5SOS posted a 5s audio clip. Closed Caption reads: Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie to me.

19.7k Notes. 5.3k Remixes. 23.5k Verses

            @CalumHood_5SOS: Hey @HarryStyles, the next time Luke relapses, lie to him. Please.

                        Counterpoint from @AshtonIrwin_5SOS: the @ is wild

                        Counterpoint from @libertyAngel: not Calum riffing Harry I’m crying t.t

                        Counterpoint from @TaylorSwift_Cadence: The next time @LukeHemmings_5SOS relapses, take him to the ER, babes xx

                        Counterpoint from @EleanorCalder15: Yikes. #cancelharrystyles

                        Counterpoint from @_ashley: @EleanorCalder15 girl stop seriously

                        Counterpoint from @HarryStyles: Noted luv @CalumHood_5SOS xx

#3. Five Seconds of Summer

The lights dim again, casting the room in anticipation.

Louis barely has a moment to collect himself before 5SOS steps into the spotlight. Luke Hemmings takes center stage—tall, poised, and devastatingly intent. His gaze sweeps the crowd just once before landing exactly where Louis knew it would: on Harry Styles.

Niall leans in, voice low. “Calum let me hear the demo. Luke’s still not over it, dude. This one’s gonna hit.”

Louis says nothing. He’s already bracing for impact.

The opening chords of Lie To Me float through the auditorium, delicate and aching, like a confession. It’s intimate from the first note—each word landing with the weight of old wounds. The lyrics don’t just sting; they bruise.

“I saw you looking brand new overnight. I caught you looking too, but you didn't look twice. You look happy.”

This one’s different. Same muse, sure—but the venom’s gone, the lust muted down. What’s left is heartbreak. Louis finds himself leaning in, more invested than he’d ever admit. It’s almost laughable. If someone had told his past self he’d be sitting at Battle of the Bands dissecting love songs written about Harry bloody Styles, he’d have rolled his eyes and smacked himself for good measure.

“Flashing back to New York City, change your flight so you stay with me. Problem was I thought I had this right.”

The words hit like a memory you didn’t ask for. Louis feels the ache—the quiet devastation of caring for someone who never stayed long enough to deserve it. The regret hums beneath every note, and it’s impossible not to feel it.

 “Now I wish we never met, ‘cause you're too hard to forget. While I'm cleaning up your mess, I know he's taking off your dress.”

Luke sings like he’s unraveling. Like every word is a memory he can’t shake. The crowd is silent, hanging on every line. And Harry—Harry is watching, listening respectfully. It’s the bare minimum, really. To sit there and hear the fallout. To absorb the ache in Luke’s voice and recognize the wreckage he left behind.

He’s seated at the Cadence table, glitter shimmering, and skirt short and unapologetic. But his expression is unreadable. Calm. Composed. Until Luke steps off the stage.

He walks straight to Harry.

“I know that you don’t, but if I ask you if you love me I hope you lie to me.”

He sings the final line right in front of him and the crowd eats it up. Phones flash, voices rise. And Harry—Harry finally smiles. Slowly. Deliberately. Then stands, arms slipping around Luke’s neck, and kisses him.

It’s theatrical. It’s electric. It’s Harry Styles.

Luke doesn’t even hesitate. He sets the mic down, pulls Harry close, and kisses him back—hands firm on his waist, eyes shut tight like he’s trying to burn the moment into memory. Like he never thought he’d get this chance again.

Eleanor’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and bitter. “Fucking attention seeker,” she mutters, loud enough to be heard by everyone in her vicinity, quiet enough to pretend she didn’t mean it.

Zayn watches from his seat, a faint smile playing on his lips. But Louis catches the subtle signs—the clenched jaw, the rigid posture. That smile isn’t amusement. It’s restraint.

Harry pulls away first. Luke lingers, eyes glazed, lips parted like he’s still chasing the moment. But Harry just reaches up, taps his cheek with a manicured hand, and says with a syrupy edge.

“Good show, lover boy.”

And Luke smiles like it’s not a dismissal dressed as a compliment.

OffBeat

@Concordia PR posted. Cadence Set to Debut New Single at Battle of the Bands Tonight.

Concordia Royal College of Music’s acclaimed band Cadence will take the spotlight tonight at the annual Battle of the Bands, unveiling a brand-new single performed by lead vocalist Zayn Malik and keyboardist Taylor Swift.

The much-anticipated duet showcases a rare blend of artistry between Malik and Swift, two standout performers whose individual styles and commanding stage presence have long set them apart—even within the same band.

Fans can catch the performance live at the St. Cecilia Auditorium, with the show kicking off at 9 PM PST.

See you there!

Elizabeth McDermott

Concordia Pro Rebus

78.4k Notes. 18.9k Remixes. 39.2k Verses

#1. Cadence

The energy in the auditorium crackles like static—alive, charged, impossible to ignore. Even Niall has nothing to say for once.

Cadence steps into the spotlight, and the crowd surges with noise, a tidal wave of cheers and anticipation. Louis feels it deep in his chest—the pulse of expectation, the certainty that this is the moment. This is the band everyone’s been waiting for. The headliners. The legends.

Harry glides behind the drum kit, glitter catching the light like a dare, skirt short and defiant. He’s radiant, magnetic, already commanding the room without a single beat played.

Zayn moves to the front, guitar slung low, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. He scans the crowd once, then lands—predictably, unavoidably—on Harry.

The rest of the band falls into place: bass humming, piano gleaming, guitars tuned and ready.

Then Zayn leans into the mic, voice low and steady.

“This one’s new,” Zayn says, voice steady but soft, the mic catching the weight behind his words. “Taylor and I poured our hearts into it. It’s called I Don’t Want To Live Forever. It’s about a love that’s right there… but just so out of reach.”

The crowd hushes instantly.

Then the music begins—slow, haunting, and intimate. The first notes ripple through the auditorium like a sigh.

“Been sitting eyes wide open behind these four walls, hoping you'd call.”

This song isn’t angry. It isn’t dripping with lust or drowning in heartbreak. It’s something else entirely. It’s conflicted. Desperate. A quiet kind of devastation wrapped in hope that refuses to die.

Zayn’s voice carries the ache, every note trembling with vulnerability. Taylor’s harmonies thread through the melody like silk laced with sorrow, delicate and haunting. But it’s Zayn who holds the room in his grip.

He sings like he’s unraveling—like each lyric is tugging at a thread he’s barely holding onto.

“I just wanna keep calling your name until you come back home.”

Louis knows. Everyone knows.

This is about Harry.

Even though Taylor’s voice fills the space, even though Harry is just the drummer tonight, Zayn only has eyes for him. Every lyric is a plea. Every note is a confession.

“Wondering if I dodged a bullet or just lost the love of my life.”

Louis watches Harry closely.

He’s the picture of composure—focused on the rhythm, posture perfect behind the drums. But it’s all performance. He’s pretending.

Pretending the song isn’t about him. Pretending Zayn’s voice isn’t unraveling for him. Pretending he doesn’t feel the weight of every word.

But Louis sees it. The stillness that’s just a little too still. The silence that’s just a little too loud.

Louis feels it settle deep—an ache that’s hard to name. Sympathy, frustration, maybe even guilt. For knowing about it, for being aware of someone else’s internal conflicts. Because Zayn just bared his soul for someone who won’t meet his eyes, and Louis is unintentionally intruding by being in the same room.

And yet, as the final note fades and the crowd explodes in applause, Cadence lines up to bow. But Zayn doesn’t leave after. He turns instead.

And gently, deliberately, he takes Harry’s face in his hands.

And kisses his forehead.

Tender. Quiet. Intimate in a way that silences the room more than any song could.

Of all the genres spun from the wreckage of Harry Styles’ love life tonight—lust, rage, heartbreak, worship—this one cuts the deepest. This isn’t just another track in the Harry Styles Aftermath playlist. It’s the one that lingers. The one that strips everything down to longing and quiet devastation. The only one that didn’t feel like a spectacle.

Louis wonders—again, and not for the last time—how one person can ignite this kind of emotional wildfire. And Louis isn’t sure if he’s impressed, envious, or quietly terrified. Maybe all three.

Or just lost the love of my life?

Chapter Text

All the world's a stage,

Louis’ POV

The theater is steeped in silence, but it’s the kind that hums unsettled beneath the surface.

Louis stands in the center aisle, clipboard clutched like a lifeline, watching another hopeful falter under the weight of expectation. The role of Destiny remains untouched, elusive. Every voice feels like an echo of what could be, but isn’t.

Because the ghost of Harry’s performance still lingers.

Flightless Bird, American Mouth wasn’t just a song—it was a revelation. His voice, raw and aching, had filled the room with something unforgettable. Miss Nicks knows it. Everyone does. But she’s resolute. That song belongs to Harry. If he’s not singing it, it won’t be sung. And so the auditions drag on, each one falling short of a standard no one dares name aloud.

Louis scribbles something half-legible on the corner of the page, but his focus is long gone. His mind drifts—inevitably, involuntarily—to glitter caught in stage lights, to the steady pulse of drums, to a voice that refuses to leave him alone.

It echoes in his head in every shade: smug, nonchalant, snide, shameless. And breathless. Always breathless. Like it’s on the edge of something—confession, climax, collapse.

He exhales, sharp and tired, and starts reorganizing the audition sheets. A futile attempt at grounding himself. But it’s no use. His thoughts circle back to the Battle of the Bands. Or, as Niall so accurately dubbed it: The Battle of Which Song About Harry Styles Is the Best. It’s absurd. It’s dramatic. It’s peak Concordia drama.

Cadence claimed the top spot with ease. Their performance of new song I Don’t Want To Live Forever was nothing short of electric—Zayn’s voice aching with vulnerability, Taylor’s harmonies weaving through like silk, and Harry, glittering and composed behind the drums, pretending the lyrics weren’t about him.

Joining them in the finals are Five Seconds of Summer, Centennial, Jaws, and the fierce all-female group Honeydrip. Each brought something distinct—raw vocals, tight instrumentation, and yes, more than a few heartbreak ballads aimed squarely at Harry Styles. Louis couldn’t deny it: the talent was undeniable. But the theme? Unmistakable. And honestly? That only made it more impressive.

Louis’ musings get interrupted when the door to the auditorium slams against the wall, drawing every eye in the room.

Jordan barrels in, breathless, eyes wide with adrenaline. “Guys—holy shit.”

Allyson swivels from the lighting board, brows raised. “What happened?”

Jordan’s grin is manic, barely contained. “A video just leaked on BackBeat.”

The atmosphere flips on a dime. Papers lie abandoned, half-finished conversations evaporate. Louis straightens instinctively, clipboard dangling uselessly at his side. He isn’t one for gossip—never has been. He’s the clipboard guy, the practical one, the one who rolls his eyes when drama spills into rehearsal.

But something tells Louis this isn’t just another petty scandal. Because when BackBeat buzzes, it’s never trivial. Not at Concordia. And definitely not with Jordan delivering the news. Jordan—wild-eyed, breathless, practically vibrating with drama—is the most notorious gossip Louis has ever met. The kind who could turn a spilled coffee into a scandal.

So if he's this worked up? It’s not just juicy. It’s nuclear. Louis’ gut twists, already bracing. Because if it’s about Harry—and let’s be honest, it mostly is—then it’s not just gossip. It’s somehow personal to Louis.

He frowns. “What video?”

Jordan’s voice drops into a smirk. “Harry Styles and Austin Jacobs. Sex tape.”

The room freezes.

Someone gasps. Someone else drops a script. Niall mutters, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Jordan shakes his head. “It’s real. It’s already viral. Everyone’s talking about it.”

Louis doesn’t move.

He doesn’t know what he feels. Shock? Disgust? Curiosity? He just knows the room has shifted. The auditions are forgotten. The role of Destiny is forgotten.

Because once again, just as Louis’ instincts warned him, Harry Styles has become the center of the story.

And this time, it’s not a song. It’s a full-blown scandal.

Louis is restless.

The room is quiet, but his mind isn’t. The ceiling fan hums overhead, casting slow-moving shadows across the walls. His phone glows on the nightstand, screen dark but heavy with implication.

The video.

It was up for eight minutes. That’s all it took. BackBeat pulled the video, but by then it had already ignited.

Jordan—predictably, recklessly—airdropped it to half the theater department before anyone could even ask what it was. He didn’t need permission. He didn’t even pause. He just assumed everyone would want to see it, want to know. And now they do.

The whispers are everywhere. The auditions are a blur. Scripts forgotten, roles irrelevant. Because the leak wasn’t just scandalous—it was seismic. And Harry Styles, once again, is the epicenter.

Louis didn’t delete it.

He hasn’t watched it either.

But it’s there—forty-two minutes and four seconds of something he didn’t ask for, filmed at a pool, tucked into his gallery like a loaded gun with the safety on.

He tells himself it’s not going to hurt. He’s already seen Harry in moments of intimacy—Zayn in the bathroom, Harry undone, unbothered. This won’t be any different.

But it feels different.

Maybe it’s the context. Maybe it’s the fact that everyone’s seen it now. Maybe it’s the way Harry’s name is being passed around like a scandal instead of a song. Or maybe it’s the quiet truth Louis won’t say aloud: That watching Harry with someone else—really watching—might crack something he’s spent years pretending doesn’t exist.

So he doesn’t press play.

Not yet.

Louis stretches out on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, mind refusing to settle.

Images flicker behind his eyelids—Zayn’s fingers curled around Harry’s waist, Harry’s voice echoing in the dark, the way he looked on stage singing Flightless Bird, American Mouth like every lyric was a secret he couldn’t keep.

Louis resists.

He scrolls past it.

He opens the gallery. Closes it. Opens it again. Three times.

Then, with a breath that feels too heavy to be casual, he gives in.

He taps play.

The screen glows.

And everything else fades.

Louis watches.

The video begins in silence, the glow of the screen casting pale light across his sheets. It’s grainy but clear enough. The setting is unmistakable—a pool, moonlit, private, indulgent.

Austin appears first, waist-deep in water, his shoulders gleaming, his grin lazy and familiar. Then Harry enters the frame.

Louis exhales.

Harry’s wearing a red bikini. Bold. Unapologetic. He giggles as he steps into the pool, curls damp, eyes bright. Austin receives him like gravity—arms open, gaze warm. They collide in a kiss, slow at first, then hungry.

Austin lifts him easily, Harry’s legs wrapping around his waist, thighs clinging, skin slick. They drift toward the pool’s edge, lips never parting, water lapping around them like applause.

Louis watches Harry throw his head back, mouth open, eyes fluttering. Austin’s hand disappears beneath the surface. Nothing is visible, but the way Harry gasps, the way his body arches—Louis doesn’t need visuals to understand.

Halfway through, the tone shifts.

Austin peels away the red fabric, and Harry laughs—soft, breathless, like he’s floating. They reposition, backs against the pool wall, Harry’s legs wide, Austin’s grip firm. The water sloshes, rhythmically, insistently.

Austin’s gaze is locked in, intense, reverent. Harry's hands grip the edge of the pool, his knuckles white, his body trembling. Austin brings up one of Harry’s legs over his shoulder, a hand cups Harry’s head to protect it from hitting somewhere hard. Harry's moans are shameless, his body arching into each thrust, his cock probably pulsing between them, leaking pre-cum onto his stomach.

Austin's pace increases, his thrusts growing harder, deeper, as he chases the edge of his release. Harry's body jolts, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Austin reaches between them, and though it’s not visible, the rhythmic stroking in time with his thrusts is unmistakeable.

It’s rough.

It’s beautiful.

It’s pure, unfiltered want.

And when it’s over, when the movement stills and the water settles, Harry smiles. Not for the camera. Not for the crowd. Just for himself.

Content.

Louis closes the video.

He doesn’t speak. His heart is pounding, his thoughts a blur, and the truth settles over him like a weight he can’t shake.

He’s so utterly, irreversibly fucked.

BackBeat

@User12345678900987675432 posted a 12s video. Closed caption reads: if you thought harry styles making out with luke hemmings at the battle of the bands was scandalous, that’s because you haven’t seen this. click the link in the description to be redirected to the best fucking thing you’ll see today. link here

11.9k Notes. 78.9k Remixes. 18.4k Verses

            @Selene_Gomez: what.the.fuck

            @ MichaelAustinJacobs: What the fucking hell?

            @ MichaelClifford_5SOS: WHAT THE FUKC

                        Counterpoint from @ CalumHood_5SOS: Bro, take Luke’s phone away. Please. Like whack him over the head to knock him out.

            @ BradGould: Take this down now dipshit

Video is unavailable.

@User12345678900987675432 does not exist.

And all the men and women merely players.

Chapter Text

Let me be your man, so I can love you. And if you let me be your man, then I'll take care of you.

Zayn’s POV

Zayn sits in the backseat of the car, the city blurring past the window in streaks of gold and gray. His father’s summons came out of nowhere—something about family, about duty. But Zayn’s mind isn’t on home.

It’s on him.

His phone buzzes again. Taylor. Then Mitch. Then Liam. Eventually, even his sisters Doniya and Waliyha who didn’t even go to the same school. All of them begging him not to watch. Don’t open it, they say. It’s not worth it.

But Zayn already knows he will.

He’s lived in the shadow of Harry’s chaos long enough to know how this goes. He’s been the reserve. The fallback. The one Harry always comes back to. He’s seen the aftermath. He’s even been part of it. He’ll have some part of Harry than none.

But seeing it—seeing it—is different.

Harry’s always been honest. He never lied about the affairs—never pretended they were anything more or less than what they were. Luke lasted ten months. Brad, a full year. And every time, Zayn was the first to know. But honesty didn’t mean openness. Harry deliberately kept them separate. He never brought them around when Zayn was near. And when proximity was unavoidable, he found ways to slip out with them or send them off early.

It was a quiet kind of shielding. A boundary drawn not out of guilt, but out of something more complicated. Respect, maybe. Or fear. Or the unspoken truth that Zayn was never just another name on the list. And yet, no matter how many times it happened—how many nights Zayn spent knowing Harry was with someone else—he never felt any less hurt. Or any less in love, for that matter.

It’s not like Zayn hasn’t tried. Since Harry—since that summer after Sixth Form, since Harry ended their two-year long relationship that he called puppy love—he’s dated. Slept around. Let himself be wanted, if not truly seen. But none of it ever came with the illusion of permanence.

He never promised anything. Never asked for it either. His sisters have called him pathetic and his friends have thrown worse. Names meant to sting and to wake him up, whatever the fuck that means. But Zayn just shrugged.

They weren’t wrong, per se. But they weren’t right enough to make him stop either. He could have anyone, he’s been told that a thousand times. But he doesn’t just want anyone. He wants the one person he’s never been able to keep but still wants to, still hopes for. And there’s no moving on from that.

He opens the video.

It’s grainy, but unambiguous. The pool glows under moonlight, water shimmering like glass. Austin is seen first, waist-deep, and his grin lazy and familiar. Then Harry steps into frame.

Zayn’s breath catches.

Harry’s wearing a red bikini. Bold. Reckless. Beautiful. He giggles as he slides into the pool, curls damp, eyes bright. Austin receives him like gravity—arms open, gaze warm. They collide in a kiss, slow at first, then hungry.

Austin hoists Harry with ease, legs locking around his waist, slick skin pressed close. They drift toward the pool’s edge, mouths fused, water rippling around them. Zayn knows this choreography by heart.

He’s felt Harry like that—wrapped around him, clinging, breathless. He’s held him in the dark, in the light, in moments that felt like forever and ones that barely lasted. There’s no reason to feel jealous. He’s had Harry more times than any of them. Longer. Deeper. Before they ever showed up, and long after they faded. He’s seen Harry in lingerie that made this one look tame.

And yet. His chest aches.

Harry tilts his head back, mouth parted, lashes fluttering. Austin’s hand slips beneath the water—hidden, but telling. Harry’s gasp, the way his body curves into the touch, says everything. Zayn doesn’t need to see more. He knows those sounds. Knows the way Harry moves when he’s unraveling.

He can still feel it from this morning, before he left to heed his father’s request—Harry’s breath against his skin, the arch of his back, the way he gave himself to Zayn. It’s familiar. Intimate.

Austin slips the red fabric away, and Harry laughs—soft, breathless, unguarded. They shift against the pool wall, Harry’s legs parting, Austin’s grip steady. The discarded fabric lands beside an empty condom wrapper, careless and telling. Harry’s eyes flutter shut, mouth falling open, fingers tangled in Austin’s hair as his body opens for an intrusion. Austin doesn’t hesitate—his movements are rough, fast, relentless. Water sloshes around them, rhythmic and insistent, echoing the urgency between them.

Austin’s eyes stay fixed, burning with focus and something close to reverence. Harry’s free hand grips the pool’s edge, knuckles pale, body quivering in a way that reads like surrender. Austin leans in, mouth pressing to the curve of Harry’s neck, and moves with unrelenting force—each thrust lifting and driving Harry with raw intensity. It’s a moment that blurs the line between passion and possession.

It stretches on, slow and deliberate—Austin pausing now and then to kiss Harry, drawing out the moment with intention. When Harry begins to tremble, Austin shifts him, cradling him closer, desperate movements chasing a release. His hands work out of frame, purposeful, focused on bringing them both to the edge. Zayn watches every single second of it.

And when it’s over, when the movement stills and the water settles, Harry smiles contentedly. Not for the camera. Not for the crowd. Just for himself.

Zayn closes the video.

He leans back against the seat, eyes shut, trying to breathe through the ache in his chest. He knew this happened. He’s lived it. He’s shared Harry with others. But watching it—watching Harry like that, with someone else—it’s different.

He tells himself it’s fine.

Harry always comes back to him at the end of the day. He should be okay. But the silence in the car feels heavier than it should.

But it wasn’t always like that. There was a time when Harry was his—entirely, effortlessly.

They’d grown up side by side, their families orbiting the same world of music, management, and legacy. Sunday brunches, summer camps, charity galas—it was all woven into the fabric of their childhood. Zayn was a year older, but when school loomed, he chose to be homeschooled for a year, just so he and Harry could start Elementary together.

It wasn’t romantic. Not then.

It was friendship in its purest form—sticky fingers from shared ice cream, whispered secrets under blanket forts, matching bruises from falling off skateboards. From Elementary through Middle School, they were a unit. Where Harry went, Zayn followed. And if Zayn had an idea, Harry was already in motion.

They fit. Effortlessly. But things change.

And by Year 11, Zayn began to notice Harry. Really notice him.

Not just as a friend. But as something more. Something he couldn’t quite name, but couldn’t ignore either.

It wasn’t one moment. It was a slow unraveling. The way Harry’s laugh lingered longer. The way his curls fell into his eyes when he was focused. The way he moved—confident, careless, magnetic.

Zayn didn’t say anything. Didn’t even let himself think it too loudly. But he started remembering things more vividly—how Harry’s hand felt in his, how his voice sounded when he sang in the dark, how Zayn always felt steadier when Harry was near.

And then Sixth Form.

Concordia Academy of Music – London, a preparatory school for anyone who wanted to attend Concordia Royal College, was a place of brilliance and ambition. Even in high school, the students carried themselves like they were already stars. The halls echoed with rehearsals, critiques, and the kind of ambition that made everything feel like it mattered more than it should. The halls were humming with talent and everyone was trying to be someone. And Harry Styles was becoming everyone’s someone.

Zayn noticed it more and more.

Harry’s voice had matured—velvety, powerful, and unmistakable. He was Ms. Stevie Nicks’ favorite vocal student, and everyone knew it. Zayn also knew the way boys watched Harry when he sang—eyes wide, breath held, like he was casting spells. The way Harry moved, effortless and magnetic, like he didn’t even know he was beautiful. But he did. And Zayn saw the way people tried to orbit closer, tried to earn his laughter. Tried to be the one Harry chose. Zayn hated it.

He didn’t say anything. He had no right. He was Harry’s best friend. But every time someone leaned too close, every time Harry smiled too easily, Zayn felt something twist inside him.

At home, things weren’t easier.

His father had started pushing—harder than ever. “You need to think long-term,” he’d say. “Start taking management courses. You’ll inherit Malik & Co. someday. Art is a hobby, son, not a legacy.”

But Zayn was an artist. He could paint. He could draw. He could sing. And Harry knew that.

“You’re not your father,” Harry told him one night, sprawled across Zayn’s bed, flipping through his sketchbook. “You’re not a spreadsheet either. You’re a fucking gallery.”

Zayn laughed, bitter. “He says I’m wasting time.”

Harry sat up, serious. “Then waste it with me, Z. Sing. Write. Be who you are.”

Zayn looked at him—really looked. Harry was glowing. Not just from talent, but from belief.

And Zayn realized then: it wasn’t just Harry’s voice he wanted to keep. It was the way Harry saw him.

Zayn’s father never stopped haranguing him about enrolling in Music Management. Said it was time to think like a Malik. Said artistry was indulgence, not inheritance. But Zayn chose singing.

He chose it because Harry believed in him.

“You’re not a brand,” Harry had said, voice low and fierce as Zayn sat frozen, cursor hovering over Enroll Now. “You’re a voice. Use it.”

So Zayn did.

They started writing songs together in Miss Stevie Nicks’ class. She paired them instinctively—Harry, her golden boy, and Zayn, the quiet storm she said had “a voice like velvet and a soul that bleeds.” They played together after class, scribbled lyrics in the margins of their notebooks, harmonized in empty studios.

Zayn started writing songs about Harry.

“Baby, let me be your man, so I can love you. And if you let me be your man, then I'll take care of you.”

He never said it aloud. Harry teased him sometimes. “You’ve got a muse, Malik. I can tell. Who is it? Someone tragic? Someone hot?”

Zayn would laugh, deflect, and change the subject. But the truth lived in every verse.

It happened on a Thursday.

The practice room was quiet, cloaked in the soft hush of evening. Dim lights cast golden pools across the floor, and the piano still echoed faintly with the last notes of the song they’d just written—something tender, something raw.

Harry leaned over the keys, smiling to himself, curls tumbling into his eyes, fingers still resting on the ivory like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Zayn watched him.

Watched the way the light kissed his skin, the way his smile curved, the way everything in the room seemed to orbit around him.

He didn’t plan it. Didn’t weigh it. He just moved.

And kissed him.

Soft. Sure. Like the melody had pulled him forward, like every lyric they’d ever written had been leading to this.

Harry stilled. Then leaned in. And kissed him back.

In that moment, the years of friendship, the quiet ache, the verses scribbled in margins—they all came together. And finally, they sang.

They weren't together. Yet.

But Zayn had been moving like a boyfriend for weeks—waiting outside Harry’s classes with a quiet smile, showing up with chamomile tea when Harry’s voice went hoarse, learning the exact shade of golden brown Harry preferred his toast and the soft hum he made when lost in thought.

Their kisses had become routine now—stolen in stairwells, whispered behind closed doors, tucked into moments the world didn’t get to see.

But Zayn wanted more.

He wanted the name. The clarity. The right to say mine without hesitation.

So he planned something different. Not just another date—the date.

He reserved a rooftop overlooking the Thames, the city lights flickering like stars below. He strung fairy lights between the railings, laid out thick blankets, set up speakers with their favorite tracks queued. He packed Harry’s favorite snacks—salted caramel popcorn, peach gummies, and that obscure brand of fizzy lemonade Harry swore tasted like childhood.

And then, quietly, nervously, he added the final touch: a small canvas he’d painted himself.

Harry mid-song. Eyes closed. Mouth open. Radiant.

A portrait of the boy Zayn had loved for years—captured in the moment he shined the brightest.

Harry arrived wrapped in twilight and denim, his jacket faded at the seams, his grin bright enough to rival the fairy lights strung overhead.

“Did you rob a Pinterest board?” he asked, eyes sweeping over the rooftop setup—blankets, snacks, soft music curling through the air.

Zayn laughed, a little too quickly. “Maybe.”

They settled in. Ate peach gummies and caramel popcorn. Talked about everything and nothing. Music played low, and they danced—awkward, close, laughing when they stepped on each other’s feet.

The city glowed around them, a quiet hum beneath the stars.

Zayn’s heart thudded.

“I need to say something,” he murmured, voice barely louder than the breeze.

Harry turned, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

Zayn swallowed hard. “You make me want to be brave. You make me want to sing. You make me feel like I’m allowed to be more than what my dad expects. He thinks you’re a bad influence—lost it when he found out I chose Stevie Nicks over Simon fucking Cowell. But even he sees it now. Sees how you’ve pushed me to be the version of myself I only dreamed about.”

He paused, breath catching.

“You see me, Haz. And I—I want to be seen by you. Always.”

Harry blinked, lips parted, stunned into silence.

Zayn’s voice trembled as he stepped closer. “You already are. But will you be my muse? Like… officially?”

Harry was quiet at first. The city lights flickered in his eyes, and for a moment, Zayn couldn’t tell if he was thinking or simply feeling.

Then Harry’s lips curved into a smile—gentle, sure, like the answer had always been waiting. “Yes,” he said, voice low and steady, like a promise.

Zayn let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, a soft laugh escaping as warmth surged through his chest, washing away every doubt.

Harry leaned in, closing the space between them, and kissed him—slow, deliberate, full of meaning. And in that kiss, the years of quiet longing, the scribbled verses, the glances that lingered too long—

They all found their name. They became something real.

Zayn had never felt uneasy about bringing Harry home.

For years, Harry had been woven into the fabric of the Malik household—present at family dinners, tagging along for school pickups, curling up on the living room rug during sleepovers that blurred into entire weekends. He was more than familiar; he was part of the rhythm.

But this time felt different. This time, Harry wasn’t just a friend.

He was his.

Zayn hadn’t said the word—boyfriend—to his family yet. But it lingered between them like a quiet truth, steady and undeniable. They’d kissed. They’d chosen each other. And now Zayn wanted to bring Harry home not as a guest, but as something claimed.

Their fingers were laced together as they stepped through the door to the veranda where everyone was stood and fussing around a table for lunch, and Zayn braced himself.

His father didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look up from the newspaper when Zayn introduced Harry. Everyone immediately understood.

“Thought you’d been dating for years,” he muttered, flipping a page.

Zayn blinked. “You did?”

A shrug. “You were always together. And you were willing to stand up to me because he said so. Didn’t take a genius.”

His sisters were another story.

Doniya let out a high-pitched squeal the moment she saw them walk in hand-in-hand, practically vibrating with excitement. Waliyha clapped like she was at a graduation ceremony, eyes shining with pride. Safaa, ever the sharp one, just leaned against an archway with a knowing smirk and said, “Took you long enough.”

They’d been rooting for this for years—nudging, teasing, outright campaigning for Zayn to make a move, even before he fully understood what Harry meant to him.

They adored Harry.

His charm, his chaos, the way he could make Zayn laugh until he cried. He wasn’t just a guest in their lives—he was a favorite chapter.

Tricia, Zayn’s mom, was already halfway in love with him.

She pulled Harry into a hug that lingered, kissed his cheek like he was family, and immediately began fussing over his curls, smoothing them with gentle fingers.

“Sweetheart,” she cooed. “Darling. Do you want tea?”

Zayn hadn’t even taken off his coat.

She treated Harry like he was already part of the family. Like he was the son-in-law she’d been waiting for.

And Zayn stood there, watching it all unfold—Harry slipping into the rhythm of his home with the ease of someone who’d always belonged.

Beneath the laughter and clinking dishes, a quiet ache lingered.

Zayn’s home still smelled like cinnamon and cardamom, still echoed with familiar footsteps—but the rhythm was off.

His parents were on the verge of divorce.

Tricia moved through the house with practiced grace, her voice gentle, her smile steady. But Zayn saw the strain behind her eyes, the way she and his father passed each other like shadows—never touching, barely speaking.

The silence between them had grown thick, like fog.

Some love stories simply ran out of pages.

But then Zayn looked across the room.

Harry was laughing with Safaa, sleeves rolled up as he helped Doniya and the house staff set the table. He smiled at Tricia like she was his own, accepting her fussing with ease, slipping into the household like he’d always belonged.

And something shifted in Zayn’s chest.

Maybe his parents were ending.

But his future?

It was just beginning to take shape.

Zayn’s bedroom had never felt so impossibly small.

Earlier that evening, dinner had been a minefield of teasing. His sisters were merciless—throwing sly glances, whispering jokes behind their hands, nudging each other every time Harry laughed too loud or leaned too close.

Doniya, bold as ever, had leaned across the table with a wicked grin and asked, “You got protection ready, Romeo?”

Zayn had sputtered, nearly choking on his water, face burning as Harry snorted beside him.

Now, hours later, the house had quieted.

They lay curled together on Zayn’s bed, the air thick with something tender and electric. Zayn wore soft cotton pajamas, familiar and comforting. Harry, in contrast, shimmered in a short silk night dress that caught the low light like moonlight on water.

Their bodies fit together easily, naturally.

The kiss started slow—gentle, exploratory. Then deepened, growing urgent, hungry.

Zayn’s world narrowed to the press of Harry’s lips, the heat of his breath, the way his fingers slid into Zayn’s hair and held on like he never wanted to let go.

Zayn shifted subtly, angling his hips away with practiced care, trying to mask the way his body was responding. Every brush of Harry’s fingers, every breath against his skin, every soft sound was pulling him closer to a line he didn’t want to cross—not yet.

He didn’t want Harry to think he expected more, that it was the reason he brought him home. Didn’t want to risk the fragile tenderness blooming between them if Harry only wanted this tonight.

But then Harry moved.

They lay sideways, limbs tangled, and Harry’s leg slid over Zayn’s hip, anchoring them together. His hand drifted from Zayn’s chest to his jaw, thumb tracing the curve of his cheek like he was sketching him from memory.

Zayn’s senses flooded.

Harry’s scent—warm, sweet, unmistakably his. His heat—seeping through silk and skin, wrapping Zayn in quiet fire His sounds—soft gasps, breathy hums, the occasional giggle that made Zayn want to drown in him.

And then it happened.

Zayn’s arousal brushed against Harry’s thigh—unintended, unspoken, but impossible to ignore.

They broke the kiss, eyes met in the hush that followed. No shame. No panic. Just a shared breath, a shared truth.

Harry didn’t flinch. Zayn didn’t retreat.

They simply looked at each other—really looked—and in that gaze, something settled.

This was trust. This was the quiet beginning of something deeper. Something they were both ready to step into.

Zayn had never felt so many things at once.

Nervous. Breathless. Completely undone.

Harry was curled beside him in bed, silk nightdress slipping off one shoulder, eyes soft and trusting. They’d kissed before—slow, playful, deep enough to leave Zayn dizzy. But tonight was different. Tonight, they were stepping into something uncharted.

They’d grown up in a world that blurred boundaries—glamour laced with grit, where fame often came at the cost of innocence. They’d seen artists barter their bodies for a shot at relevance, watched people snort lines beside framed photos of their younger, brighter selves.

They’d been there too—on yachts with their fathers, where excess was the norm and intimacy was currency. They’d tasted the edge of that world, curious and reckless, just to understand what everyone was chasing.

They weren’t naïve. They weren’t untouched. But in that moment, in Zayn’s quiet bedroom, wrapped in warmth and moonlight, they were something else entirely. They were tender. They were new. It was their first time—not just physically, but emotionally. Not a performance. Not a transaction. This was real. And they weren’t with strangers or lovers of convenience. They were with each other. Two boys who had grown up side by side, who knew each other’s laughter and pain, who would move through this moment with care.

Zayn looked at Harry and saw not just beauty, but history.

And a future.

Zayn’s heart was pounding, but his hands were steady. He wanted to do this right. Not just because it mattered, but because it was Harry. The boy he’d loved quietly for years. The boy who made him brave.

“Are you okay?” Zayn whispered.

Harry nodded, voice barely audible. “I want you.”

Zayn kissed him gently, letting his hands explore with care. He took his time, listening to every sound Harry made, every shift in his body. When he touched Harry more intimately, Harry tensed—just a little. It was new. Unfamiliar.

Zayn paused immediately.

“If it’s too much, tell me,” he said, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering.

Harry nodded again, fingers clutching Zayn’s wrist, grounding them both.

There was discomfort. A flicker of hesitation. But there was trust, too.

Zayn moved slowly, patiently, letting Harry adjust. He whispered soft reassurances, kissed his skin, and when Harry relaxed, Zayn continued—his fingers gentle, his mouth reverent.

He dipped his head where Harry was all heat, lips and tongue tracing every inch with devotion. He stroked him too, syncing touch with breath, letting Harry feel how deeply he was wanted.

Harry gasped, body arching, fingers tangled in Zayn’s hair.

And then, with a soft cry, he came—shuddering and overwhelmed.

Zayn lay quietly beside Harry, his gaze tracing the gentle rhythm of Harry’s breathing—the way his chest rose and fell like waves settling after a storm. Moonlight spilled across the bed, catching the soft flush in Harry’s cheeks, the flutter of his lashes as he blinked slowly, still catching his breath.

Zayn leaned in, pressing tender kisses along Harry’s skin—starting at his hip, then up the curve of his stomach, the slope of his chest, the hollow of his throat. Each kiss was deliberate, reverent, like he was memorizing a map he’d always known but never fully explored.

When their foreheads nearly touched again, Harry smiled—dazed, radiant, like he was lit from within.

Zayn kissed him, slow and deep, letting the moment stretch and settle between them.

Then Harry’s fingers found the waistband of Zayn’s pajama pants, tugging gently.

Zayn paused, just for a breath, then slipped them off, the fabric whispering against his skin.

Harry’s eyes glazed over.

Zayn knew he was well endowed—more than most. It had been a quiet complication in past relationships, a reason things never went all the way. There had always been hesitation. Fear. Distance.

But not with Harry.

Harry looked at him with reverence. With nervousness, yes—but also with excitement. His gaze was steady, curious, and full of something that made Zayn feel adored.

Harry moaned softly at the sight of him. Then, slowly, he crawled toward Zayn at the foot of the bed, fingers trailing over his thighs, lips parted. Zayn’s breath caught.

Harry touched him gently, then leaned in.

It was his first time, Zayn knew that. And he felt it in every tentative movement, every glance upward, every soft sound Harry made as he explored. Zayn’s hand found Harry’s curls, anchoring himself as pleasure bloomed sharp and fast.

But more than that—it was the intimacy, the trust. The way Harry gave back so fully, so fearlessly.

Zayn didn’t rush, didn’t push. He let Harry set the pace, let the moment stretch and deepen until it was more than physical. Until Zayn was close.

Harry’s mouth was warm and eager. Zayn’s fingers curled into the sheets, breath stuttering as pleasure surged through him. But just before the edge, he whispered, “Stop.”

Harry pulled back, lips swollen, eyes wide with concern.

Zayn leaned in, kissed him softly. “I want to be inside you.”

Harry’s breath hitched.

Zayn laid him back gently, hands trailing over his chest, massaging the soft curve of his breast, brushing his thumb over a sensitive nipple. Harry arched slightly, thighs parting instinctively. Zayn kissed his way down, coaxing Harry open with reverence and care.

“I want to,” Harry whispered.

Zayn paused. “Are you sure?”

Harry nodded, voice steady. “I’m sure.”

Zayn reached for a condom and the lube, coating himself slowly, deliberately. Harry watched between their bodies, eyes wide, nervous but trusting. Zayn kissed him again, forehead to forehead.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised.

And then, carefully, he began to push inside.

It was tight. Velvet heat. Almost suffocating.

Harry gasped, eyes stinging, fingers clutching Zayn’s arms. It hurt—Zayn could see it, feel it. He stopped, kissed Harry’s cheek, and whispered soft reassurances.

“Breathe,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Harry nodded, tears slipping silently down his temples.

Zayn waited.

When Harry’s body relaxed, Zayn moved again—shallow thrusts, slow and patient, easing deeper with each breath. Harry whimpered, overwhelmed, but didn’t pull away.

And then, as Harry was getting used to the stretch of taking his boyfriend, finally, Zayn slid fully inside.

Harry was gasping, crying a little, clutching Zayn like he was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

Zayn kissed him, soft, steady, and held him there.

Zayn was completely inside him now, his cock filling Harry to the hilt. He hadn't meant to go fast. Had promised himself he'd be gentle, careful, patient. But Harry—God, Harry—was responding like he'd been waiting for this forever. Every gasp, every arch of his back, every whispered plea pulled Zayn deeper, coaxed his hips to move faster, just a little harder.

Harry clung to him now, his body a tangle of limbs and desire. His eyes fluttered closed, then opened again to watch Zayn above him with something close to awe. His fingers dug into Zayn's shoulders, nails biting skin, leaving red marks that Zayn knew would ache later. The soft mounds of Harry's chest jostled with each of Zayn's thrusts, the sight of them bouncing and swaying grounding them both in the moment.

Zayn shifted his angle and found it. He knew he’d found his sweet spot because Harry’s body bowed, a cry escaping his lips, breath catching as Zayn battered the spot that made him tremble. Zayn kept going, kept pressing into that velvet heat, guided by Harry’s gasps and the way his thighs began to shake restlessly at Zayn’s sides.

Harry's eyes flicked down, watching as Zayn's cock thrust in and out of him, the sight of his own body stretching to accommodate Zayn's girth making him whimper. One of Harry's hands shakily made its way between their bodies, tracing the skin there, feeling how it was stretching from the girth. "Fuck. It's so big. It's so fucking big," he whimpered, his voice a mix of pain and pleasure.

Zayn could feel Harry's body gripping him hard, the tight heat of him almost too much to bear. He kept moving, his hips rolling in a steady rhythm, his cock sliding in and out of Harry with a wet, sucking sound. The sight of his cock disappearing into Harry, the way Harry's body stretched to accommodate him, was almost too much for Zayn to handle.

“Zayn,” Harry whispered, voice wrecked. “I’m—oh God, I’m coming.”

Zayn hadn’t touched him. Hadn’t needed to.

Harry came, untouched, body trembling, hands gripping Zayn like he was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. And Zayn followed.

The sight of Harry undone, the tight heat around him, the sound of his name on Harry’s lips—it was too much. He came with a loud groan, burying his face in Harry’s neck, holding him close as they both unraveled.

After, Zayn kissed him again. He’d never get tired of kissing Harry, of pouring his heart out through his mouth into Harry’s. He brushed back sweaty curls, traced Harry’s cheek with reverence.

And thought he was the most beautiful person he’d ever see in his life.

But summer after Sixth Form happened. And everything went down in one fell swoop.

It was first year at Concordia Royal College.

The academy was bigger, louder, and shinier than the prep school back in the UK. But the ache in Zayn’s chest was the same. Almost a year had passed since Harry ended their two-year relationship—high school sweethearts turned something too fragile to survive the leap into adulthood.

Harry had called it puppy love. Said Zayn would move on eventually.

Zayn had agreed. Reluctantly. Bitterly. But whatever kept him close to Harry, he’d take. Even if it meant being just a friend again. Even if it meant watching Harry with someone else.

That night, Zayn was at the club—their club.

The one they’d dreamed up together, a sleek, pulsing haven for the elite. Zayn had built it with sharp edges and soft lighting, a place of rebellion and rhythm, born partly from spite—his answer to his father’s meddling fiancé and her obsession with legacy.

He was in business mode, meeting with a promoter about Heathens’ next showcase. He wore confidence like armor, speaking in crisp sentences, trying to embody the version of himself Harry once said he could become—ambitious, grounded, but still true to his art.

When the meeting ended, Zayn stepped out into the main floor. And froze.

Harry was moving like he was made of starlight and static—spinning, swaying, lost in the music. Glitter shimmered across his cheekbones, catching the strobes like constellations. His shirt hung open, clinging to sweat-damp skin, and his eyes were glassy with euphoria—drunk, high, or both.

And Austin Jacobs was pressed against him like a second skin.

Hands gripped Harry’s hips possessively. His mouth hovered near Harry’s ear, whispering something that made Harry laugh—loose and unguarded. Austin looked smug, like he’d just claimed a prize.

Zayn’s stomach twisted.

Austin had been circling since the first day at Royal College. Always too close. Always too charming. Always watching Harry like he was something to win.

And now, it looked like he had.

Zayn stood frozen on the edge of the dance floor, the bass thudding through his chest like a second heartbeat. His jaw clenched, fists curled at his sides, but he didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

He watched from across the room, heart pounding, jaw clenched, pretending it didn’t matter.

That night, Harry left with Austin.

Zayn stayed behind.

And for the first time, he realized what it meant to belong to someone who no longer belonged to you.

The apartment was cloaked in shadows when Harry stepped inside.

The only light came from the flickering television, casting soft blue hues across the room. Zayn lay on the couch, half-asleep, a book resting open on his chest, its pages rising and falling with each breath. He didn’t stir when the door clicked shut. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

Harry moved slowly, toeing off his boots with a quiet sigh. Glitter clung to his cheekbones, smeared and fading. His shirt hung wrinkled and loose, and his eyes—glassy, unreadable—held something heavy.

He paused in the doorway, then spoke.

“I slept with Austin Jacobs.”

Zayn blinked. The words weren’t new. But hearing them aloud still carved something sharp into his chest.

Harry crossed the room, footsteps soft against the floor. “I thought you should hear it from me.”

Zayn sat up, the book sliding to the floor unnoticed. His heart thudded, but he didn’t ask questions. Didn’t demand explanations. He just nodded, bracing himself like a wave was about to hit.

Harry’s voice was quiet, almost apologetic. “It didn’t mean anything. I was drunk. He was there.”

Zayn swallowed hard. I’m always here, he wanted to say. But the words stayed buried.

“Okay,” he murmured instead. Because what else could he say without falling apart?

Harry studied him. “You’re not mad? You’re not going to turn me away?”

Zayn shook his head. “I don’t have the right to be mad.”

Harry frowned, stepping closer. “You do.”

Zayn looked away, eyes fixed on the television’s glow. “You said it was puppy love. That I’d move on.”

Harry sank onto the couch beside him, close enough to feel the warmth, but not touching. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Zayn gave a bitter smile. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

Harry tilted his head, voice barely a whisper. “Z…”

Zayn cut him off, voice steady but frayed. “As long as you come home to me, Haz, I’ll take it. Whatever it is. Whatever you do. I’ll take it. I’ll never turn you away. That’s stupid.”

Harry didn’t respond.

He just leaned in, resting his head on Zayn’s shoulder, the silence between them thick with history and hurt.

And Zayn let him.

Because loving Harry had never been about ownership. It was about presence.

And at the end of the day, Harry came home to him. That was enough.

For the rest of my life, for the rest of yours, for the rest of ours.

Chapter Text

You can call me when you're lonely, when you can't sleep.

OffBeat

@ReeseAllyson95: Harry's been awfully quiet since the video dropped... oops!

2k Notes. 1.4k Remixes. 8.4k Verses

            @_ashley: yeah cuz he's probably living his life right now while you're stuck replaying his sex video... oops!

                             Counterpoint from @eliza_melodies: savage lmfao

            @IamGigiHadid: It's really awful, what happened though. But is the video really surprising? It's Harry Styles!

            @EleanorCalder15: He's scrambling to put back his dignity at the moment.

Harry’s POV

Harry lay draped across the velvet couch in Taylor’s apartment like a painting left out in the sun—limbs slack, head tilted, eyes half-lidded and glazed with something distant. The room pulses with low music and muffled laughter, smoke curling through the air like silk, wrapping itself around the chandelier light and casting everything in a golden haze.

He’s high. Not just buzzed—floaty. Warm and weightless. Detached from the noise in his head, from the sting of headlines and the ache of memory.

This is easier. Easier than thinking. Easier than feeling.

The video had leaked. So what?

Everyone already knew Austin had had him—had touched him, kissed him, fucked him. They were never subtle. It wasn’t a secret. Concordia’s seen Harry Styles in every shade of scandal. This is just another hue.

Taylor extends the joint with a practiced flick of her wrist, smoke trailing like ribbon through the dim light. Harry takes it, fingers brushing hers, lips curling into a slow, languid smile as he inhales. The haze in the room matches the one in his head—just disconnected enough to make everything feel like a dream.

“What do you think about the video?” Taylor asks, her voice light, teasing, like the question doesn’t carry weight.

Harry exhales, watching the smoke swirl toward the ceiling. He shrugs, eyes half-lidded and shimmering. “I look fucking sexy in it.”

Taylor laughs, head thrown back, curls bouncing. “You do. That red bikini? Iconic.”

Harry chuckles, the sound low and lazy. “Drove Austin mad, didn’t it? He couldn’t wait till we got back to our room.” He pauses, grin widening. “Just dragged me into the pool and shoved his cock in.”

Their laughter mingles with the music playing faintly in the background, soft and echoing against the velvet walls. Outside, the world buzzes with opinions and headlines. Inside, they float—untouched, unbothered, and beautifully reckless.

Then Taylor leans back into the cushions, swirling the drink in his hand with idle curiosity. His eyes flicked toward Harry, mischief dancing in them. “So… who’s got the most legendary dicks at Concordia, then?”

Harry snorts, sprawled on the couch, curls messy and eyes half-lidded from the haze of the evening. “You want a top five?”

Taylor shrugs, grinning. “Obviously.”

Harry’s smile turns sly, a flicker of nostalgia passing through his gaze. “Zayn’s top of the list. No contest.” He pauses, then adds, “Did you know he was my first?”

Taylor blinks, caught off guard. “Wait—seriously? What the fuck. I didn’t know that.”

Harry laughs, the sound soft and distant, like he’s watching a memory play out on the ceiling. “Yeah. We were… fifteen, sixteen? You know, at Concordia Prep in London. Hurt like hell. Thought I was gonna split in two. But he was patient. Kept talking to me through it, kissing me, soothing me with gentle touches. Typical, gentlemanly Zayn. That’s just who he is.” He trails off for a moment, eyes unfocused. “Zayn’s always been that way. That’s why I kept going back.”

Taylor raises a brow, “Oh, so it’s not because he’s completely in love with you?”

Harry goes still.

Taylor winces, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

Harry doesn’t respond right away. He just stares ahead, lost in thought, the weight of old feelings settling between them like dust.

Harry leans back into the couch, eyes glazed with the soft haze of the evening, and clears his throat with a crooked smile. “Austin’s probably second,” he continues, voice low and teasing. “Just a bit shorter than Zayn, but still… intense. First time was wild. I could barely catch my breath. Good thing I had practice from Z.”

Taylor bursts out laughing, nearly spilling his drink. “Wait—where did that even happen?”

Harry smirks, eyes flicking upward like he’s replaying the memory. “His dad’s office. Middle of the afternoon. Totally reckless.”

They laugh again, the sound echoing through the dimly lit room, but Harry’s smile lingers a little longer this time—slower, more thoughtful.

“Brad’s probably third,” he adds, tapping his fingers against the rim of his glass. “Not as broad, but definitely long. Ten, I think. Zayn’s just under that.”

Taylor stares at him, eyebrows raised. “You actually keep track? Like, you measure them?”

Harry shrugs, lips curling into a grin. “What can I say? I appreciate the details.”

Taylor shakes his head, chuckling. “You’re unbelievable.”

Harry lounges deeper into the cushions, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips as he twirls the stem of his glass between his fingers. “Luke’s probably fourth,” he says, voice casual, almost bored. “About seven inches, as thick as Brad. Obsessed with mirrors. Makes me watch myself getting railed from behind.”

Taylor groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “Oh my God, Harry. I know I opened this door, but you’ve just barged through it with way too much detail.”

Harry chuckles, eyes glinting with mischief. “Fifth spot? Damiano David.”

Taylor’s jaw drops. “Wait—Damiano? Isn’t he dating Eleanor Calder?”

Harry shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah. But he likes fucking me more.”

Taylor groans again, louder this time. “That’s the second boyfriend of hers you’ve snagged. You absolute menace.”

Harry laughs, the sound rich and unapologetic. “Hey, it’s not like I chase them. They just... find their way to me.”

Taylor shakes his head, grinning despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

Harry raises his glass in mock salute, eyes twinkling. “And yet, somehow irresistible.”

Taylor falls quiet, the laughter from earlier fading into the soft hum of the room. He watches Harry for a moment, eyes thoughtful, then speaks gently, almost hesitant.

“Do you ever think about… just letting Zayn try with you? He’s been holding onto you for years, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t respond right away. He lies back, gaze fixed on the ceiling where smoke from the joint curls and drifts like pale ghosts, dissolving into the shadows. His fingers twitch slightly, then still.

“I don’t deserve Zayn,” he says at last, the question almost sobering him instantly, voice low and rough around the edges. “He deserves someone better. Someone whole.”

Taylor’s brow furrows. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, searching Harry’s face. “You explored your sexuality, Harry. There’s nothing wrong with that. Zayn knows. He’s always known. And he still loves you.”

Harry doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t speak.

Because it’s not about the sex. Not about the names or the nights or the stories traded over drinks. It’s about the ache he can’t name. The feeling that clings to him like smoke—quiet, persistent, and cruel.

That he’s damaged. Tainted.

And Zayn, with all his patience and quiet devotion, deserves something untouched. Something unbroken.

Harry closes his eyes and says nothing.

The night hums with warmth, the kind that clings to skin and settles in the bones. Crickets chirp lazily in the garden, their rhythm blending with the soft rustle of leaves overhead.

Harry lies curled on the veranda couch, cocooned in a blanket that smells faintly of lavender and old smoke—comforting, familiar. The silk of his nightdress clings to him, cool and smooth against the heat of his body. He’s somewhere between dreaming and waking, the remnants of a high still drifting through his limbs like mist.

Above him, the stars blur into a soft smear of light, as if the sky itself is exhaling. The world feels distant. Quiet. Then, a hand brushes his cheek.

He stirs, lashes fluttering, breath catching. He expects Taylor—her perfume, her laugh, her usual late-night check-ins when Harry comes over. But it’s not her.

It’s Zayn.

Harry blinks slowly, eyes adjusting to the shadowed figure beside him. “Back from your dad’s so soon?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and surprise.

Zayn nods, his expression unreadable, eyes darker than the night around them. “I rushed back.”

Harry doesn’t ask why. He already knows. Knows the weight behind those words. The urgency. The quiet ache that pulled Zayn home—not to a place, but to him.

“I’m okay, Zayn,” Harry says, voice low and quiet, like he’s trying not to disturb the night. “I don’t really mind the leak. People already knew. They knew Austin had me before they saw it.”

Zayn doesn’t respond. He just exhales slowly, the sound barely audible, but his gaze is heavy—weighted with everything he’s not saying.

Harry feels it. The question hanging in the air. The ache behind Zayn’s silence.

“I just… liked having sex with Austin,” Harry murmurs, eyes fixed on the floor. “That’s all it was. No feelings. No strings. It’s not complicated.”

Zayn’s jaw tightens, the muscle flickering beneath his skin. “I saw the video,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry freezes. The silence stretches.

“I got jealous,” Zayn admits, the words fragile, like they cost him something to say.

Harry sighs, the sound weary. “I told you—”

But Zayn doesn’t let him finish. He moves closer, kneels beside the couch, and leans in. His hand finds Harry’s cheek, thumb brushing gently across his skin. Then he kisses him—soft, deliberate, full of everything he’s held back.

And Harry, stunned into stillness, lets himself feel it. The truth of it. The longing.

It begins gently. A brush of lips, tentative and quiet, like a question asked in the dark. But then it deepens—grows urgent, aching. Zayn kisses Harry like he’s trying to rewrite every frame of the video, every moment that didn’t belong to him, with the press of his mouth.

“I know things happen,” Zayn breathes against Harry’s lips, voice raw. “But seeing it… it wrecks me. You were mine first, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t respond. Doesn’t argue.

Zayn shrugs off his coat, then his vest, each movement slow and deliberate, like he’s shedding more than just fabric. He slides beneath the blanket, the warmth of his body folding into Harry’s, grounding him. Their mouths find each other again—less frantic now, more certain.

And Harry lets go. Lets himself melt into the moment, into Zayn’s touch, into the quiet promise that lingers between them.

The blanket rustles softly as Zayn shifts closer, the warmth of his body folding into Harry’s like a familiar rhythm. His hand moves with quiet intention, brushing against silk and skin, parting long, smooth legs, and Harry gasps—his fingers instinctively clutching at Zayn’s chest, breath hitching in the stillness of the night.

Zayn’s hand trails down, parting Harry’s legs, fingers brushing silk and skin. Harry gasps, clutching Zayn’s chest, his breath catching as the blanket shifts around them.

The veranda is hushed, wrapped in shadows and the distant hum of crickets.

“What about Taylor?” Harry whispers, voice barely audible, laced with hesitation.

“She’s asleep,” Zayn murmurs, his tone calm, steady. “In her room.”

Harry’s eyes flick toward the hallway, uncertainty flickering. “She’s going to hear, Z.”

Zayn leans in, his breath warm against Harry’s cheek. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, quiet but sure.

Then he moves—slow, deliberate, like he’s anchoring them both in something deeper than memory. And in that moment, the stars blur, the video fades, and the ache in Harry’s chest dissolves into the night air.

All that remains is Zayn. And the way he always finds his way back.

The night folds around them like velvet—soft, heavy, and intimate. A breeze drifts through the veranda, cool against Harry’s flushed skin, making his breath fog faintly in the air. Beneath the blanket, his body is warm, the silk of his nightdress clinging to him in every place Zayn’s hands have wandered, like echoes of touch.

The world outside hums quietly—distant traffic, the occasional rustle of leaves—but here, in this cocoon of shadows and shared breath, everything feels amplified. Every heartbeat. Every glance. Every shift of weight.

Zayn hovers above him, his eyes dark and unwavering, locked onto Harry’s with a kind of quiet intensity. His movements are slow at first—careful, reverent, like he’s afraid to break the moment. Then something shifts. The rhythm deepens, grows more urgent, more certain. Hunger replaces hesitation.

Harry bites his lip, a soft sound escaping as his fingers curl into Zayn’s chest, searching for something steady—something real—as the world begins to blur around the edges. He’s unraveling, thread by thread. And all he can feel is Zayn.

It’s not just the closeness.

It’s the way Zayn gives himself over completely—every breath measured, every touch intentional, every flicker of emotion laid bare. Even the parts of him that Harry never asked for, never expected, are offered without hesitation.

Harry’s eyes flutter open, lashes damp, and Zayn is still there. Still watching him. Not just looking—but seeing.

The stars above blur into soft halos, but Zayn’s gaze is sharp, unwavering. He dips his head, lips grazing the curve of Harry’s jaw, and something shifts. His movements grow firmer, more deliberate—like he’s trying to leave a mark that won’t fade, a memory etched into skin and soul.

“You feel so fucking good,” Zayn murmurs, his voice a low rumble against Harry’s skin. “I always need to be deep inside you.”

Harry gasps as Zayn’s fingers trace the curve of his spine, pressing him closer. The silk of the nightdress slips further away, and Harry’s skin is bare and vulnerable. Zayn’s touch is electric, sending shivers down his back as he continues to fuck him, the head of his cock pressing against Harry’s sweet spot.

“You’re so tight,” Zayn whispers, his voice strained with desire. “I want to feel you come undone around me.”

Harry nods, his breath hitching as Zayn makes him feel it, inch by inch. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and a hint of pain that only heightens the intensity. Harry’s nails dig into Zayn’s back, urging him deeper.

“More,” Harry whispers, his voice hoarse with need. “I need more.”

Zayn complies, his hips moving with a steady, relentless rhythm. Each thrust is deliberate, calculated to drive Harry to the brink. The sound of their bodies meeting fills the air, a raw, primal symphony.

“You’re mine, baby,” Zayn growls, his grip tightening on Harry’s hips. “All fucking mine.”

Harry can only moan in response, his body arching to meet Zayn’s every movement. The pleasure builds, a tight coil in his belly, threatening to snap at any moment. Harry’s mind is a blur, his senses overwhelmed by the feel of Zayn inside him, the taste of his skin, the sound of his ragged breaths.

“I love you,” Zayn whispers, his voice rough with truth and emotion. “I fucking love you.”

Harry’s breath catches, chest rising sharply, heart stumbling over itself, body tightening around Zayn. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.

Because in this moment, he’s not Harry Styles—the glitter-drenched enigma, the muse behind a thousand verses. He’s just a boy on a quiet veranda, wrapped in silk and warmth, being held by someone who never stopped choosing him.

The kettle whistles softly, a gentle breath of sound that curls through the quiet kitchen. Steam rises in delicate spirals as Taylor moves with practiced ease, her fingers steady as she pours hot water over loose tea leaves. Sunlight filters through the windows, casting golden slats across the tiled floor, warming the edges of the morning.

The house is still. Still in that way that makes every creak of the floorboard feel like a shout. Zayn is gone. His coat no longer by the backrest of the couch, his boots missing from beside the coffee table.

He woke early, voice low and careful. “I can carry you to the guest room, baby,” he says, glancing toward Harry, who’s curled up on the couch beneath a throw blanket.

Harry stirred, eyes half-lidded. “No need,” he murmured. “I’m fine here.”

Zayn nodded, not pushing. He dressed quietly, movements deliberate, as if each sound might disturb something fragile. When he spoke again, it’s with a weight in his voice, regretful.

“I need to go back to finish some paperwork,” he said. “I should’ve done it all last night, but I hurried to get home.”

Harry sat up, reached for him. “You don’t have to explain.”

“I want to,” Zayn replied, stepping closer. He took Harry’s hands, cradled them like something hallowed, and pressed a kiss into each palm. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

Harry leaned in, brushing his lips against Zayn’s cheek. “I know.”

But Zayn lingered. He said goodbye once, then again. Five times in total, each softer than the last, as if repetition might make leaving easier. His phone buzzed relentlessly, his ride waiting downstairs, but he hesitated at the door, casting one last glance over his shoulder.

Now, he’s gone.

But Harry is still here.

Taylor finds him an hour after Zayn leaves, curled like a question mark on the veranda couch. The blanket she lent him last night is wrapped around his shoulders, slipping off one bare foot. His silk nightdress clings to him, damp with sleep and the lingering heat of memory. He doesn’t stir when she slides open the glass door. His gaze is distant, fixed somewhere beyond the garden, beyond the morning.

She pauses in the doorway, eyes catching on the small waste bin tucked beside the couch. A used condom sits atop crumpled tissues, quiet evidence of tenderness spent in the dark. Her brow lifts, but she says nothing. Instead, she crosses the room, leans down, and presses a kiss to Harry’s curls.

“Morning, love,” she murmurs, voice soft as steam.

Harry hums in response, not quite awake, not quite dreaming. Taylor straightens and heads to the kitchen, her slippers whispering against the floorboards. The kettle begins its slow song again, and she moves through the motions of steeping tea with the grace of ritual—measured scoops, porcelain clinks, the hush of boiling water meeting leaves.

By the time the tea is ready, Harry appears in the doorway, blinking against the light. He shuffles in, blanket trailing behind him like a cape. His curls are a wild halo, cheeks flushed with sleep and something sweeter. He’s barefoot, toes curling against the cool tile.

Taylor glances up and smiles. “There you are.”

Harry rubs his eyes, voice thick. “Smells good.”

She hands him a mug, fingers brushing his. “Chamomile. Thought you could use something gentle.”

“Thanks, Tay,” Harry mumbles as he lowers himself into the kitchen chair, wincing slightly as he settles.

Taylor arches a brow, already reaching for the mug she’s prepared. “Sore?”

He blushes, fingers curling around the warm ceramic. “I told you last night,” he says, voice low and sheepish. “Zayn’s… a lot.”

Taylor smirks, leaning one hip against the counter.

Harry asks, “Did you hear?” When she nods, he adds, “Did you see?”

Her grin widens, “Yes. And for the record, you’re very hot together.”

Harry chuckles, the sound cracking through the quiet morning like sunlight through fog. His eyes crinkle, cheeks still flushed from sleep—or something else. “So if you compare it to that video of me and Austin…”

Taylor waves a dismissive hand, sipping her tea. “Please. I’d rather watch you and Zayn any day. Partially clothed, under the moonlight, whispering like idiots. Very picturesque.”

“Shut up,”

“I’m serious! Also—he jizzes a lot, by the way. I saw the condom.”

Harry groans, burying his face in his hands. “Oh God, you’re shameless.”

They laugh together—unfiltered, familiar, and safe. After a beat, Harry lifts his head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “He also pocketed my underwear. So I’m walking around right now in commando.”

Taylor snorts into her tea. “What a lover boy.”

Their laughter returns, softer this time, fading like the last notes of a song. The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s full of something tender.

“But seriously,” Taylor says, her voice gentler now, “you looked good together.”

Harry nods, gaze dropping to the rim of his mug. “It felt good, too.”

“Oh, I bet,” she teases, nudging his foot with hers. “You were trying and failing not to sob.”

Harry chuckles, but the sound barely rises above a breath. It’s quieter now—less amusement, more memory. His fingers drift along the rim of his mug, slow and absent, as if tracing the edge of something fragile. The morning stretches around them, golden and still, sunlight pooling on the kitchen tiles like spilled honey.

Taylor watches him from across the table, her own mug cradled between her palms. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t push. She knows this rhythm—Harry’s silences, the way he circles around something before he lets it land. She’s learned to wait.

Since Cadence formed, Taylor has been more than just the lone woman in the band. She’s the glue, the compass, the storm shelter. The voice of reason when tempers flare, the joker when tension coils too tight. She’s everyone’s safe space—but especially Harry’s. Over the years, she’s become his sister in spirit, his confidante, his anchor. Through every scandal, every tabloid headline, every messy breakup and whispered accusation, Taylor never flinched. Never judged. She saw Harry’s chaos and chose to stay. Chose to believe in the brilliance beneath the wreckage.

And because of that—because of the safety she’s always offered—Harry opens his mouth. The thought has lived in the shadows for years, buried deep beneath guitar strings and club lights and the kind of sex that numbs more than it heals. But now, in the quiet of Taylor’s kitchen, with chamomile in his hands and sunlight on his skin, it rises.

“Hey,” he says softly, eyes not quite meeting hers. “Can I trust you with a secret?”

Taylor sets her cup down with a gentle clink. “Harry,” she says, voice steady, “you know you can. I’m your best friend. Well—platonic best friend. Not Zayn best friend.”

He smiles faintly, but it flickers. He hesitates. The words are heavy, sharp-edged. He’s carried them alone for so long, afraid they’d cut anyone else who touched them. But Taylor—Taylor has always been the exception.

He swallows, throat tight. Then, almost too quietly to hear, he says, “Zayn got me pregnant when I was eighteen.”

Taylor freezes. Her breath catches mid-inhale. “What the fuck?”

“He didn’t know,” Harry adds quickly, voice trembling. “I didn’t tell him.”

The silence that follows is thick, stunned. Taylor’s eyes search his face, not for judgment, but for understanding. For the shape of the pain he’s been hiding.

Taylor stares at him, the words snagging in her throat like fabric on a nail. Her breath hitches, and for a moment, the kitchen feels suspended—no kettle whistles, no birdsong outside, just the weight of what Harry has said hanging between them.

“Fuck,” she breathes, barely audible. “What happened then?”

Harry doesn’t look up. His gaze drops to the table, to the tea cooling in his mug, to the way his fingers tremble slightly as they curl inward. His lashes cast soft shadows on his flushed cheeks, and when he speaks, it’s a whisper—thin, frayed at the edges.

“I got it aborted.”

The silence that follows is not empty. It’s full—of grief, of history, of the years he carried this alone. Taylor doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. Her body moves before her mind catches up, instinct guiding her as she reaches across the table.

Her hand finds his, warm and steady. She wraps her fingers around his, grounding him. Holding him.

Harry’s shoulders sag, just slightly. Not in defeat, but in release. In the quiet permission to finally let go of something he never dared name.

Taylor squeezes his hand once, firm and sure. She doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t offer platitudes. She just stays.

The tea is cool now, forgotten in Harry’s hands. He sits at Taylor’s kitchen table, legs tucked beneath him, the hem of his silk nightdress brushing softly against his thighs. Morning light spills through the windows in golden ribbons, gentle and forgiving. But his thoughts are anything but.

Taylor hasn’t spoken since he told her. She sits across from him, quiet, present, letting the silence stretch without pressure. She knows better than to fill it. The words he spoke still linger in the air, like smoke curling from a candle just snuffed out.

Harry stares into his mug, watching the last wisps of steam vanish into nothing. He feels exposed—not in the way he’s used to, not the curated vulnerability of stage lights and interviews, not the kind that invites admiration or desire. This is different. This is raw. This is the part of him no one writes songs about.

His mind drifts, unbidden, to that day.

It was raining that week.

Not the dramatic kind—just a soft, endless drizzle that made everything feel heavier. Harry was eighteen, curled up in his bed, knees to chest, a heating pad pressed to his stomach. The cramps were sharp, but not unfamiliar. What was unfamiliar was the silence.

Zayn had texted him that morning.

Milkshakes later? I miss your face.

Harry didn’t reply.

He stared at the message for hours, thumb hovering, heart aching. Zayn didn’t know. No one did. Harry had gone alone. Signed the papers. Sat in the waiting room with his hoodie pulled low and his hands clenched in his lap.

The nurse had been kind. The doctor had been clinical. The procedure had been fast. But the aftermath was slow.

He bled for hours. Slept through most of them. Ate nothing. Said nothing. Just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering what they would have looked like. He hadn’t cried at the clinic. He cried when Zayn called.

You okay, baby? You’ve been quiet.

Harry had pressed the phone to his ear, listening to Zayn’s voice, warm and worried. He wanted to say I’m sorry. He wanted to say I was scared. He wanted to say I loved you too much to let you love me back.

But he didn’t.

He just said, “I’m fine.”

And Zayn was left with no choice but to accept Harry’s lie.

He never told him. Never planned to.

Because how do you say it? How do you look someone in the eye and tell them you carried a piece of them inside you—and chose to let it go?

Taylor waits patiently. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. Her silence is deliberate, spacious—an invitation, not a void.

Harry swallows hard, throat tight with the weight of everything he’s never said.

“I didn’t do it because I didn’t love him,” he says at last, voice barely above a whisper. “I did it because I knew I’d ruin him.”

Taylor’s eyes soften, her thumb brushing over the pulse at his wrist. “You wouldn’t have,” she says, quiet but firm.

Harry shakes his head, curls falling into his eyes. “I would’ve,” he insists. “I ruin everything I touch.”

Taylor opens her mouth, but he cuts her off before the words can form.

“I’m used goods, Tay,” he says, the bitterness in his voice sharp and practiced. “I’ve been passed around, written about, leaked, dissected. I’m not someone you build a life with. I’m someone you write a song about and leave behind.”

Taylor’s grip tightens, grounding him. Her voice is steady, but it trembles at the edges with emotion. “You’re not used, Harry,” she says. “You’re just… bruised.”

Harry blinks, lashes damp. If only he could believe her. If only she knew.

She doesn’t know about the nights he wakes up gasping, fists clenched, sheets twisted around his legs like restraints. She doesn’t know how he fights his own mind when memories claw their way back—uninvited, relentless. The hotel rooms. The pretentions. The hands that didn’t ask.

The truth isn’t just in his head. It’s etched into his body.

Later, in the hush of Taylor’s living room, they curl into the kind of silence that only years of friendship can hold. Taylor sits on the couch, legs folded beneath her, with Harry nestled against her chest, his head tucked under her chin. Her arms cradle him gently, like she’s holding something precious and breakable.

Her fingers stroke absentmindedly through his curls, and when she finally speaks, her voice is low, careful. “Are you going to tell him?”

Harry doesn’t lift his head. His cheek rests against the soft fabric of her shirt, eyes half-lidded, staring at nothing. “Maybe someday,” he murmurs. “If I don’t die before I get the courage. But now… I can’t.”

Taylor doesn’t press. The silence that follows isn’t awkward—it’s accepting. A space carved out for grief, for memory, for the kind of pain that doesn’t need fixing, just witnessing.

After a while, she whispers, “You know, I think he’d understand. If you ever told him.”

Harry shakes his head slowly, the motion barely shifting her hold. “It’s not about understanding,” he says. “It’s about deserving. And I don’t deserve someone who would’ve stayed.”

Taylor’s breath catches. He feels it in the way her chest stills beneath him. He knows she wants to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, to list every reason why he’s worthy of love. But she doesn’t. She holds herself back, lets him have this moment. Because sometimes, safety isn’t in the words—it’s in the silence.

She tightens her arms around him just slightly, grounding him. And Harry lets himself sink into it, lets himself be held without explanation.

Because some truths are too heavy to carry alone. And today, he doesn’t have to.

Zayn’s apartment greets Harry with its familiar scent—cedarwood lingering in the walls, coffee still warm in the air. He unlocks the door with his keys—because this is Harry’s home as much as it is Zayn’s.

He finds Zayn on the couch, surrounded by scattered pages and half-finished thoughts. A pen is tucked behind his ear, his brow furrowed in concentration, lips pursed as he reads over lyrics only he understands fully. The late afternoon light slants through the windows, casting soft shadows across his face.

Harry smiles, quiet and fond.

Zayn texted him an hour ago, I’m heading back, baby. Do you want me to pick you up from Tay’s?

No, meet me at home, Harry replied.

Without a word, he climbs into Zayn’s lap, knees bracketing denim, silk brushing against rough fabric. Zayn startles slightly, then chuckles against Harry’s mouth as he leans in for a kiss—slow, warm, familiar. Their lips meet like they’ve done this a thousand times, like they’ll do it a thousand more.

Harry pulls back just enough to speak, his voice low and amused, fingers toying with the collar of Zayn’s shirt. “What are you so busy about? Is that daddy’s little errand?”

“No,” Zayn replies, eyes flicking to the papers. “It’s a new song I’m writing.”

Harry’s dimples flash. “Can I read?”

Zayn shrugs, relaxed. “Sure, babe.”

Harry plucks a page from the pile, scanning the lyrics. His smile fades into something quieter, something tender.

The night is on your lips and I feel like I’m locked in… There’s a million lights, I don’t care if they’re watching… You can call me when you’re lonely… I’ll be your temporary fix…

He looks up, voice soft. “Temporary Fix?”

Zayn nods, unreadable. “Yeah.”

Harry leans in again, this time slower, deeper. The paper slips from his fingers, forgotten. The couch creaks beneath them as they melt into each other, the world narrowing to breath and skin and silk. Zayn’s hands find Harry’s waist, fingers brushing fabric and bare flesh.

“I’m not wearing any underwear, by the way,” Harry whispers against Zayn’s jaw. “Somebody stole it last night.”

Zayn’s eyes darken, his voice rough with want. “Yeah? Can I check?”

Harry grins, wicked and glowing. “Like a thorough check?”

Zayn trails kisses down his neck, slow and deliberate, lips grazing collarbone like a promise. “Like a deep check,” he murmurs. “Like a bounce-on-my-dick-until-you’re-full-of-me kind of check.”

Harry giggles, breath catching as Zayn begins to undress him, fingers reverent, gaze locked in like he’s reading scripture.

And in that moment, Harry isn’t a headline or a cautionary tale. He isn’t a muse or a scandal or a secret. He’s just a boy in last night’s clothes, being loved like he’s the only song Zayn’s ever written.

Maybe one day, when Harry is brave enough to let go of the fear, he’ll tell Zayn everything. When he’s less selfish, more honest. When he’s ready.

But for now, he lets this be their temporary fix.

I'll be your temporary fix.