Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room was still mostly dark when the cupboard door banged shut. Harry stirred under the duvet, disoriented, one arm reaching toward the empty side of the bed before he heard the soft rustle of clothes and a muttered curse that could only belong to Louis.

“Sorry, love,” Louis whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep, yeah? You’ve got hours till work.”

Harry blinked at the clock—4:47 a.m.—and groaned. “You’re up criminally early. Remind me again why you decided to keep inheriting family empires instead of just sleeping in?”

Louis huffed a laugh, tugging something from the wardrobe. “Because someone’s got to make the Boston gallery look half as decent as New York. Family pride and all that.”

“Mm-hmm,” Harry said, voice rough with sleep. “And yet you’re still wrestling your tie at dawn.”

Louis gave a guilty grin, glancing over his shoulder. “Well, you’re better at it.”

Harry pushed the covers aside and padded over, taking the tie wordlessly. The moment hung familiar between them—the same ritual that had followed them from university dorms to shared apartments and now this little house that finally felt permanent.

He slid the fabric into place, fingers moving with the ease of muscle memory, looping and tightening until it sat just right.

“Perfect,” Harry murmured, brushing down the front of Louis’s shirt.

“You make it look effortless,” Louis said softly. “I should better hurry. Billie is already downstairs muttering death threats…”

Harry laughed, leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I love you,” he said simply.

“I love you more,” Louis replied, that familiar teasing warmth tucked under the words.

“Impossible,” Harry murmured. “I fell first.”

Louis huffed. “I proposed!”

Before Harry could argue, the room door banged open and a voice yelled right in their faces, “For God’s sake, are you two ever not wrapped up in your tragic love story? It’s barely sunrise!”

Harry chuckled. “Speak of the devil.”

Louis groaned, “Billie, can you not break into my room before coffee?”

Billie’s laughed. “I knock every time! You just never hear it over all the cooing. Honestly, it’s nauseating. No wonder people think true love is a myth—you two stole the only functioning version!”

Harry laughed, resting his chin on Louis’s shoulder. “Why is this woman always cock-blocking us?”

“Because she’s jealous,” Louis said, calling back, “Give us two minutes, Bill! Some of us are trying to be sentimental!”

“Sentimental my arse,” Billie shouted back. “Plane leaves in two hours, Romeo!”

Louis chuckled and grabbed his coat, tucking his passport into the pocket. Harry followed him toward the door, still half-asleep but smiling.

“Eat something before you go,” Harry said. “And don’t forget your insulin, yeah?”

Louis was Type 1 Diabetic and on Insulin since he was 7.

“I’ll take it on the plane, promise,” Louis replied, pressing a quick kiss to Harry’s lips. “Don’t start worrying, or I’ll have divorce you.”

“Empty threat,” Harry said softly. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Lucky me,” Louis whispered, grinning as he turned toward the door.

Billie appeared in the doorway, rolling her eyes but smiling too. “Alright, lovebirds, let’s go before Boston gives your slot away.”

Louis gave Harry one last look—mischief and devotion all tangled up—and then they were gone, the door closing softly behind them.

Harry stood for a moment in the quiet that followed, the faint smell of Louis’s cologne still in the air.

Then he smiled, shook his head, and crawled back under the covers, the warmth of their morning ritual still humming in his chest.

The light had changed by the time Harry stirred again. A soft gold filtered through the thin curtains, painting quiet stripes across the sheets Louis had left rumpled beside him. The apartment felt still, the kind of still that comes after a morning of movement — faint echoes of cupboards closing, footsteps down the hall, the click of the door shutting behind someone you love.

Harry blinked at the clock. 9:07 a.m. Louis’s side of the bed was cold.

He reached for his phone, still half buried beneath the pillow. The screen blinked awake — one new message.

> Louis: Made it to the airport with Billie! You’d have laughed at how close we cut it. She nearly shoved me through security. Promise I’ll grab breakfast on the plane. Don’t miss me too much, love. 

Harry smiled before he even realized it. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second before he typed back.

> Harry: You’ll forget to eat the plane food again. And yes, I’m already missing you. Text when you land, alright? Love you.

He sent it, slipped the phone onto the nightstand, and sat there for a moment — letting the message glow faintly in the morning light. That was all he needed to start the day.

The shower steamed the small bathroom, scent of mint shampoo and warm skin. By the time he came out, towel slung around his neck, he already had his phone pressed to his ear.

“Yeah, I’m home,” he said to his assistant. “The Japan team’s supposed to send over the revised sketches for the west façade. Courier said they’d arrive this morning — I’ll check them, then bring them in.”

He moved easily through the apartment, bare feet padding against the floorboards, coffee mug in his free hand. The world outside their window was busy — New York at full hum — but here, everything still carried that faint warmth Louis left behind.

The doorbell rang mid-sentence.

“Hold on,” Harry said into the phone, setting the mug down. He crossed the hallway and opened the door.

Charlie, the regular courier, stood there — same navy cap, same polite grin. “Morning, Mr. Styles. Got another one for you.”

“Thanks, Charlie. Was actually waiting for this.”

They exchanged an easy nod. No need for questions. Charlie had been bringing packages to their apartment for years, sometimes for Harry, sometimes for Louis. Familiar routine — signature, a few words about the weather, and then the man was gone.

Harry carried the Manila envelope back inside, still talking on the phone. “Yeah, I’ve got it. I’ll open it and check—”

He trailed off as he set it down on the dining table. The envelope felt lighter than it should have. Thinner. He ended the call, slid a finger beneath the flap, and tipped the contents out.

A folded sheet of paper.

A photograph facedown.

He frowned. The back of the photograph wasn’t blank — someone had written across it in looping ink. Just a few words, but the second Harry’s eyes landed on them, his chest went hollow.

The handwriting.

He knew it.

He used to tease him about it — “Looks like ants ran across the paper,” he’d said once, back in another lifetime.

And now those same ants spelled out a line that stole his breath clean away:

 I never stopped missing you.

He flipped the photograph over with trembling fingers.

There was Louis. Smiling wide, eyes crinkled into perfect crescents, sunlight tangled in his hair. One arm looped around him — a man whose face Harry knew too well, though he refused to let the name surface. He’d taken this photo himself once, years ago, when laughter had filled the room instead of silence.

For a long time, he just stared. His pulse thudded in his ears. The room seemed to tilt, the edges of everything warping under the weight of that one picture.

He reached for the folded paper next, hands unsteady.

My dear Louis,

I found this photo while sorting through some old things. It’s strange, isn’t it, how a single image can undo years? I’ve looked at our memories countless times, but this one… this one stayed with me. Maybe because it reminds me of what I lost. You always said I was reckless — maybe you were right. I thought I’d moved on, but seeing this made me realize I never really did.

I heard you’re married now. To Harry, isn’t it? Really, Louis, you could have done better. I can’t quite picture you with him. He seems… ordinary. But maybe that’s what you needed — someone safe. Someone steady. Still, I can’t help wondering if you ever think of me.

Maybe this letter will just end up in a drawer somewhere. Maybe you’ll throw it away. I just needed to tell you — I regret everything. Losing you was my mistake, and I’ll spend the rest of my life feeling it. You were the best thing I ever had. The diamond I let slip through my hands.

Yours, always.

No name. No signature. But Harry didn’t need one.

His stomach twisted. The air in the room felt heavy, thick with something sour — jealousy, fear, memory. He clenched the paper until the edges crumpled.

On the envelope, in clear printed letters, was Louis Tomlinson.

He almost laughed at that — a quiet, bitter sound. Of course. It hadn’t been meant for him at all.

For a moment, he thought about burning it. He could already imagine the flame curling through that ink, erasing every trace of it. But his hand stopped midway.

What if he traced the address? What if he found the person who sent it — demanded to know why they thought they had any right to reach out after all this time?

Harry set the letter down, staring at the photograph again. Louis’s smile, frozen in another life.

He told himself he was only protecting Louis — keeping him from the sting of old wounds reopening. That was all this was. Love, not fear.

But deep down, somewhere he didn’t want to name, something darker whispered otherwise.

---

Harry’s office felt too bright for the kind of day it was. The light slanted through the blinds, thin and cold, striping across the papers spread untouched on his desk. The clock ticked — louder than usual — and every sound around him felt like it was pressing against his skull.

He’d tried to work. Tried to lose himself in the quiet hum of routine, but his hands had been shaking since morning. The letter. The photo. He’d tucked it away, locked it, shut it out — but his mind hadn’t obeyed. Every few minutes, the image of Louis’ smile with someone else would cut through like glass.

His head ached. A deep, pulsing pain that started behind his eyes and moved down to the back of his neck, where tension lived and refused to ease. He pressed his fingers into his temples, tried to breathe it out. It didn’t work. His heart had been beating too fast all day, like it was waiting for something terrible to happen.

And then the phone rang.

The sound split through the silence — sharp, shrill, insistent. For a moment, he just stared at it.

Bills.

Even before he answered, he knew. Something inside him froze — that quiet, instinctive dread that only love can summon.

“Harry,” her voice broke the second he picked up, trembling, breathless. He could hear noise behind her — footsteps, machines, someone shouting for a stretcher. “Harry, it’s Lou—he’s—he’s in the hospital—”

Everything inside him went still.

“What?” His voice came out hoarse, almost inaudible.

“He—he collapsed,” Billie choked out, the words tumbling between sobs. “We were at the office—he was standing in the meeting—and then he just fell. Oh God, Harry, there was so much blood—he hit the glass table—his head—”

Harry gripped the edge of his desk so tightly his knuckles went white. The world tilted. His breath caught somewhere in his chest and refused to move.

“They said it was hypoglycemia,” Billie managed, still crying. “He took his insulin on the plane but—he didn’t eat. The food was awful. We said we’d grab something after the meeting, but we got so caught up and—” Her voice cracked. “He didn’t make it that far.”

For a moment, Harry couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Everything inside him had gone numb — cold — and all he could hear was the echo of her words: hospital, glass, blood.

Then he moved.

The chair fell back as he pushed away from the desk, heart hammering against his ribs. His bag, his keys, his coat — none of it felt real in his hands. He just knew he had to get there. Now.

He stumbled toward the door, breath shallow, body trembling. He was halfway down the corridor when his phone rang again. Niall.

“Harry,” Niall’s voice was tight, urgent. “Bills called. I checked the flights. None available right now. And you’re not driving yourself, you hear me? I’m coming. Stay where you are.”

But Harry couldn’t stay still. His body was moving before his mind could catch up — pacing the length of the lobby, running a shaking hand through his hair. The seconds dragged like hours. Every time he blinked, he saw Louis’ face — pale, still, bleeding.

By the time Niall’s car pulled up, Harry’s hands were trembling so hard he couldn’t even get the keys into his pocket. Niall didn’t say anything; he just opened the door, and Harry slid in, barely breathing.

As the city blurred past the window, Harry pressed his forehead to the glass, eyes burning. Every heartbeat felt like a countdown.

And all he could think — over and over — was that he should’ve called. He should’ve said something. He should’ve told Louis that he loved him that morning.

‐------

The drive had felt endless. The kind of stretch of time that doesn’t move in seconds but in heartbeats. By the time Niall pulled into the hospital parking lot, the world outside had blurred into streaks of gray and flashing red.

Harry was out of the car before it had even stopped moving. The air outside hit him — cold and sharp — but it did nothing to clear his head. His legs carried him forward on instinct. Through the glass doors. Past the reception desk. Every voice around him sounded muffled, distant.

“Emergency ward,” he managed to say, breathless. “Louis Tomlinson.”

The nurse behind the counter looked up with wide eyes. “Third floor—room 312—but you can’t—”

But he was already running.

The corridor lights above flickered as he moved, his steps echoing off the sterile walls. He barely noticed the people turning to look, the doctors stepping aside, the faint antiseptic sting that filled the air. Everything in him was wired to one point — that room, that name.

When he reached the glass doors of the emergency unit, he stopped. Just for a second.

Through the narrow pane of the door, he could see Billie. Her eyes red, her hands twisting the hem of her jacket. And beyond her — Louis.

He was lying on a bed under a wash of harsh fluorescent light, motionless, pale against the white sheets. A thin line of dried blood trailed from his temple to his cheek. Bandages wound around his head. Monitors blinked quietly beside him, their rhythmic beeping slicing through the silence.

Harry’s hand found the edge of the doorframe, steadying himself. He could barely breathe. His throat closed up with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob, but close.

Billie turned when she saw him. Her eyes filled again. She shook her head once, helplessly. “He’s stable now,” she whispered, stepping toward him. “But it was bad, Harry. It was really bad.”

He nodded, though he didn’t hear half of what she said. His eyes stayed fixed on Louis — the rise and fall of his chest, faint but there. Alive.

That single sight was both relief and devastation all at once.

He took a slow step forward, then another, until he was close enough to reach out. His fingers brushed against Louis’ wrist — cool, fragile, but real. And something inside him cracked open, quiet and deep.

He didn’t cry. Not yet. The tears would come later. For now, all he could do was stand there, whispering his name under his breath like a prayer he’d forgotten how to say.

------

Louis stirred against the pillow, a dull ache blooming behind his eyes. The first thing he saw was the ceiling — too white, too bright — and then the faint antiseptic sting in the air told him exactly where he was.

A hospital.

It took him a few seconds to gather his thoughts, to remember the blur of the meeting room, the heat creeping up the back of his neck, the glass table, the sudden blackness.

He blinked, and there was movement beside him.

“Hey,” Billie’s voice came, soft but shaky with leftover panic. “You’re awake.”

He turned his head, wincing a little. Billie stood at his bedside, eyes still red, half-smiling through her worry.

“Am I?” he rasped. “Because this looks suspiciously like hell.”

Billie let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob. “Don’t you dare joke about it, you idiot. You scared the life out of all of us.”

Louis smiled faintly. “Guess I’ve got a flair for drama.”

The smile vanished from Billie’s face. “Drama? You call collapsing in a meeting drama?” Her voice cracked before she caught herself. “You could’ve died, Lou. Again. Do you know how many times this has happened? Twice a year, at least. Every single time because you ‘forgot to eat’ or were ‘too busy.’ You’re worse than a teenager.”

Louis winced. “Okay, okay, I get it—”

“No, you don’t!” she snapped, wiping her eyes. “Harry almost tore my head off in the corridor. Said I was supposed to ‘keep an eye on you’ like you’re some toddler. I swear, next time, I’m putting a tracking device in your lunchbox.”

Louis chuckled, weakly raising his hands in surrender. “Please, spare me the lecture. I promise I’ll behave.” He looked at her pleadingly. “Save me from Harry, will you? He’s going to kill me.”

As if summoned by his words, there was a quiet knock on the door.

Billie’s head whipped around. “Oh, perfect timing,” she muttered.

The door opened, and there he was. Harry.

He stepped inside quietly, the sound of his shoes soft against the linoleum. His face was calm, almost too calm — the kind of stillness that made Billy instantly straighten up. Louis animatedly reached for her arm, half hiding behind her shoulder.

“Hey, Harry,” Billy said lightly, trying to sound casual. “He’s awake. And alive. You can put the sword down.”

Harry didn’t answer. He simply crossed the room, picked up a magazine from the counter, and sat down on the sofa. The silence that followed was deafening.

Billie blinked between the two of them, then forced a grin. “Right. I’ll just, um—go check if the cafeteria has anything edible.”

She slipped out quickly, closing the door behind her.

For a long moment, the room stayed quiet except for the faint beeping of the monitor.

Louis watched Harry, who hadn’t looked up once from the magazine he clearly wasn’t reading.

He tried clearing his throat. “Ahem.”

No response.

He tried again, louder this time. “AHEM.”

Still nothing.

Finally, with a dramatic sigh, Louis turned toward the door. “Billssss!” he shouted. “Can you please tell the doctor to bring me some cough syrup? I think I’m dying again! And my husband here absolutely doesn’t care.”

That did it. Harry’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through before he could stop it.

Louis grinned triumphantly. “Ah, there it is. I finally got your attention.”

Harry looked up then, eyes tired but soft. “You’re impossible.”

“Come on,” Louis said, patting the space beside him. “Don’t you feel bad for me? I almost died, you know. I deserve sympathy. Maybe a kiss. Might boost my sugar levels.”

Harry rolled his eyes but stood anyway, crossing over to him. “You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, sitting down carefully on the edge of the bed.

Louis leaned into him immediately, resting his head against Harry’s shoulder. “And yet, you still married me.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t heavy anymore — it was fragile, tender.

Harry’s voice came low, almost a whisper. “Don’t ever do that to me again. You have no idea what it was like, seeing you like that. I can’t—” His voice broke for half a second before he swallowed hard and finished, “You’re all I’ve got, Lou. Don’t you dare disappear on me.”

Louis’s smile faltered, his throat tightening. “Hey,” he said gently. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry nodded, brushing his thumb lightly across Louis’s knuckles — grounding himself in the feel of him, warm and real.

After a while, the air softened again. Louis gave a small grin. “So… how bad was the damage?”

Harry huffed out a laugh. “Liam postponed his housewarming. Was supposed to be tonight, now it’s Saturday.”

“Good,” Louis said. “Means I’ll have time to come up with a dramatic entrance.”

Harry laughed again — really laughed this time — and it felt like something inside both of them loosened.

Louis reached up, brushed his thumb across Harry’s jaw, and smiled. “See? Told you I’d live.”

Harry leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Thank God you did.”

_____

The sun had long sunk into the horizon by the time they finally signed the last of the hospital papers. Harry hovered close behind Louis, one hand at the small of his back, as though the slightest tilt might make him collapse again. The fluorescent light turned Louis’s skin pale and soft, a contrast to the dull bruise already forming near his temple.

“Careful,” Harry murmured when Louis tried to walk too quickly through the corridor. “You’re not winning any races tonight.”

Louis rolled his eyes, but there was a tired curve of a smile on his lips. “You worry too much, love. I’m fine now. You heard the doctor.”

“‘Fine’ is subjective,” Harry muttered, holding the car door open. “And yours is always suspiciously flexible.”

The drive back home was quiet. City lights slid across the windshield in golden streaks, painting Louis’s reflection beside Harry’s—one too still, the other too tense. Every few minutes, Harry’s eyes darted sideways to check that he was still breathing evenly, that his head didn’t slump. When Louis finally dozed off halfway home, Harry turned down the radio, one hand drifting from the steering wheel just long enough to brush against his knee.

By the time they reached their home, the world outside was hushed. Harry helped him out of the car despite Louis’ weak protest. Inside, he steered him straight toward the couch.

“Sit,” Harry ordered softly.

“Yes, doctor,” Louis teased, but the faint rasp in his voice betrayed how drained he felt.

Harry busied himself in the kitchen, the motions automatic—pouring water, getting his medication, slicing a banana, warming soup. He’d done this too many times in the early years, when Louis was still learning to balance insulin and meals and work stress. Yet every time it happened, the panic felt new, raw.

When he came back with the tray, Louis blinked at the food. “You’re treating me like I’m five.”

“Five-year-olds listen better,” Harry said, settling beside him. “Eat.”

Louis obeyed, half out of exhaustion, half because it was impossible not to when Harry spoke in that low, unshakable tone. Between spoonfuls, he grinned. “You know, you fuss around me so much it’s almost romantic.”

Harry arched an eyebrow. “Almost?”

Louis laughed, weak but genuine. “Fine. Very romantic. The stuff of great love stories—boy meets boy, boy nurses boy, boy nags boy about blood sugar.”

Harry bit back a smile. “Glad to know I’m keeping things thrilling.”

Louis nudged his shoulder. “Always, Haz.”

That single nickname—soft, familiar—eased something heavy in Harry’s chest. He let himself relax, just a little.

After Louis finished eating and taking his meds, Harry helped him to bed. The apartment lights glowed low and warm, and Louis’ head found its place naturally against Harry’s shoulder.

“See? Perfect nurse,” Louis mumbled. “If I weren’t married to you already, I’d propose again.”

Harry chuckled, pressing a kiss to his hair. “You’re delirious. Go to sleep.”

Louis grinned without opening his eyes. “You love me delirious.”

“I do,” Harry whispered, because it was true.

---

Later that evening, Harry set up the laptop on the coffee table while Louis reclined against the pillows, a blanket draped over his legs. The video call pinged to life, revealing three familiar faces—Billie, Niall, and Liam—all talking over each other.

“Bloody hell, there he is!” Niall shouted. “Look who decided to scare ten years off my life!”

Louis raised a hand weakly. “Sorry, Ni. I just wanted to test how much you lot care about me. Alsoooo… you came to the hospital and didn’t meet me.” He pouted.

Billie interrupted. “Oh, we care, alright. Enough to come over and lock away your insulin next time you forget to eat.”

“Stop threatening my patient,” Harry said dryly from behind the laptop.

“Your patient?” Liam snorted. “He’s practically our child at this point. We should all get visitation rights.”

Louis groaned. “Great. A custody battle. That’s exactly what I need.”

The group erupted in laughter, the kind that lightened the entire room. Harry caught the spark in Louis’ eyes and felt gratitude swell quietly inside him—these were the people who had patched Louis back together when life had torn him apart, who’d stayed through the worst of it.

When the laughter finally died down, Liam leaned forward. “Housewarming’s pushed to Saturday. You better not faint this time, mate. I expect dancing.”

“No promises,” Louis said, grinning. “Depends if this tyrant lets me out.”

Harry pretended not to hear, taking a sip of his tea. “Depends on if this tyrant gets enough sleep tonight.”

Billie rolled her eyes. “You two are disgustingly domestic. I’m hanging up before I cry.”

The call ended in another round of laughter and fond goodbyes.

---

Later, when Louis had drifted into a deep, even sleep, Harry stood at the doorway, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, silvering the edge of the blanket, catching the faint bruise on his temple.

Harry reached out, brushing the hair away from Louis’ forehead, and felt that ache again—love so intense it almost hurt.

He turned off the lamp and slipped into bed beside him. Louis stirred, instinctively curling closer, seeking warmth.

Harry exhaled slowly. But as the room fell quiet, his mind didn’t. Behind his closed eyes, the image of that photograph returned unbidden—the handwriting, the mocking tone, the familiarity of it.

He pressed his face into the pillow, breathing in the scent of home, of Louis. He would not let a ghost from the past—one careless letter—tear this apart.

And yet, long after Louis’ soft breathing filled the dark, Harry’s eyes stayed open.

-----

Morning light filtered through the half-drawn curtains, settling in faint lines across the bed. Harry stood for a long time just watching Louis sleep. The slight rise and fall of his chest, the small crease between his brows that hadn’t yet eased—it all tugged at something protective inside him. For a few moments, that was enough. The fear from last night faded under the ordinary rhythm of breathing, of sunlight, of being near.

But when he walked toward the kitchen, he saw it: another envelope slid under the door. The same thick, cream paper, the same familiar handwriting. His stomach tightened. For a while he only stared, waiting for it to vanish if he looked long enough. It didn’t.

He picked it up, fingers shaking. The paper smelled faintly of travel—dust, air-conditioning, maybe perfume. Inside was a smaller packet, a chain of dull silver with a pendant that caught the light. Two letters intertwined: L and Z. The sight made his throat dry.

A folded note came with it.

Hey,

I don’t even know if you read the last one, but I hope you did. I’ve been away again—Turkey this time, for work. The city was crowded, loud, alive, and still I thought of you in every market I passed.

There was this small stall near the Bosphorus selling trinkets. I swear I wasn’t even looking for anything, and then I saw it—a little pendant, letters L and Z curled together. Maybe that’s fate, or maybe it’s just another coincidence the universe uses to mock me. But I bought it anyway. I couldn’t not.

I keep wondering how you’re doing. Whether you still laugh the same way. Whether you’re happy. I don’t know if you ever think of me, but I still think of you in every quiet moment.

I miss you more than I’ll ever be able to say out loud. If life gave me one more chance, I’d undo every mistake that drove us apart. Sometimes I imagine coming back—walking up to you, saying I’m sorry, asking if maybe you’d let me start again.

Would you?

---

Harry’s breath caught. The letter trembled in his hands. For a moment he imagined Louis reading it—the old name, the memories that belonged to years before him. The idea hollowed him out.

He slid the chain and letter back into the envelope and pushed it into the drawer, shutting it a little too quickly, as though noise could erase meaning.

---

The city looked blurred through the tinted windows. Meetings passed like static. Every word from his colleagues felt distant. When someone asked him a question, he answered automatically, then caught himself staring at the edge of his notebook where he had drawn an absent swirl—the shape of an L crossing an H.

By lunch he hadn’t eaten. The bitter taste of coffee only made the nausea sharper. When his phone buzzed with a text from Louis—

awake. feelin fine. u at work? love u

he typed back,

yeah. stay in bed. i’ll be home soon.

and stared at the blinking cursor for a long time before sending it.

---

By the time he reached home, Louis was on the couch, laughing softly at something on his tablet, a blanket pulled around him. The sight should have been comforting; instead it felt fragile, like glass. Louis looked up, smiled, and said, “You’re late!”

Harry tried to smile back, tried to match the tone. He kissed the top of Louis’ head and said, “Long day. You okay?”

They moved around each other easily—making tea, sorting medicine, arguing half-heartedly over the take-out order. On the surface, everything was ordinary. Underneath, Harry felt the tremor of fear he couldn’t name.

---

Later that night, the laptop pinged with the usual group call. Billie’s voice filled the room first—half laughter, half relief. “Look at you, Louis! Still alive, huh?”

Niall chimed in from his car, Liam from his kitchen. They teased, joked, threw mock complaints about cancelled plans and postponed parties. Through it all, Harry smiled when he was supposed to, even laughed once or twice. But every time Louis leaned into the screen, cheeks flushed with laughter, Harry caught himself thinking of the letter waiting in his drawer.

When the call ended, Louis turned, still grinning. “They’re impossible. You okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry said softly. “Just tired.”

---

Louis fell asleep quickly, exhaustion settling him into the pillow. Harry lay beside him, staring into the dark. His mind replayed the curve of those silver letters, the question at the end of the note. Would you?

He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter, that love this deep couldn’t be undone by paper and ink. But the thought pressed down, slow and constant.

Outside, a siren passed. The sound faded. His heartbeat didn’t.

Sleep came late, slipping over him only when the city had gone quiet and the room felt smaller, as if it were keeping secrets he didn’t want to name.

The morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, soft and golden, scattering across the rumpled sheets and Louis’ hair. Harry stirred first, his cheek pressed against the crook of Louis’ shoulder, breathing in the faint trace of his cologne — that quiet, comforting scent that had somehow become home. For a moment, he didn’t move. He only listened to Louis’ slow breathing, the steady rise and fall that reminded him how close he had come to losing it yesterday.

When Louis blinked awake, his lashes fluttering like something half-dreaming, Harry smiled. “Good morning, sunshine,” he murmured, voice husky from sleep.

Louis made a soft sound that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “You’re too cheerful for someone who barely slept.”

Harry grinned, fingertips tracing lazy circles under the hem of Louis’ shirt — not suggestive, just searching for warmth. “Couldn’t help it. You were breathing on my neck all night. Felt like being stalked by a very gentle ghost.”

Louis snorted. “Romantic, as always.”

Their laughter filled the room — quiet, messy, half-awake. Harry leaned in to kiss him, a soft brush of lips that deepened naturally. For a few long seconds, nothing else existed — no envelopes, no fears, just the steady heartbeat beneath his hand and the gentle curve of Louis’s smile.

When they finally broke apart, Louis’ eyes were bright, clearer than yesterday. “I feel good enough to go in today,” he said. “Billy will throw a fit if I don’t show up — and you know how she gets.”

Harry pretended to sigh. “At least let me drive you.”

Louis shook his head with a little grin. “You’ll be late. I can manage. Promise I’ll text the second I get there.”

Harry hesitated. The logical part of him knew Louis was right. But something tight coiled in his chest, that same quiet voice whispering that maybe — just maybe — something bad was waiting again. Still, he only nodded and said, “Fine. But you’re eating breakfast before you go.”

They moved around the kitchen in their quiet rhythm — Louis buttering toast while Harry brewed coffee, occasionally brushing past one another, their fingers finding each other almost unconsciously. It was all so normal that for a brief stretch, Harry convinced himself yesterday’s panic belonged to another life.

Louis left a little after nine, blowing a kiss over his shoulder as the elevator doors closed. The apartment felt too large the second he was gone.

---

Harry tried to lose himself in work at the dining table. He sat at his desk, sketching the revisions for the tower design, but his pencil hovered uselessly above the page. His thoughts kept drifting back to the letter drawer, sealed but not forgotten. By ten-thirty, the doorbell rang.

He didn’t even have to check. His heart knew before his body did.

Charlie stood at the door again, the same polite smile, the same navy uniform. “Morning, Mr. Styles. Got another delivery for Mr. Tomlinson.”

“Thanks, Charlie.” Harry’s voice came out thinner than he intended. He scribbled a signature, his hand trembling just slightly. The manila envelope felt heavier than before, though its size was the same.

When the door shut, the quiet swallowed him whole.

He stared at the envelope for a long minute, hoping it might vanish if he just didn’t move. Then, finally, he tore it open.

Inside — a small black box. And a folded letter.

The box clicked open easily. Inside lay a silver tie, the kind Harry might’ve picked himself — elegant, understated, soft sheen.

His breath caught.

He unfolded the letter. The handwriting was familiar now — hurried, slanted, those same “ants on paper” lines he’d once joked about.

Hey, Lou

I hope you got my last package — I wasn’t sure if it reached you, but I guess by now you’d have seen it. I saw this tie today in a little boutique, and it just reminded me of you instantly. You always hated picking one out, remember? I used to say you looked like a lost kitten in front of the mirror. I saw the color and thought how perfectly it would bring out that blue-gray in your eyes.

I still remember how you could never knot a tie to save your life. I’d always do it for you — you used to say I had the patience of a saint. Maybe I did. Or maybe I just liked being close enough to smell your shampoo. Either way, it’s funny how some memories never fade, right?

I don’t know why I’m writing so much. Maybe because I miss you more than I can say. I keep wondering — if things had gone differently, would we have lasted? Would we still be what we were? I think we could. I think we should. Maybe it’s not too late.

---

Harry’s hands shook so hard the paper trembled like it was alive. He wanted to laugh — bitterly, hollowly — because that detail about the tie, it was wrong. It had never been him. Louis had never let anyone else knot his tie after university, after that first morning when Harry had done it and Louis had said, with that sheepish grin, “Guess I’ve got an official tie-knotter for life now.”

That memory was supposed to be theirs.

He folded the letter slowly, deliberately, slid it back into its envelope, and walked straight to the cupboard. The drawer still held the first two packages. He shoved this one in, too, slammed it shut harder than necessary, and locked it.

Then he leaned both hands against the table, head bowed. For a moment, he felt like a child again — helpless, small, unable to understand how something so ordinary could hurt so much.

He told himself what he always did: Louis loves you. Louis chose you.

He repeated it until the words lost meaning.

---

The day passed in a blur. Meetings, blueprints, polite conversation — all of it felt distant, filtered through a fog. He smiled where he was supposed to, nodded when people spoke, but the letters pressed at the back of his skull like a pulse.

By the time he came home, the sky outside had turned violet. Louis was sprawled on the couch, fast asleep, a book resting open on his chest. Harry paused in the doorway, the sight cutting straight through him.

He crossed the room quietly, pulling a blanket over Louis, fingers lingering for a second on his hair. The world stilled — and for a breath, all his fears quieted.

In the kitchen, he busied himself with dinner — pasta, Louis’ favourite, heavy on cheese. He would have to increase the insulin units tonight. By the time Louis woke up, the apartment smelled like home again.

They ate together, laughter floating easily. Louis teased him about overcooking the noodles; Harry retaliated by flicking a drop of sauce onto his cheek. It felt light, effortless, the way it used to be before the shadows started creeping in.

When Harry told him about his design being approved, Louis’ eyes lit up. “You’re kidding. That’s amazing! Finally, your ridiculous glass-tower dream is real.”

Harry chuckled. “I prefer calling it architectural innovation.”

Louis grinned. “Sure. Still waiting for the day you build me a Taj Mahal though.”

Harry raised a brow. “That was a tomb, love.”

“Just build me one,” Louis said, voice soft with mischief. “I’d happily die to lay in it.”

Harry’s smile faltered. “Don’t say that.”

Louis blinked, caught by the sudden seriousness. “It was a joke, Haz.”

“I know.” Harry forced a smile, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “I just… can’t lose you, Lou.”

The air between them thickened for a heartbeat before Louis broke it with a quiet laugh. “Not planning to go anywhere, promise.”

---

Later that night, they lay together in bed, the movie’s glow fading into shadows. Louis nestled against his chest, murmuring nonsense half-asleep.

But Harry’s eyes stayed open.

He tried to steady his breathing against the rhythm of Louis’, but the image of the tie, the pendant, the words we should be together wouldn’t leave him.

When the silence grew too heavy, he whispered, “Promise me something?”

Louis stirred. “Hmm?”

“Never leave me. No matter what anyone says.”

Louis lifted his head, puzzled. “Harry, where is this coming from?”

“Just— humor me.”

Louis studied him for a second, then nodded. “I promise.”

Harry exhaled, tension easing a little. “Good.”

A pause. Then softly: “Sing for me?”

Louis smiled sleepily, brushing a thumb across Harry’s cheek. “You’re impossible.”

“Please.”

So Louis sang — something quiet and old, barely above a whisper. Harry listened, his eyes closing slowly, the ache in his chest easing with every note.

By the time the song ended, sleep had found him at last, heavy and reluctant. The last thing he felt was Louis’ hand in his, warm and sure — the only thing keeping his world from falling apart.

--------

The morning had started like any other Saturday — quiet, unhurried, the kind of day Harry always loved. Louis had left early with Emma, Harry’s sister, off to help her with something at the community center. He’d kissed Harry on the forehead before leaving, his hand trailing down Harry’s arm until their fingers slipped apart.

“Back in a few hours, promise,” Louis had said, smiling the way he always did when he wanted Harry to stop worrying. “Don’t burn the flat down before I get home.”

Harry had laughed and told him to be quick. They had plans — a lazy afternoon tangled on the couch, then dinner at Liam’s new place with Niall and Billie. And…. The packages hadn’t come for the last three days. Finally, Harry was free of them. Finally, life felt normal again.

Until the doorbell rang.

10:30 a.m. sharp.

The sound sliced through the calm like a blade. For a long moment, Harry just stood there in the hallway, heart pounding in rhythm with the chime. He didn’t want to answer it. Didn’t want to confirm what he already knew. But his feet moved anyway, as though on autopilot.

Charlie wasn’t there this time. Just a small parcel sitting neatly on the mat, wrapped in the same brown paper and black string.

Harry’s throat felt dry as he picked it up. It was heavier than the others, the corners sharper. He took it inside, set it on the counter, and stared at it for a full minute. He could almost feel his sanity teetering on the edge — one more nudge, and it would go.

Then, slowly, he opened it.

Inside was a deep velvet box. Not a tie, not a photograph, not a trinket — but something that screamed significance before he even touched it. He hesitated, his fingers trembling as he lifted the lid.

A ring.

Not just any ring.

The ring.

The platinum band with the faint etching on the inside - Forever. The same ring that had haunted him years ago. The one that had sent Harry spiraling all those nights, wondering how he could ever compare to the person that came before him.

His breath hitched. The air seemed to vanish from the room.

There was a letter too, folded once, tucked neatly beside the ring. He unfolded it with shaking hands.

Dear Lou,

I’ve decided. If I didn’t hesitate all those years ago while making the worst decision of my life — leaving you — then I won’t hesitate now either, even if it means making another mistake to fix the first one.

You deserve better. Better than someone who just happened to be there when you were lonely, someone who saw a broken heart and made it his opportunity. You deserve someone who’s loved you from the start, who still loves you now.

It’s always been us, Louis. You and me. Since before either of us knew what love meant.

Let’s get back together.

---

Harry’s vision blurred as he read the last line.

He could see it now — the pattern he’d missed before. Each letter building on the one before it.

The first had wished for them to be together.

The second had hoped.

The third had imagined.

And now, the fourth — the fourth demanded.

It was a progression. A confession unfolding in bold strokes, until it reached this — a proposal, a threat, a declaration.

Something inside Harry cracked. His eyes burned, his throat tightening as he pressed a trembling hand to his mouth. He didn’t know whether he wanted to scream or sob.

All he could think was how fragile everything suddenly felt — the years he and Louis had built, the laughter, the quiet mornings, the endless nights that had healed them both.

And now, one box, one ring, one letter was threatening to tear it all apart.

He couldn’t do this alone anymore.

Within minutes, he’d gathered all four envelopes, the boxes, the letters — everything. He shoved them into a tote bag, grabbed his keys, and left. His fingers were trembling so hard he nearly dropped his phone as he typed:

To Billie, Niall:

Meet me at Liam’s place. Urgent.

Then he texted Liam:

I’m coming over. Please be home.

---

The drive was a blur. The city outside his window might as well have been another planet. By the time he reached Liam’s flat, his eyes were red, his breath uneven.

Liam opened the door, startled. “Harry? Mate, what—”

“Just—please,” Harry muttered, brushing past him. “Get Billie and Niall here. Now.”

Within half an hour, the four of them sat in the living room, the coffee table littered with every letter, every box. The ring gleamed under the overhead light like a cruel joke.

Nobody spoke for a long while.

Finally, Niall was the one to break the silence. His voice was small, uncertain. “What… what is all this, Harry?”

Harry stared at the ring. His eyes were glassy, his expression hollow. “Can’t you see?” he said softly, almost to himself. “It’s happening.”

Liam frowned. “What’s happening?”

Harry swallowed hard, the words cracking as they left him. “He’s trying to take him back.”

“Who?” Niall asked the obvious, as if just to confirm his dread.

Harry’s jaw clenched. “I gave ten years of my life for this — for us. For Louis and me. I’ve seen him break, and I’ve seen him rebuild. I’ve wiped every tear, stayed through every silence, every night he couldn’t sleep because of him.” His voice shook. “And now he’s back. To ruin it all. To take him away from me.”

“Who?” Niall insisted with his breath held.

Harry looked up, eyes red, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Zayn.”

---

Chapter Text

For a few seconds, silence wrapped around the room like a cold shroud.

No one moved.

No one even breathed.

The clock on Liam’s wall ticked too loudly, and the sound of it seemed to echo in Harry’s ears until it turned almost unbearable. The letters, the gifts, the velvet boxes — they all lay scattered across the glass table, the ring in its small case catching the weak sunlight that streamed in through the blinds. It glinted mockingly, the shine far too cruel for what it symbolized.

Then Niall burst first. “The nerve of that bloody jerk,” he said, voice rising, sharp with outrage. “How dare he contact him again? After all these years? After everything he did?”

His words came tumbling out, fast and angry. “Does he think he can just crawl back into Louis’ life like nothing happened? That he can just— just send shiny things and letters and ruin what you two have?”

Billie, sitting beside him, nodded fiercely, jaw tight. “It’s disgusting, Harry. You should report it, or at least block any contact. This is harassment, plain and simple.”

But Liam didn’t speak. He just sat still, his eyes never leaving Harry’s face. His elbows rested on his knees, fingers steepled together, like he was studying him — like he was watching not the surface of Harry’s panic, but the storm underneath.

Finally, after a long, suffocating moment, Liam said quietly, “I just don’t get one thing, Harry.”

Harry blinked.

Liam’s gaze softened, though the question he asked wasn’t gentle at all. “What has Louis ever done to make you doubt his love for you?”

The question hit Harry like a slap. His lips parted, but no words came out.

“Has he ever been disloyal?” Liam pressed, his tone calm but firm.

Harry shook his head faintly. “No.”

“Has he ever made you feel unwanted? Or unloved?”

Another shake. “No, never.”

“Then why,” Liam’s voice grew quieter, “are you letting some old ghost make you question everything you’ve built together?”

Harry’s breath hitched. His throat worked around the words he didn’t want to say. But they slipped out anyway, raw and trembling.

“You don’t get it, Liam.” He looked down at the letters, his voice breaking. “Zayn and Louis... they weren’t just together. They were connected. They grew up together, loved each other before they even knew what love meant. They were— they were each other’s world long before I even came into the picture. Twenty-two years, maybe twenty-three.”

His eyes were glassy when he looked up again. “And I’ve only had five.”

He laughed bitterly. “Five years. How does that even begin to compare to twenty-two? How can anything I do ever measure up to that kind of history?”

The room went still again. Billie’s hand found Niall’s arm, her expression softening. But it was Liam who leaned forward, voice low but steady.

“Why do you even think you have to compete, Harry?”

Harry blinked at him.

“You talk like love’s some contest — like whoever’s loved longer wins. But that’s not how this works, mate.” Liam’s tone deepened, earnest now, almost pleading. “You’ve been living in hell for these seven days, carrying all this alone instead of just telling Louis. Why? Do you really think he’s so— so naive that he’d just see a letter from Zayn and run back to him? You know him better than that.”

Harry swallowed, looking away.

Liam continued, softer. “I was there, remember? I saw Zayn and Louis together. I saw how they were. And yeah, they loved each other — sure, they did. But they never reached what you two have now. Not even close.”

He paused, his words landing like small, sure stones in a pond. “You married him, Harry. You married him. You’ve seen the way he looks at you — I’ve never seen Louis look at anyone that way. Not even Zayn.” He gave a small smile, almost wistful. “Trust me, I’ve never seen anyone love anyone more than Louis loves you. Not him loving Zayn. Not Zayn loving him. Not even you loving Louis.”

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat felt tight, his chest heavier than ever.

The truth of Liam’s words hurt in a way lies never could.

He wanted to believe them — he really did — but the part of him that had been broken years ago still whispered that love wasn’t always enough. That sometimes, ghosts from the past didn’t stay buried. That sometimes, no matter how hard you held on, fate still found a way to test you. Louis had tried to kill himself for Zayn, for god sake! Was it really as simple as Liam insisted.

And as his gaze flickered to that damned ring on the table, Harry knew one thing for certain —

He couldn’t keep this from Louis much longer.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The air felt heavy, too thick with everything unspoken. Harry sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the ring lying among the scattered envelopes. It gleamed mockingly under the soft light, the weight of ten years pressing down on him.

“I’ve never said Louis will leave me,” Harry finally whispered, voice cracking. “He won’t. He’s not that kind of person. He’s the sweetest, kindest, most loyal person in the world.”

He swallowed hard, the words trembling. “But I don’t want him to choose me because he’s nice. I don’t want him to stay because he can’t imagine hurting me. I want him to choose me because he loves me more than Zayn. Because he wants me.”

Liam exhaled slowly, his expression softening. “Harry, you’re getting it all wrong. You just need to let go of those insecurities from all those years ago,” he said gently. “Even when Louis was with Zayn, you were the one he always went to. You were his closest friend. He chose you a hundred times before he even loved you. And now—” he paused, shaking his head, “now you’re the center of his world. You know that. I’ve never seen anyone love anyone the way he loves you.”

Niall hummed in agreement, his tone softer now. “He’s right, mate. Louis looks at you like you hung the bloody stars.”

The words wrapped around Harry like a balm, easing the ache just a little. He sighed, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his palm. “I know,” he murmured. “I just—needed to hear it.”

Liam clapped him on the shoulder. “Then hear this too — you’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out.”

That’s when Niall straightened. “I know a guy who could trace these letters. The postmarks might lead somewhere, even if there’s no return address. Leave them with me for a few days.”

Harry nodded, gathering the torn envelopes carefully, like handling broken glass. “Thanks, Ni. When you find him,” he said quietly, “punch him for me.”

Liam let out a short laugh. “Add one from me too.”

Harry smiled. It wasn’t full or bright, but it was something.

Then his phone pinged. A message from Louis.

He opened it — and his heart just melted. It was a selfie: Louis at the zoo, hair a little windswept, grin wide and childish as he held up a tiny monkey next to his face. The caption read,

“Who’s cuter?”

Harry laughed, an actual laugh this time. The kind that felt like sunlight after rain.

He typed back: “You know there’s no competition, love. But what are you doing at the zoo? Weren’t you supposed to be at the community center?”

A few moments later, the reply came. “We finished early! Emma wanted to stop by here. Told her I’d take her on a date so she doesn’t forget how charming I am. ”

Harry smiled at his phone, shaking his head.

“Give me my husband back, Emma,” he texted, tagging his sister. “You’re not keeping him.”

The reply came instantly from Emma:

“Too late  we’re getting ice cream.”

He chuckled and pocketed his phone. The tension in his chest finally started to dissolve.

---

Later that evening, the sky was painted in soft gold when Louis came home. Harry heard his laughter in the hallway before he saw him — that bright, effortless sound that always made the world tilt back into place.

Louis stepped in, hair messy from the breeze, a faint blush on his cheeks. “Missed me?”

Harry didn’t answer. He just crossed the distance between them in two long strides and wrapped his arms around him. Louis melted instantly, his laughter caught between Harry’s shoulder and neck.

“I take that as a yes,” Louis murmured.

Harry remained was quiet.

Louis leaned back just enough to look into his eyes. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Harry lied softly. “Just… missed you more than usual.”

Louis’ gaze softened. He reached up and brushed his thumb along Harry’s jaw. “You’re so dramatic sometimes.”

Harry smiled, leaning into the touch. “You married this drama.”

Louis hummed. “And I’d do it again.”

The rest of the evening unfolded in warmth and laughter — simple things that felt sacred after the chaos of the past few days. Dinner turned into quiet teasing, teasing into soft touches, and touches into wordless closeness.

The world slowed around them — breaths mingling, hands finding familiar places, hearts steadying in rhythm. It wasn’t about passion or fear or anything burning — it was just the peace of being home again, together.

When they finally settled into bed, Louis tucked against Harry’s chest, he whispered something small, almost inaudible.

“Love you.”

Harry closed his eyes, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Love you more.”

Outside, the night folded in around them — gentle, quiet, and safe.

2015 — NYU Dormitories (10 Years Ago)

Harry lay sprawled on his bed, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, as he balanced a half-folded shirt on his knee. The dorm suite still smelled like disinfectant and new furniture — bland and cold, nothing like home.

“I swear, Niall, I tried,” he muttered, voice low, the hint of an accent curling softly at the edges. “I literally went to the warden this morning. Told him you and I have been friends since middle school, that we’d work better together, keep each other sane—”

“And?” Niall’s voice crackled through the speaker, too loud, too cheerful for the hour.

Harry sighed, tugging the shirt into the drawer. “And he said they’re doing this inter-departmental pairing thing this semester. ‘To build cross-disciplinary harmony,’ whatever that means. So I’m stuck with a stranger again.”

“Could be worse, mate. Maybe he’s normal.”

Harry scoffed, falling back on his pillow. “Last year’s roommate threw parties at 2 a.m. He brought a ferret once, Niall. A live ferret. I can’t— I can’t do another year like that.”

Niall’s laughter nearly blew his eardrums. “Oh come on, you’re just dramatic. You’ll be fine.”

Harry frowned, eyes drifting toward the door. “No, I won’t. I just want a quiet roommate. Someone who doesn’t talk much. Someone who—”

“—basically you want to live with yourself,” Niall cut in. “Boring.”

Harry was about to reply when a loud thud echoed through the corridor.

 At the door stood a boy — two suitcases by his feet, a duffel slung carelessly over his shoulder, hair a mess of brown waves, cheeks flushed from the weight of travel. His blue eyes sparkled even in the dull yellow hallway light.

And his mouth was hanging open.

“Oh my god,” the boy said dramatically, one hand pressed to his heart as though he’d just witnessed a betrayal of Shakespearean proportions. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Louis Tomlinson, you’ve already been rejected as a roommate, without even being given a fair chance to prove your worth? This is a new low, even for you!”

Harry blinked, frozen, phone still to his ear. Niall’s voice buzzed faintly. “Harry? You still there?”

Louis was still talking — fast, expressive, eyes wide with exaggerated horror. “I mean, I always thought I was special or something, but clearly the universe is humbling me early this semester. Rejected before even saying hi? Brutal.”

Harry scrambled to end the call, muttering a quick, “I’ll call you later,” and shoved his phone aside.

He looked from the open door to the suitcases — to the realization dawning on him like slow horror. “You’re— you’re my new roommate.”

Louis grinned, all teeth and mischief. “Well, that depends. Are you Harry Styles, serial roommate rejector?”

Harry’s ears went pink. “I didn’t mean— It wasn’t— That call wasn’t about you.”

“Oh, sure,” Louis teased, dragging one suitcase in, surveying the sitting room like a monarch inspecting his castle. “You were just having a random conversation about how much you hate getting new roommates? Total coincidence, right?”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I just— I wanted to room with my friend. I’m not good with— random people.”

Louis clutched his chest dramatically. “Oh, this is even worse! You’re rejecting me after seeing me? After seeing this beautiful, innocent face? This tragic, devastating charm?” He struck a fake model pose, lips pouting, then pretended to faint against the bedpost. “I can’t believe it. I’ll die of humiliation. Tell my mother I loved her.”

Harry couldn’t help it — a laugh escaped, quiet and unguarded. It surprised both of them.

Louis’ eyes lit up immediately. “Oh! Was that a laugh? That was a laugh! There’s hope for us yet!”

Harry tried to school his face, tugging the corner of his mouth down. “You’re— ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” Louis said brightly. “Now, give me five minutes to prove you’ll never regret rooming with me. Five minutes, tops. Ready?”

Harry hesitated, then nodded, mostly because saying no seemed useless.

Louis clasped his hands dramatically. “Number one: I’m obviously gorgeous. Living with me will improve your reputation automatically.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I don’t care about reputation.”

“Number two,” Louis continued undeterred, “I’m social. That means you’ll always know the gossip. Who’s dating, who’s breaking up, which table to avoid in the cafeteria when two exes start a french-fry fight— you’re welcome in advance.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Number three: I sing. Like, really well. So free concerts, whenever you’re bored. And number four, I cook a mean grilled cheese. And number five, I’m actually very nice, despite being tragically rejected by my new roommate.”

He paused for dramatic effect, then added softly, “Give me a week, and you’ll thank the warden for pairing us.”

Harry stared at him — at the boy whose energy filled every corner of the tiny dorm room, whose grin was blinding, whose confidence was so loud it almost made Harry dizzy.

A reluctant smile curved his lips. “We’ll see.”

Louis’ eyes sparkled like he’d already won. “Oh, we will, Harold. We will.”

Harry sighed quietly. He already had a feeling this semester was going to be nothing like the last one.

Harry blinked awake to the sound of shuffling sheets and an overly dramatic sigh.

“I’m starving,” Louis groaned, sitting up and pressing a hand to his stomach. Then, like a thought just struck him, he turned abruptly. “Oh, wait— I need to eat now. I’m diabetic.”

Harry blinked, still half-asleep. “What?”

“Diabetic. Insulin. Strict meal times.” Louis swung his legs off the bed with the seriousness of a soldier reporting for duty. “If I don’t eat on time, I’ll probably pass out and die, and you will have to tell the coroner you let me starve. That’ll look bad on your conscience, won’t it?”

Harry just stared at him. “…Right.”

“Good. Come on.” Louis was already on his feet, tugging gently at Harry’s sleeve. “Instant noodles it is. I make a mean cup of noodles, Michelin star level.”

Harry didn’t even get the chance to argue— he just followed, still processing how this human tornado had appeared in his life less than 24 hours ago.

The tiny kitchen smelled faintly of detergent and something vaguely burnt. Louis moved around like it was his kingdom— opening drawers, clattering utensils, humming a tune Harry didn’t recognize.

He spoke without stopping. “My family babies me too much,” he said, waving a wooden spoon for emphasis. “I’m the youngest of the three. And since I was a sickly kid, I’ve been the center of all attention. My mum’s French, by the way— so I’m basically bilingual. Très chic. Just don’t ask me to spell anything in French. Or English, actually.”

Harry, still groggy, found himself smiling.

“Mum, dad and my sisters, Candice and  Kelcy,wanted me to stay home for uni,” Louis continued. “Our house isn’t even that far. But they thought I wasn’t ready for ‘the real world.’ I told them, Maman, I was born to see the world, and the world deserves to see me. It’d be cruel otherwise.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “You’re doing humanity a favor, then?”

“Exactly,” Louis said solemnly, stirring the pot like a philosopher.

The smell of the noodles filled the air. Harry perched himself on the bar stool, arms crossed, watching him move around like a one-man show. Louis spoke about his sisters, their overprotectiveness, and how one of them still called him “little Lou” even though he’d grown taller than her.

Harry didn’t even realize he was enjoying this ridiculous monologue until Louis suddenly turned to him and asked, “So, are you taken?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Taken. Dating someone. Seeing anyone? Married with kids? Secret lover in the Bahamas?”

Harry frowned, caught off guard. “No. Single.”

Louis grinned. “Ah, free as the wind. I, however…” He clasped his hands dramatically. “Am taken for a lifetime.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

Louis nodded, eyes bright. “Yup. Been in a lifelong committed relationship since we were five.” He pulled out his phone and proudly showed a picture of a dark-haired boy with kind brown eyes.

“Boyfriend?”

“Not officially,” Louis said, pocketing the phone again. “We just… know. It’s one of those soulmate things. We’re waiting until we’re more stable, you know? Emotionally, financially, spiritually. Like adults. Because what we have is too special to ruin with teenage stupidity.”

Harry couldn’t help a smile. “Sounds… patient.”

“Oh, we’re saints,” Louis said. “Anyway, his name’s Zayn, he’s absurdly handsome, brilliant, and also, the nicest person on earth. You’ll meet him sometime— if you’re lucky.”

Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head.

After they’d finished eating, Louis declared it “the best instant noodles in New York” and bowed deeply before throwing the pot into the sink with no intention of washing it. Harry made a mental note to deal with that later.

When he finally got back to his room, Harry leaned against the door, exhaling. The day had been long and strange, full of chatter and movement— but somehow, he didn’t mind. Not as much as he’d expected.

He’d barely sat down when a knock came at the door.

Louis’ voice: “We haven’t shared timetables!”

Harry opened the door, suppressing a groan. “You never stop, do you?”

“Never,” Louis said cheerfully, stepping inside. He compared their schedules, humming under his breath.

“Oh! We’ve got Psychology together on Tuesday mornings!”

Harry frowned. “I thought you were a business major.”

“I am. But I took Psych because I like understanding why people do stupid things.”

“Like you?” Harry muttered.

Louis gasped. “Rude! And yes.”

Harry rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself.

“So,” Louis continued, “since I’m not a morning person, you’ll have to drag me out of bed. Deal?”

Harry gave him a look. “I barely know you.”

“Exactly why this is the perfect bonding exercise,” Louis said with mock sincerity. “You wake me up, I curse at you, we both learn patience.”

Harry just sighed. “Anything else?”

“Yes, actually,” Louis said, leaning against the doorframe. “Tomorrow, lunch with my friends. They’re lovely— Zane, the twins, a few high school mates. You should come. Meet the local legends.”

Harry hesitated. “I’ll think about it.”

“Great! I’ll take that as a yes.” Louis flashed a grin and vanished down the hall.

Harry stared after him, the faint sound of his humming fading into the background. He shook his head, half-amused, half-stunned.

He wasn’t sure what had just hit him— but whatever it was, it came with bright blue eyes, too much energy, and no volume control.

The midday sun poured over the campus as Harry stepped out of his design class, sketchbook clutched in one hand and a half-empty coffee in the other. He hadn’t expected anyone to be waiting for him, and yet there he was—Louis, grinning like he had just discovered the secret to eternal happiness, leaning casually against the building’s stone wall.

“Fancy seeing you here,”

Harry just stared. “How did you…?”

“Oh, come on, Styles,” Louis interrupted, tilting his head and flashing that infuriating grin. “Do you think I don’t have my ways? Maybe I have spy pigeons. Or a network of squirrels. Very efficient, very loyal. Highly trained in stalking.” He nudged Harry’s shoulder, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “Squirrels?”

“Don’t question my methods,” Louis said with mock severity. “Anyway, your presence was requested by fate. Or me. Whichever you prefer.” He looped an arm around Harry’s shoulder effortlessly, warmth radiating off him, and began to steer him toward the café. Harry didn’t pull away — not because he had to, but because the energy was infectious, impossible to resist.

As they walked, Louis suddenly clutched his chest dramatically, gasping as though someone had just revealed the meaning of life. “Oh my god, Harry. He’s going to be there!”

Harry frowned. “Who?”

“Zayn!” Louis squealed, lowering his voice to a whisper like a teenage girl. “Zayn! My lifelong… ongoing… swoon target! You have to understand, we’ve practically lived in parallel universes, seen each other maybe twice last year, and now—now I get him all the time. He’s mine to admire, and you, my dear Harold, are my designated wingman.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Wingman for… thirsting?”

Louis huffed indignantly. “Yes, but don’t get any ideas, Styles. Thirsting only! Admiring is mandatory! Falling in love? Forbidden territory!” He leaned in close, whispering conspiratorially, “You’re welcome. It’s an honor.”

Before Harry could reply, they arrived at the café. Inside, the chaos was already alive. Five people clustered around a large table, laughing, spilling coffee, exchanging banter like a well-rehearsed orchestra of noise. Louis’ eyes immediately found the stranger — a blond boy with a mischievous grin and an aura of calm chaos that clashed brilliantly with the room.

“Niall! What the hell are you doing here?” Harry exclaimed before Louis could say anything.

“Harryyyy,” Niall cheered. “My roommate decided to adopt me in his friend group.”

“Niall? Niall! Nia… NIALLLL” Louis screeched. “Seriously Harry? This is the person you were planning to ditch me for? I expected better. What does he even have?” Louis’ dramatics were at its peak.

“Heyyyy, I can listen to you, you know?” Niall chimed in indignantly.

Louis gasped so loudly it echoed off the walls. “Ohhh! Is that the special quality of the room-mate snatcher? Being able to listen to a conversation taking place 200 centimeters away?”

Everyone burst into laughter, with a brown haired boy telling louis to ‘give it a rest atleast until introductions’.

Louis took the advice and introduced everyone. “Zayn. My best friend. Won't get too ahead of myself and say soon to be boyfriend, fiance, husband, dad to my kids and all that.....” Zayn looked at him with a fond smile. “But you get it. Just know that we have been together since diaper days and are going to have our tombstones beside each other. He is a year older. Same as you. Studying English Lit. Then there is my honey-bunny, my Liam, joined this year with me. Economics Major. And last but not the least. The apples of my eye, my literal babies…. Billie and Perrie…” Louis pointed at the two slightly younger looking girls. “ Still in the high-school. Took a subway all the way from their school because being away from me since 24 hours was too much of a torture. All five of us have been together since childhood. In a tightly knit immigrants community in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.”

Then Harry quickly filled in the gaps: Niall and him were friends since middle school, where Niall was a year younger but they shared some classes. Coincidently, he had been roomed with Zayn.

The introductions led to eating and an endless, chaotic banter between the friends, to which Harry was mostly just a spectator.

Louis perched himself between Harry and Perrie after a while, leaning slightly towards Harry. “So,” he murmured, just loud enough for Harry, “how did you find him? Isn’t he ridiculously… hot?”

Harry suppressed a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

Louis grinned, undeterred. “I know. That’s why you’re here. To validate my observations. And to provide commentary on his perfection.”

Harry suggests a mutual room exchange, thinking Louis would want to room with his crush. And louis goes all dramatic. Who wants a dorm together when we are going to have a home together. Zayn laughs and louis dramatically gasps hiding his face in Harry’s shoulder.

The group’s banter exploded around them. Liam rolled his eyes at Perrie’s overzealous gesturing. “Why do you always flail your hands?”

Perrie shot back, “Better than your constant sulking, Liam. Someone has to keep things lively.”

Billie piped up, teasing Harry, “And you, mister quiet, do you always carry a mysterious aura, or is today a new thing?”

“Quiet, yes. Mysterious, accidental,” Harry muttered, hiding a smile.

Louis waved a finger at them dramatically. “You see? I’m surrounded by such… character. And somehow, it’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Amid the chaos, Harry’s gaze drifted, and he caught Zayn watching Louis with a tenderness that made Harry’s chest warm. Zayn’s smile was small but genuine, eyes crinkling as he watched Louis yap and gesticulate wildly. In that moment, Harry’s heart softened; the love Louis bore was evident, reflected in the warm attention from Zayn. He felt a pang of relief — Louis’ crush wasn’t one-sided at all.

The chatter continued. Perrie leaned forward suddenly, eyes glinting. “You know, Louis, you really are like the brother I never had. I missed you yesterday, even though you were gone for a day!”

Louis feigned shock, clutching his chest. “Perrie! Do not attempt to make me sentimental. I am a fortress of drama, not emotions!” He leaned in, giving her a playful shove as she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Ah! The audacity!” he exclaimed, and everyone laughed.

Minutes later, Zayn sidled over to Harry, voice quiet amidst the chaos. “Nice meeting you, Harry. Welcome to the family. This group is… chaotic, but you’re going to love it here.”

Louis, never missing a beat, raised a hand theatrically. “Alright! Dessert time!”

The group groaned in unison. “No! Dessert? You’ve already hit your sugar quota of the day!”

Louis pouted, dramatically flopping onto his chair. “I hate all of you!” And walked away.

Zayn chuckled, shaking his head. “Harry, you should go check on your roommate. He may be wandering into the bakery next door by now. Never know.”

Harry laughed softly, following Louis’ chaotic path, where he indeed had to drag him out of the bakery.

And it was as easy as that.

Just a few weeks in, and somehow, Harry and Niall had slipped seamlessly into what Louis proudly referred to as “the most chaotic heptagon of New York.” For Niall, it was hardly a miracle — the boy could make friends at a tax office queue if given five minutes and a pack of gum. He was a one-man carnival, constantly laughing, constantly talking, somehow always in the middle of everything. Making friends for a lifetime everywhere he went was his brand.

But for Harry… it was something else. Something big.

He wasn’t used to belonging like this — to walking into a café and being greeted with six voices shouting his name, to group chats buzzing nonstop with memes and threats of collective flunking, to someone actually noticing when he went quiet. It was unfamiliar, but in a strangely comforting way. Like trying on a jacket you didn’t think would fit, only to realize it had always been made for you.

And, truthfully, he owed it all to one person — the pleasantly hurricane-like Louis Tomlinson.

Louis, with his unrelenting sunshine personality, had a way of sweeping everyone along with him. He was loud, dramatic, and terribly nosy, but underneath the chaos was a heart so soft it could melt the Statue of Liberty. He noticed things — the way Harry hesitated before speaking, or how he lingered on the edge of conversations. And instead of dragging him in by force, Louis had this gentle, teasing way of making space for him. He’d pull up a chair beside Harry every time they met, throw a grin his way, and say something ridiculous like, “Okay, quiet boy, your mysterious aura is throwing off the lighting. Speak.”

It was impossible not to smile around him.

The real icebreaker, though, was Zayn. Or more precisely — Zayn’s Instagram.

It had started one lazy afternoon when Louis dramatically flopped across the dorm floor, scrolling through his phone and gasping every few seconds like he was witnessing miracles. “Look at this, Haz. LOOK at this jawline. Do you see this? How is this allowed?”

Harry had only meant to glance once. Once turned into twice. Twice turned into an hour. By the end of the night, they were both on Louis’ bed, side by side, shrieking over filtered selfies like teenage girls.

“Honestly,” Louis said gravely, zooming in on one photo, “Zayn could post a picture of a spoon and I’d still be like yes, King, serve culinary realness!”

Harry had snorted so hard he dropped his phone. And that was it — the invisible wall between them cracked clean open.

Niall had been Harry’s only friend since middle school — mainly because, on the first day of class, Niall had threatened to poke him in the butt with a pencil every morning if he didn’t sit with him. Friendship by force, really. But even with all their history, there were things Harry couldn’t quite share with Niall — the quiet thoughts, the insecurities, the strange ache that came from wanting to be known without having to explain yourself.

Louis, somehow, made that easy. He had this talent for listening without demanding. For turning heavy things into laughter without ever making them feel small.

The days fell into rhythm. Classes, chaos, and café runs. Group study sessions that devolved into food fights. Crying collectively over assignments no one understood. Movie nights that started at 9 PM and ended at sunrise. And when Perrie and Billie — the high schoolers of the group — joined in after school, the energy doubled. They were sunshine squared, dragging everyone into their orbit with teenage enthusiasm and a dangerous amount of glitter.

Sometimes they’d all meet at the park near campus, sprawled across the grass with snacks, teasing each other mercilessly. Liam would inevitably show up late, coffee in hand, muttering something about “professors being allergic to punctuality.” Zayn, effortlessly cool as always, would just smirk and roll his eyes. Louis would talk so much that everyone forgot why they’d even gathered in the first place.

It was chaos — loud, messy, and perfect.

And in the middle of it all, Harry found himself laughing more than he had in years. His shoulders didn’t feel as heavy. His silences weren’t lonely anymore; they were simply pauses between jokes, between the noise of people who actually wanted him there.

Sometimes, when the café table overflowed with plates and laughter, Harry would just… sit back and watch. The way Billie leaned her head on Perrie’s shoulder, giggling over a TikTok. The way Liam and Niall argued about football like it was a matter of national security. The way Louis gestured wildly while speaking, hands cutting through the air like punctuation marks.

And, more often than not, Harry’s gaze would drift to Zayn — who never said much, but whose presence always carried warmth. Once, in the middle of Louis’ animated retelling of how he’d accidentally flooded the laundry room (“in my defense, who reads the labels on detergent bottles?”), Harry noticed Zayn watching Louis with this soft, quiet expression.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. Just a small, tender smile — the kind people wear when looking at something they love without meaning to show it.

Harry said nothing. Just smiled to himself, heart quietly warming at the sight.

The weeks blurred into months, and the friendship — or whatever this beautiful mess was — only grew tighter. Inside jokes layered over old ones until half their conversations made no sense to outsiders. They celebrated birthdays, flunked tests, and survived New York winters together. They had each other’s backs, and somehow, that was enough.

One night, as they all spilled out of a late study session, Louis threw an arm around Harry’s shoulders and said, “See? You’re part of the circus now.”

Harry chuckled. “Feels like I’ve been adopted by wild animals.”

Louis gasped in mock offense. “Excuse you. We’re domesticated chaos, thank you very much.”

Harry smiled — really smiled. The kind that reached his eyes.

Maybe, for once, life didn’t have to be complicated. Maybe it could just be… this.

Warmth. Laughter. Friends who felt like family.

And Harry was living his best life.

---

It had been going on for hours—three, maybe four, maybe a lifetime—nobody could tell anymore. The air in the dorm’s tiny common room was heavy with the smell of cheap pizza, strawberry soda, and quiet despair. The Monopoly board sat like a battlefield in the center of it all—creased, coffee-stained, its money curling at the edges, its plastic hotels toppling over from the weight of everyone’s righteous fury.

“Don’t you dare roll doubles again, Tomlinson!” Liam barked, slamming his fist down like an outraged accountant. “You’ve already been around the board twice since I mortgaged half of civilization!”

Louis grinned like the cat who had eaten not just the canary, but the entire aviary. “That’s not my fault, Pay-Your-Taxes-Payne. It’s called luck, look it up.”

Niall howled with laughter, tipping backward on the couch until Perry shrieked and threw a throw-pillow at him. “Luck, me arse,” Niall said between wheezes. “You’ve been palming the dice every time you roll!”

“I have not!” Louis said, mock-offended. “You’re just jealous because you’re in jail for the third time.”

“THIRD time,” Perrie echoed dramatically, leaning across Billie to jab a finger toward Niall. “Statistically, that’s concerning. Should we, like, report you?”

Billie gasped theatrically. “Yeah, imagine being that criminally inclined. We should call campus security.”

“Shut up!” Niall cackled, stuffing his mouth with a handful of chips. “At least I’m not bankrupt like some people.”

“Excuse me?” Liam said. “I’m liquidating assets strategically. There’s a difference.”

Zayn, from his quiet corner, looked up from where he’d been absently stacking Monopoly money into neat piles. “Mate, you just sold Boardwalk to Louis for two dollars and a mint gum wrapper.”

“Strategic liquidation!” Liam repeated, but even he was laughing now, his serious façade cracking under the sheer weight of chaos.

Harry sat on the floor cross-legged, a faded red token in his hand, staring at his miniature empire that spanned maybe three miserable properties. He wasn’t much of a talker during Monopoly—too soft-spoken for the competitive storm around him—but the faint upturn of his lips gave him away. He was enjoying this, the comfort of noise that wasn’t cruel, the laughter that didn’t sting.

Louis leaned over and nudged him with his elbow. “C’mon, Styles, it’s your turn. Don’t keep me waiting, I’ve got railroads to buy and souls to crush.”

Harry threw him a side-eye that could melt butter. “You already own all the railroads, Louis.”

“Yeah, well,” Louis said, tossing his hair dramatically. “You can never have too many trains. Ask Thomas.”

“Who?”

“Thomas the Tank Engine, you philistine!”

That sent the entire room into a wave of giggles. Perrie was the first to break, actually snorting, while Billie nearly fell off the beanbag trying to breathe. Even Zayn cracked a smile, watching Louis gesticulate wildly like Monopoly was a divine calling.

Harry rolled the dice. They clattered across the board and landed on a six. “One, two, three…” he counted under his breath, landing on Louis’ Park Place.

Louis clasped his hands dramatically, eyes shining. “Oh no,” he said in a voice dripping with fake innocence. “Is that my little blue property? The one with the fancy hotel and crippling rent?”

Harry sighed, pretending to check his wallet. “How much?”

Louis squinted, pretending to read the card. “Hmm, let’s see—fifteen hundred dollars and your eternal friendship.”

“Then I guess I’ll see you in the afterlife,” Harry said dryly, pushing his last few bills across the board.

The group howled again. Louis clutched his chest. “You wound me, Hazza. After everything we’ve been through!”

“You’ve known me for two months,” Harry said, deadpan.

“Exactly! Two months of emotional bonding and shared trauma! We’re basically married!”

Perrie threw a popcorn kernel at him. “You say that to everyone.”

Louis caught the kernel midair, popped it into his mouth, and grinned. “That’s because I’m a man of the people.”

“Yeah,” Niall muttered, “a people-pleaser with a God complex.”

“Thank you!” Louis said brightly, entirely missing the insult.

The table dissolved into another wave of laughter. Zayn, lounging with an arm draped lazily across the back of the sofa, shook his head. “I don’t even know why I play with you lot,” he said softly, voice carrying that smoky calm that contrasted so perfectly with Louis’s bright hurricane.

Louis turned to him, eyes alight. “Because you love me, Zaynie.”

Zayn gave him the flattest stare known to humankind. “Do I?”

“Yes, deeply and irreversibly,” Louis said without missing a beat. “It’s tragic, really. Unrequited love across the Monopoly board.”

Harry’s head snapped up at that, the corner of his mouth tugging involuntarily. Zayn was looking at Louis then, really looking—eyes soft, expression unguarded for just a breath. The way Zayn’s gaze lingered on Louis’s laughter, like he wanted to memorize it. The way Louis didn’t even notice, too busy celebrating his growing empire of cardboard capitalism.

“Alright, alright!” Niall said suddenly, clapping his hands. “New rule! Whoever lands on Free Parking gets the entire pot!”

“That’s not an official rule,” Liam said, aghast.

“It is in my house,” Niall countered.

“We’re in my dorm,” Harry pointed out quietly.

“Then it’s in your dorm now!” Niall said cheerfully.

“Agreed,” Perrie said. “More chaos. Less logic.”

Liam groaned. “You people are the reason civilization collapses.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Louis said, eyes gleaming. “Now roll the dice, Payne, before I charge you emotional rent.”

By now, the board was a disaster—money scattered everywhere, Niall hoarding fake cash like a dragon, Perrie and Billie sharing a secret alliance, and Louis somehow owning nearly half of Manhattan. Zayn hadn’t said much in a while, though he seemed content, smiling quietly as Louis narrated every single one of his moves like a dramatic monologue.

“And as the benevolent landlord of Park Place and Boardwalk,” Louis declared, “I promise to use your rent money wisely.”

“On what?” Liam asked, suspicious.

“On snacks and spite.”

That earned him another chorus of laughter.

At some point, someone had put on a playlist—old pop songs echoing softly through the room, mixing with the crinkle of chip bags and the occasional yell of ‘That’s not how the rules work!’ The sunlight outside shifted slowly, golden hour spilling across the messy table and painting their faces in warm light.

For all its chaos, there was something sacred in the moment. These mismatched souls, thrown together by chance, building a little world of inside jokes and playful betrayals over a board game that had destroyed families since 1935.

“Alright, final lap,” Liam announced, trying once again to restore order. “Everybody’s broke except Louis, who is clearly laundering money.”

Louis gasped, clutching his chest again. “Excuse me, I’m just business-savvy.”

“Yeah, sure,” Niall said. “You’re Jeff Bezos with a caffeine addiction.”

“And better hair,” Perrie added.

“Obviously.” Louis tossed his fringe and grinned at her. “Finally, someone with taste.”

Harry couldn’t help it—he laughed. Really laughed, that deep, chest-shaking kind of laugh that made his eyes crinkle. Louis looked at him instantly, triumphant, like making Harry laugh was the real win tonight.

“See?” Louis said softly, mock-whispering to Zayn. “Told you I could crack him.”

Zayn smiled faintly, gaze flicking between the two of them. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice so low Harry barely caught it, “you always do.”

“Alright, alright, last roll before someone throws hands,” Niall said, half-laughing, half-wheezing. “I can’t take another rent demand from Lord Monopoly over here.”

Louis leaned back, stretching like a cat. “Oh, admit it, you love my dominance.”

“Never say that again,” Perrie groaned.

Liam muttered, “I’m confiscating the dice next round.”

“Try me,” Louis shot back and waved the dice, eyes sparkling. “Alright, everyone prepare to witness history!”

He rolled. The dice bounced once, twice, and landed — double sixes.

“Ha!” he yelled, throwing both hands up. “The universe loves me! Look at that!”

“You’re cheating,” Billie accused, pointing her token like a sword.

“Please,” Louis said, mouth full of pizza. “I’m just blessed.”

“Blessed with a loaded dice,” Liam said.

Niall cackled. “You’ve got more luck than sense.”

“Both, darling,” Louis quipped. “It’s a dangerous combo.”

He moved his piece, humming tunelessly, but Harry noticed something small — a hitch in Louis’ movement, a blink that lasted a beat too long. The usual spark didn’t quite reach his eyes. For a second, Harry thought maybe it was the heat — the room was stifling, sunlight still streaming through the half-drawn blinds.

Louis laughed again, a little breathless this time, and swiped a hand across his forehead. “Who turned the heating up?”

“No one,” Liam said. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, just a bit warm,” Louis replied quickly, reaching for his drink. He took a sip, then another, like he couldn’t quench it.

Perrie squinted at him. “You look kinda pale.”

“Thanks, that’s my natural glow,” Louis said weakly, still smiling.

The others didn’t think much of it — Louis always joked his way through everything — until he fumbled the dice on his next turn. They clattered off the table, rolling under the couch.

“Clumsy,” Niall teased. “That’s what happens when you’re drunk on power.”

Louis laughed again, but this time it was thinner, forced. “Guess the power’s going to my head.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake it off.

Harry watched him quietly. Something in Louis’ movements felt wrong now — the jittery tapping of his foot, the way he kept blinking like the light was too bright.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked softly.

Louis turned toward him with a grin that wavered halfway. “Yeah, Haz, I’m—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. His voice cut off mid-word, like his breath had caught somewhere between his ribs. His hand went to the table to steady himself.

“Hey, Lou?” Zayn’s voice came from across the room, calm but edged with sudden worry.

Louis laughed again, except this one came out shaky, almost a sigh. “I think— maybe I just stood up too fast.”

But he hadn’t stood. He was still sitting there, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple, his color drained.

Niall’s laughter faltered. “Mate, you don’t look great.”

“I’m fine,” Louis mumbled, but his words slurred faintly.

Zayn was already moving, quick but controlled, kneeling beside him. “When’s the last time you ate properly?”

Louis frowned, confused. “I’m eating now.” He gestured weakly toward the pizza.

Harry felt his stomach twist. He knew, vaguely — Louis had mentioned insulin once, joked about “being part robot.” He didn’t think much of it then. But now, watching his usually unstoppable roommate fold in on himself, Harry’s pulse jumped.

“Louis,” Zayn said again, voice softer but firm, “did you take your shot today?”

Louis blinked slowly. “I think so. Maybe… this morning?”

Perrie was already shoving the Monopoly board aside, money flying like confetti. “Someone get him some juice.”

“On it,” Niall said, darting to the mini-fridge.

Harry sat frozen for a moment, his heart hammering. It didn’t seem real — just minutes ago Louis was calling himself the benevolent landlord of Park Place, and now his hands were trembling like leaves.

Zayn’s tone stayed calm but urgent. “Louis, hey, look at me, alright? Just breathe. You’re okay.”

Louis’s head lolled slightly. “Told you I was too sweet for this world,” he murmured, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Don’t joke right now,” Harry whispered, voice cracking.

Niall came skidding back with a bottle of orange juice. Zayn unscrewed the cap and pressed it into Louis’s hands. “Drink this. Slow, yeah?”

Louis took a sip, then another, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. His breathing evened out, the shaking still visible but less violent now.

The room had gone completely quiet. Even Billie, who was usually a constant stream of chatter, sat with her knees pulled up, worry etched across her face.

After a few long minutes, Louis set the bottle down, blinking like he’d just woken up. “I’m— sorry,” he said weakly. “Guess I got a bit carried away.”

“You scared the hell out of us,” Perrie muttered, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder.

Louis gave her a tired smile. “Well, at least I’m consistent. Chaos follows wherever I go.”

“Next time chaos tries to kill you, warn us first,” Niall said, voice light but trembling at the edges.

Zayn just shook his head, relief flickering behind his calm eyes. “You need to keep something sugary on you, yeah? Every time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis murmured. “I know. I just— forgot.”

Harry didn’t say anything for a while. He just sat there, staring at the half-toppled Monopoly board — all those bright fake bills scattered like a second heartbeat across the table. Then he looked up and caught Louis watching him, a faint, apologetic smile on his lips.

Harry tried to smile back, but it came out more like a promise.

“Don’t do that again,” he said quietly.

Louis tilted his head, soft eyes meeting his. “I’ll try not to,” he whispered, and for once, there wasn’t any joke tucked behind his words.

The group lingered in that silence — not heavy, just raw — the kind that comes when laughter gives way to something deeper. Outside, the light had faded into soft twilight, the last glow catching the curve of Louis’s cheek, pale but alive.

The Monopoly board remained untouched, the game forgotten. Nobody cared who had won anymore.

---

[A Few Days Later]

By the time the sun began to dip below the skyline, the dorm room had gone from gently chaotic to completely lived-in. The floor was scattered with the aftermath of their afternoon — open notebooks, empty mugs, a Scrabble board they’d started two days ago and never finished, and a pillow lying suspiciously close to Harry’s laptop.

Louis was now sitting cross-legged on the windowsill, wearing Harry’s cardigan — something he’d taken without asking, as usual. His hair caught the fading orange light like a halo gone wrong. Harry, meanwhile, sat on the floor with his back against the bed, one knee drawn up, watching the steam curl from the tea mug in his hands.

“You ever think about how weird it is,” Louis started suddenly, “that somewhere out there, some bloke you’ve never met might already be the most important person in your life, and you just… haven’t crossed paths yet?”

Harry hummed, amused. “What, like fate?”

Louis shrugged. “Or bad Wi-Fi.”

Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You really can’t let anything be serious for more than five seconds, can you?”

“Nope. Allergic to emotional constipation.” Louis grinned, sipping his own tea, which he’d insisted on making even though he used double the sugar Harry normally would.

They sat there for a while, watching the last strip of sunlight stretch across the skyline. From the street below came the muffled sounds of traffic, laughter, and the distant wail of a saxophone from someone practicing on the sidewalk — all of it wrapped in the soft hum of evening settling in.

Louis was the first to break the quiet again. “You know, when I first found out I’d be sharing a room, I thought, ‘great, there goes my privacy, there goes walking around in my boxers, there goes—’”

“You still do that,” Harry interrupted, deadpan.

Louis ignored him. “—‘there goes peace.’ But you’re not half bad, Styles.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Harry said, smiling.

“It is one.” Louis leaned back against the window frame, gaze unfocused. “You’re like… grounding. You make everything around you calm.”

Harry’s smile faltered for just a second — the kind of flicker that most people wouldn’t notice. But Louis did.

“You okay?” Louis asked quietly.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Just… not used to people saying nice things.”

Louis grinned again, the teasing kind that was softer around the edges. “Then buckle up, because I’m full of them.”

Harry laughed under his breath. “I know.”

“Zayn says I talk too much,” Louis continued.

“He’s right,” Harry replied instantly.

Louis gasped. “Et tu, Harry?”

They both burst into laughter again, the kind that made their shoulders shake and their eyes crinkle, and suddenly the whole world felt light again.

Eventually, the laughter died down. Louis stretched like a cat, yawning. “Think I might crash here,” he mumbled, already sliding down from the windowsill to the floor beside Harry.

“You have your own bed,” Harry pointed out.

“Yeah, but yours is closer to the snacks,” Louis replied, half-asleep already.

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t move. He watched as Louis tugged a blanket from the couch, wrapped himself up like a burrito, and nestled into the carpet like it was the softest bed in existence.

Within minutes, Louis was out cold. His breathing evened out, his face softened, and one hand ended up loosely resting near Harry’s knee — like an anchor, small and unthinking.

Harry didn’t move. He just sat there, watching the city lights flicker through the window and listening to the quiet rhythm of Louis’s sleep.

He thought about how odd it was — that someone so loud, so unapologetically chaotic, could fit so seamlessly into his life. How someone who teased him endlessly could also make him feel… safe.

There wasn’t anything romantic about it. It wasn’t about that. It was about something quieter, rarer.

The kind of bond that didn’t need grand gestures or declarations. Just moments like this — a soft blanket, a fading sunset, a friend asleep beside you who somehow made the world feel less lonely.

Harry reached over, gently tugged the blanket up to Louis’ shoulder, and whispered, “Night, Lou.”

Louis stirred, half awake. “Hmm?”

“Nothing,” Harry said softly. “Go back to sleep.”

Louis’s lips curled into a small, sleepy smile. “You’re sappy as hell, Styles.”

And then he was out again, leaving Harry to chuckle quietly to himself.

Chapter Text

The door flew open so hard it hit the wall with a loud bang, and Harry flinched, graphite smudging across the sketchbook he’d been working on.

“Guess what, Harold!” Louis practically sang, bursting in like a human storm, curls of paper fluttering in his wake. He was grinning so wide that his dimples looked like they might just swallow his cheeks whole. In his hand — clutched to his chest as though it were the Holy Grail — was a crumpled flyer, the words “ALL–NEW YORK MARTIAL ARTS TRICKING COMPETITION” bold across the top in red.

Harry blinked up at him, still half in the world of pencil lines and shading. “If you’re here to announce the apocalypse,” he said slowly, “can it wait until I finish this line?”

Louis ignored him completely — as usual. He launched himself onto Harry’s bed with all the grace of a tumbleweed in a storm, landing halfway on Harry’s blanket. “No, no, no, this is important! Life-changing! The universe has hand-delivered this moment to you, Styles!”

Harry sighed, setting his pencil down with a resigned smile. “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s the universe done this time?”

“This!” Louis thrust the flyer in his face so close that Harry had to lean back to focus. “Tricking competition! You know, flips, kicks, twisty twirly stuff that defies gravity — basically what you do when no one’s watching. Except this time, people will be watching. And cheering. And probably fainting, ‘cause you’re that good.”

Harry’s brows furrowed. “Tricking?”

Louis gasped dramatically. “Don’t you dare play dumb with me, mister! You told me, remember? That you used to train in it — what was that academy called? Something fancy with a dragon in the name—”

“Firefly Martial Academy,” Harry corrected automatically, before he could stop himself.

“Exactly! See? You even sound like a martial arts hero saying it.” Louis jabbed a finger into his chest triumphantly. “So you, my dear Harold, are going to join this competition.”

Harry laughed under his breath. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m really not.”

Louis sat up, eyes sparkling mischievously. “You’re forgetting something crucial here, Styles.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m annoyingly persuasive.”

Harry gave him a long look. “You don’t say.”

Louis ignored the sarcasm, bouncing on the bed like a child fueled by sugar and adrenaline. “Come on, it’s perfect! You love this stuff! You literally glow when you talk about it — it’s like you’ve swallowed sunlight and it’s leaking out of your eyes or something.”

Harry groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’ve been spending too much time with Niall. You’re starting to sound poetic in a deeply concerning way.”

“Stop deflecting!” Louis snatched the sketchbook from his lap and tossed it aside, narrowly missing the desk lamp. “You can’t hide behind your moody art anymore. The people deserve to see you in motion. You’re—” he paused, eyes going soft for a second, “—you’re not like a normal person when you move, you know? It’s like you’re made of water, not bones.”

That stilled Harry for a beat. Louis said it so earnestly — so matter-of-factly — that Harry’s chest tightened. Compliments never quite sat right with him, but when Louis said things like that, they didn’t sound like flattery. They sounded like truth.

Still, he shook his head. “It’s been years. I’m out of practice. I’ll just embarrass myself.”

Louis snorted. “Please. You could trip and people would still clap. You’ve got that tragic artist energy — people eat that up.”

Harry chuckled, despite himself. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re coming with me to the registration booth tomorrow,” Louis said, standing up and pretending to dust invisible dirt from his jeans. “We’ll sign you up, get you a number, and then you can hate me for the rest of your life after you’ve won your shiny medal.”

“Win?” Harry laughed incredulously. “You’re already setting me up for disappointment.”

Louis leaned against the wall, folding his arms with a grin that was equal parts smug and sincere. “I don’t do disappointment, love. Only victory laps.”

Harry groaned but smiled anyway, leaning back in his chair. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously right, you mean.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “If I say yes, will you stop talking?”

Louis perked up immediately. “Possibly. But no promises.”

Harry sighed — long, dramatic, defeated. “Fine. I’ll try. Just for the NYU selections. But if I break something, I’m blaming you.”

Louis whooped, punching the air. “Deal! Oh my god, Zayn’s gonna lose his mind when he finds out—”

“Don’t tell Zayn,” Harry interrupted quickly.

Louis froze mid-celebration. “What? Why?”

“I just… I don’t want him or anyone else to make a big deal out of it. Let’s just see if I even get selected first.”

Louis’s grin softened into something warm. “Alright. Just between us then.”

Harry nodded.

But Louis, being Louis, couldn’t resist leaning in and whispering with a teasing glint, “Though if you do win, I’m totally telling everyone I’m your manager. And I’ll take 20% of your prize money.”

Harry smirked. “Ten.”

“Fifteen.”

“Deal.”

Louis stuck out his hand. Harry shook it, still laughing — and something in that laughter felt easy again, the way things always did with Louis around.

--

The dorm was quieter than it had been in weeks. Which, considering Louis Tomlinson lived there, was saying something monumental.

Harry had spent the first few hours of the evening basking in the silence — feet propped on the desk, pencil twirling between his fingers, music playing low in the background. Somewhere around six, he’d gotten a message from Louis that read:

“Off to watch a movie with Niall and Perrie. Don’t miss me too much, Harold. xx”

He’d laughed out loud when he’d read it. Of course those three would end up together. Two months ago, Louis and Niall had been at each other’s throats in an ongoing war for “Harry’s Best Friend Rights.” It had started as a joke — then evolved into a full-blown rivalry complete with memes, petty arguments, and a whiteboard scoreboard in their dorm kitchen.

Now, Harry thought with a fond smile, they’d somehow become each other’s best friends too. He’d watched it happen in slow motion: the bickering morphing into camaraderie, Niall bringing snacks to Louis’ lectures, Louis helping Niall with essay deadlines. It was chaotic, loud, and — in a weird way — perfect.

Harry shook his head, smiling to himself as he flipped another page of his sketchbook. The quiet was starting to feel too big around him when the doorbell rang.

He frowned. Louis wouldn’t have forgotten his keys again, would he?

Setting his pencil down, Harry padded to the door and opened it — only to freeze for a second.

The woman standing there wasn’t Louis. But she did have his eyes. Same blue, same mischief tucked at the corners. She looked a few years older — hair neatly styled, a soft, easy smile on her face, and a large container cradled in her hands.

“Hi,” she said brightly. “You must be Harry.”

Harry blinked, then nodded. “Uh — yeah. That’s me.”

“Perfect.” She held up the container like an offering. “I’m Candice. Louis’ sister number two. I brought him some food from home.”

“Oh! Right — come in, please.” Harry stepped aside quickly, his surprise melting into a smile. “He’s out right now, actually, but you can leave it here if you want.”

Candice stepped inside, glancing around the dorm with an approving hum. “Not as messy as I was expecting, given Louis lives here.”

Harry laughed. “He tries. I tidy up behind him more than I should probably admit.”

“I believe that.” She set the container down on the counter and smiled warmly at him. “You can share, by the way. Mum made way too much. Chicken pie, mashed potatoes, and her famous lemon tart. Louis always eats like he hasn’t seen food in years.”

Harry grinned. “That’s very kind, thank you.”

Candice leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms. “He talks about you all the time, you know.”

Harry blinked. “He… does?”

“Oh, constantly.” She chuckled. “Every call, every weekend visit — it’s ‘Harry this’ and ‘Harry that.’ Mum’s even started referring to you as her other son. Dad’s jealous because apparently Louis doesn’t gush that much about his actual family anymore.”

Harry could feel the tips of his ears burning. “Oh— uh— well, that’s… unexpected.”

“Sweet, though,” Candice said, her expression softening. “Louis has always been like that. Once someone’s in his orbit, he makes them feel like they’ve been there forever. He’s the baby of the family, you know — the youngest and most spoiled, but also the kindest. There’s just something about him… people fall a little in love with him without realizing it.”

Harry smiled quietly, looking down at his hands. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Yeah, he does have that effect.”

Candice tilted her head, watching him for a second — as if measuring something in the silence between them. Then she spoke again, softer this time.

“When he first left home for New York, Mum and I nearly lost it,” she admitted with a laugh that was equal parts fond and wistful. “He’s always been our little sunshine — always needing to take care of everyone else, never himself. We weren’t ready to let him go. But he wanted this so badly. We couldn’t hold him back.”

Harry nodded, a warm ache settling in his chest. He could picture it perfectly: Louis packing with too much enthusiasm, promising he’d call every day, probably making a mess of his suitcase while his family tried not to cry.

Candice hesitated, then took a small breath. “I know it’s not really my place to ask, but…” She looked up at him, eyes earnest. “Please look after him for us, Harry. He’s strong, but he’s also—” she smiled gently, “—so trusting. He gives so much of himself to people that I sometimes worry someone might take advantage of that. Just… keep an eye out for him, will you?”

Harry’s throat tightened slightly. There was something about the request — simple, heartfelt, almost sacred — that stirred something deep in him.

He nodded slowly. “You don’t even have to ask.” His voice was quiet, certain. “He’s my best friend. I’d never let anything happen to him.”

Candice smiled, her shoulders relaxing. “I knew I liked you.”

Harry grinned back, the warmth between them settling like sunlight.

They chatted a bit longer — about Louis’ childhood escapades (apparently he once tried to build a treehouse and ended up stapling his shirt to a plank), about New York winters, about how Louis always managed to make homes out of people.

When Candice finally left, Harry stood at the door for a long moment, the quiet returning around him — but it felt different now. Fuller. Softer.

---

By the time the door banged open again, it was nearly eleven.

Harry, curled up on the couch with his sketchbook and half a bowl of lemon tart, barely had time to react before Louis stumbled in — scarf hanging lopsidedly from his neck, hair a mess of wind and theatre popcorn, eyes lit up like someone had plugged him directly into a socket.

“I told them that choosing the horror film was a mistake!” Louis announced to absolutely no one as he kicked the door shut with his heel. “And what happens? Niall throws his drink on Perrie, Perrie screams bloody murder, and I’m the one who gets blamed because apparently I laughed too hard!”

Harry snorted. “That sounds about right.”

Louis threw his coat over a chair, dramatically pressing a hand to his heart. “You’re mocking my trauma, Harold. Do you have no compassion?”

“I’ll find some after you shower. You smell like butter and regret.”

Louis gasped — a full, offended gasp — and then promptly grinned. “You love me really.”

Harry rolled his eyes but smiled anyway.

Louis was still mid-rant when his phone began buzzing. He glanced at the screen, groaned, and plopped himself down at the dining table, balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear as he began unpacking the food container sitting on the counter.

“Oui, bonsoir, ma belle sœur,” he started, voice instantly taking on that teasing sing-song tone Harry had come to recognize as Louis being an absolute menace to his family.

Harry caught a mix of rapid-fire French, a few smattered English words — “embarrassing,” “traitor,” and “twelve years old, for God’s sake!” — before Louis let out an exaggerated groan.

“Oh, come on, Candice! You didn’t have to tell him that! He already thinks I’m ridiculous enough without the bedtime story confession!”

Harry, pretending to focus on his sketchbook, hid a grin.

Louis shot him a mock glare mid-conversation. “No, I’m not hanging up! You can’t drop humiliation bombs and then run. That’s emotional warfare!”

Another pause. Then a loud, dramatic gasp. “You told Mum too?!”

Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Louis caught the sound anyway, narrowing his eyes playfully before switching back to the phone. “He’s laughing, by the way! You’ve officially ruined my reputation in front of my flatmate-slash-best-friend-slash-betrayer!”

Candice must’ve said something cutting, because Louis threw up his hands. “Oh, shut up. Bonne nuit!”

He hung up with the flair of a Shakespearean actor exiting stage left, sighed dramatically, and then immediately started spooning food from the container onto two plates.

“I swear she’s on a personal mission to destroy me,” he muttered, scooping mashed potatoes with unnecessary aggression. “Next time I go home, she’ll probably have a PowerPoint presentation titled Louis: The Embarrassing Years.”

Harry was chuckling by now. “She seemed lovely.”

“Oh, she is lovely,” Louis replied, stabbing at a piece of chicken. “Lovely and evil. A dangerous combination.”

Then, as if nothing had happened, he made a forkful of pie, leaned across the table, and held it out toward Harry.

Harry blinked. “What are you—”

“First bite,” Louis said simply, waving the fork. “It’s the rule.”

Harry hesitated, amused. “The rule?”

“Yes. I cook or bring food, you eat first. It’s a sacred tradition now. Go on.”

Harry leaned forward, accepting the bite. The pie was still warm, buttery, seasoned perfectly.

Louis grinned triumphantly. “Good, right? Candice can be annoying but she can cook.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, swallowing. “She said she made enough for both of us.”

“Of course she did. She likes you better than me already. Typical.”

He dug into his own plate then, talking between bites. “You know, this reminds me of when I tried to cook dinner for my family once. Nearly burnt the kitchen down. The fire alarm went off, Candice screamed, and Mum banned me from touching the stove ever again.”

Harry laughed. “You? Burn a kitchen? I’d pay to see that. Though you said that you can cook some really mean meals.”

“Yup. Mean. Really Mean. Like in literal meaning of this term.,” Louis said, pointing his fork at him. “Mark my words, I’ll cook for you one day. You’ll love it. You’ll probably need antacids after, but you’ll love it.”

They both burst out laughing, the sound filling the dorm — bright, warm, alive.

At some point, Louis leaned back, sighing happily. “You know,” he said through a yawn, “this—” he gestured vaguely between them, the food, the noise, “—is nice. Like a little home away from home.”

Harry smiled softly, nodding. “Yeah. It really is.”

Louis grinned, eyes crinkling. “You’re getting sappy on me, Styles.”

“Shut up and eat your pie.”

Louis giggled, and the room filled again with their laughter — loud, unrestrained, and perfectly ordinary in the best possible way.

---

It had been nearly two weeks since Louis had shoved that competition flyer into his hands, grinning like it was the greatest thing that could ever happen to mankind. And maybe, Harry thought now, it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. The New York Martial Arts Tricking Championship was no small event — every university in the state would send one candidate, chosen after rounds of internal evaluations. When he’d first heard that, Harry had almost backed out on the spot. He didn’t exactly thrive in crowded spaces or in situations that demanded self-promotion; his comfort zone began and ended somewhere between his sketchbook and a quiet corner.

But afternoons at the gym had started to feel like a different kind of home. The sound of sneakers squeaking on the floor, the muffled thud of landing mats, the sharp inhale before a backflip — they all became part of a rhythm he didn’t realize he’d missed. It was muscle and music, repetition and grace, and in the middle of it all, Harry felt… alive. A little freer each day, a little less cautious. Most of the other contenders were enthusiastic but sloppy, missing control in their form, and only one or two looked like real competition. He didn’t want to jinx himself by thinking he could actually win, but for the first time in years, he was allowing himself to enjoy something purely for the thrill of it.

And, though he’d never say it out loud, he was grateful to Louis for pushing him. Without that chaotic encouragement — “You’ll be stupid not to try, H, you’re literally made for it!” — he would’ve just walked past the opportunity. Now, his days were divided between training and coursework, his evenings stretching longer as semester finals approached. With the Christmas and New Year break hanging close on the horizon, campus felt suspended in that almost-holiday lull — a mixture of exhaustion and quiet excitement.

Tonight, though, the gym was behind him. He’d finally stolen an hour or two for himself, tucked away in the university library’s far corner, the air humming faintly with the rustle of pages and the soft whir of heating vents. His laptop glowed dimly on the oak table, open to his unfinished paper.

Just as Harry’s pen was starting to slow — his concentration giving way to the warm fatigue of a long day — his phone buzzed against the wooden surface of the table. Once, twice, then again in quick succession. He glanced down, squinting at the screen. The group chat, “The Absolute Menace Society,” was alive again — and far livelier than usual for a Tuesday night.

He smiled to himself. They’d all been running on fumes lately, the exam season slowly draining the life out of everyone, but apparently, tonight’s energy spike had a reason. A few messages in, and the theme was clear: Hawaii.

It had become something of a ritual over the years. Long before university, back when they were barely tall enough to reach the kitchen counter, Louis, Zayn, Liam, Billie, and Perrie had been the self-proclaimed Famous Five. Inspired by those adventure novels, they’d take tiny trips every summer — a day at the nearby woods, a weekend at Liam’s uncle’s farmhouse, or once, a daring camping night in Zayn’s backyard that ended when Louis screamed about a “bear” that turned out to be Billie’s hoodie. There had always been adults quietly supervising from afar — a parent’s car parked down the lane, or an aunt pretending to garden — but the illusion of independence had been everything.

Now, years later, they didn’t need that illusion anymore. They were actually going — truly going — to places far beyond the neighborhood’s edge. This time it was Hawaii for the New Year’s break, a week of saltwater, sand, and long-postponed rest. And, of course, no trip was ever complete without Harry and Niall — honorary members of the group and chaos coordinators by default.

The chat was absolute pandemonium:

LOUIS: RIGHT GUYS IT’S HAPPENING. TICKETS BOOKED. WE’RE GOING TO HAWAII 

BILL: I CALL DIBS ON THE WINDOW SEAT!!!

PERRIE: You always call dibs and then fall asleep five minutes in, Billy. I’m taking it this time.

NIALL: Wait, are we sure this is real? Like actually booked-booked? Not “Louis said he’d book it and then forgot because there was a pigeon outside” booked?

LOUIS: EXCUSE YOU I HAVE MATURED.

ZAYN: The maturity lasted exactly 4.7 seconds.

LIAM: I can confirm. He was mature for one single sip of coffee this morning. Then he burned his tongue and called the mug an opponent.

LOUIS: THAT MUG STARTED IT.

HARRY: 

BILL: OKAY but has anyone told your mum, Lou? Because we all remember The Great Paris Debate of 2023.

LOUIS: Working on it. Strategically.

PERRIE: Strategically = waiting until she’s on her yoga mat and can’t chase you across the house again?

LOUIS: …maybe.

NIALL: Can we all agree that if Mrs. Tomlinson says no, we’re all doomed?

ZAYN: She’s not saying no. We’re responsible adults now.

LIAM: Responsible adults who nearly set off the smoke alarm last night trying to make popcorn in a toaster oven.

HARRY: That was Louis, to be fair.

LOUIS: IT WAS AN EXPERIMENT.

BILLIE: You nearly invented flaming popcorn.

LOUIS: Innovation requires risk.

PERRIE: Innovation requires a functioning fire alarm, which we almost didn’t have.

NIALL: Anyway, back to the important part: what are we doing first when we land?

ZAYN: Sleep.

HARRY: Second?

PERRIE: Ocean. I’m not leaving the water for 12 hours straight.

LOUIS: I’m bringing a snorkel and a waterproof camera. Harry, we’re documenting everything.

HARRY: Me?

LOUIS: Yes, you. You’re the only one with a calm enough hand to actually take photos without cutting someone’s head off.

HARRY: You’re mistaking “calm” for “trying not to get sunburned.”

BILL: Also, who’s in charge of snacks on the plane?

LIAM: I already made a list.

LOUIS: Liam’s in charge of snacks, passports, and moral support.

NIALL: Moral support won’t help when you realize you forgot your insulin bag again, mate.

LOUIS: I WON’T. I’VE GOT IT UNDER CONTROL.

PERRIE: That’s what you said last time and we had to make a ONE-hour detour.

ZAYN: I’ll text your mum to double-check you’ve packed it.

LOUIS: NO.

ZAYN: Done.

LOUIS: 

HARRY: I’ll vouch for him, Mrs. Tomlinson. Promise he’s safe with us.

CANDICE: (joins the chat) HE BETTER BE.

BILLY: HOW DID SHE GET HERE 

PERRIE: This is the most chaotic family invasion since the group chat incident of spring.

ZAYN: We’re all doomed.

LOUIS: NO WE’RE FINE. WE’RE ADULTS. I SWEAR.

CANDICE: Text me every day. And no sugar overdose.

HARRY: Copy that, Captain.

LOUIS: …why are you encouraging her.

HARRY: For safety. And amusement.

Harry laughed quietly, shoulders shaking as he scrolled through the flood of messages.

Harry was still grinning at his phone, the warm laughter quietly rolling out of him, when a chair scraped beside him — the sound soft yet startling in the library’s hushed calm. He looked up, half expecting to see Louis himself ready to pester him about snacks or Monopoly rematches, but instead, it was Zayn.

Zayn looked… not his usual collected self. His hoodie was drawn up, his expression somewhere between a whisper and a storm, and he was holding a folded paper in his hand like it was classified information.

Without a word, he sat down, glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to hear, and then leaned in. “Harry,” he said in a voice so low it was practically a confession, “I’m panicking.”

Harry blinked, confused for a second. “About what?”

“About him.” Zayn ran a hand over his face, his words tumbling out faster. “What if it doesn’t go right? What if he laughs? Or worse — what if he says no? I can’t survive that, mate.”

Harry stared for half a heartbeat, then smirked. “You mean Louis?”

Zayn nodded, looking like he regretted being alive.

Harry tried, really tried not to burst out laughing in the middle of the silent study area, but his grin was impossible to hide. “Z. Listen to me. You’re being stupid.”

“Gee, thanks,” Zayn muttered, half-whining, half-serious.

“I mean it,” Harry said, still smiling. “You’ve seen the way he looks at you, right? He’s practically one rom-com montage away from writing your name in the margins of his notes. He’s gone for you.”

“That’s the problem!” Zayn whispered harshly. “He’s so— Louis. He’s unpredictable. What if he thinks it’s too soon? What if he thinks I’m being dramatic?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Zayn, you’re planning to ask him out in Hawaii, at sunset, on a beach, with banners and candles. You are being dramatic.”

“That’s because he is dramatic!” Zayn hissed, though the faintest laugh escaped him. “You think I wanted to rent an entire stretch of beach for a proposal that isn’t even a proposal? Louis said once he wants things to be cinematic, so I’m trying to be… cinematic.”

Harry chuckled. “You’re going to give him a heart attack before his insulin does.”

“Not funny,” Zayn grumbled, rubbing his temples.

Harry leaned back in his chair, smiling softly now. “You’re overthinking this. He’s going to say yes, Zayn. He’s wanted this for ages. He already talks like you two are together. Don’t you remember last week? He called you ‘my Zayn’ five times during lunch.”

Zayn groaned, his face buried in his hands. “You’re not helping.”

“Oh, I am helping,” Harry said with mock solemnity. “Because when he says yes — and he will — I’m going to remind you of this panic attack every single day for the next ten years.”

That finally earned a quiet laugh from Zayn, muffled into his sleeve. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet the best,” Harry said smugly.

For a few seconds, silence fell between them — the good kind. The kind filled with understanding. Zayn finally exhaled and sat upright, pulling the paper from his hoodie pocket and sliding it across the table.

“Okay, fine. Since you’re so confident, you’re helping.”

Harry frowned and looked down at the folded sheet. “What’s this?”

“The banner,” Zayn said. “For the beach. I wrote what it should say, but you’re the only one who can make it look… not terrible.”

Harry unfolded the paper — and burst out laughing almost instantly. “What does this even say?”

“It says— wait— it’s not that bad!” Zayn tried to defend himself, leaning over to look.

Harry held it up between two fingers. “Zayn, this looks like a family of ants decided to go for a stroll across the page. Is that an S or a snake?”

“It says, ‘You, Me, and Forever Sounds Alright?’” Zayn said, indignant now. “It’s supposed to be cute!”

Harry blinked at him. “You wrote ‘You Me & For ev er’ with three extra loops in the middle.”

“It’s stylized!”

“It’s tragic,” Harry corrected, still laughing.

Zayn groaned and dropped his head onto the table, his voice muffled. “This is why I can’t have nice things.”

Harry reached out, patting his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll make your tragic handwriting look like a Netflix poster. You’ll get your cinematic moment.”

When Zayn looked up, his expression had softened — the panic dimmed by that easy warmth that always seemed to radiate from Harry.

“Thanks, man,” he said quietly.

Harry smiled, gentle and sincere now. “You don’t need to thank me. Honestly, watching you two… it’s nice, you know? You and Louis — you make me believe that maybe the whole ‘90s romance’ thing isn’t dead after all.”

Zayn tilted his head. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Harry said, grinning again, “you make it look kind of possible. That somewhere out there, people still fall in love like it’s the easiest, most ridiculous, most beautiful thing.”

Zayn chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve been spending too much time around Louis.”

“Maybe,” Harry admitted. “But it’s working. Now come on, stop overthinking and go practice your cinematic speech. You’ll be fine.”

Zayn leaned back, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “You sure?”

Harry nodded. “Positive. In fact, I’m so sure I’m already mentally designing your wedding invitations.”

Zayn laughed, finally relaxed, and shook his head as he stood. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, artistically indispensable,” Harry called after him.

When Zayn walked off, muttering under his breath but smiling, Harry leaned back in his chair again, the grin still lingering. He looked down at the piece of paper, at Zayn’s crooked loops and uneven scrawl, and shook his head fondly.

“‘You, Me, and Forever Sounds Alright,’ huh?” he murmured to himself. “Yeah… sounds about right.”

He folded the paper neatly, tucked it into his notebook, and thought, not for the first time, how lucky he was to be surrounded by people who made love — in all its messy, chaotic forms — look so simple, so human, and so endlessly worth it.

---

The cafeteria was unusually full for a Wednesday afternoon, considering it was exam week. The air hummed with that strange, in-between energy — not quite relief, not quite panic. Students milled around in clusters, coffee cups and half-finished notes scattered everywhere.

At a corner table sat the usual suspects — Louis, Zayn, Harry, Niall, and Liam — surrounded by an impressive spread of fries, coffees, and notebooks that none of them were really reading.

Harry had just walked in from his architecture exam, hair still mussed, sleeves rolled up, and a kind of quiet contentment written across his face. He dropped his bag onto the bench and collapsed into the seat beside Louis, exhaling deeply.

“So,” Niall said, mouth full of fries. “How was it? Did you absolutely destroy the foundations of modern architecture?”

Harry snorted. “Pretty sure I just barely convinced them I can tell a column from a beam.”

Louis perked up, barely glancing from the pages in front of him. “That’s one more thing than Niall can do.”

“Oi!” Niall said indignantly. “I know my beams! I built a pillow fort last week that could’ve withstood a minor earthquake!”

“Yeah, until you sat in it,” Liam deadpanned.

Zayn chuckled, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You lot are unbelievable.”

“Oh, come on, Malik,” Louis said, flipping a page and underlining something furiously. “Don’t act like you don’t live for this chaos.”

That made Harry smile. Louis was chaotic — a hurricane with a caffeine addiction — but right now, even he looked oddly serious. His usually messy notes were sprawled open in front of him, and his pen moved like a machine. His foot tapped rapidly under the table.

“Whoa,” Niall said, leaning forward dramatically. “Is this… is this Louis Tomlinson? Studying? Like actually studying?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Louis said without looking up. “I’m just skimming.”

“You’ve been skimming for thirty minutes,” Liam pointed out.

“That’s called commitment,” Louis replied primly, reaching for his drink without breaking focus.

Zayn laughed quietly and, almost absently, speared a fry and held it up to Louis. Louis leaned over, bit it off mid-sentence, mumbled a thank you, and went straight back to his notes as if the gesture were the most natural thing in the world.

Harry tried not to smile at that — the ease, the warmth, the way Zayn did these tiny things without thinking twice. It was just… them.

A few minutes later, Louis shut his notebook with a loud thump, startling half the table. “Right!” he said, gathering his pens in a sweep. “Wish me luck, lads. I’m off to face my fate.”

Niall clutched his chest theatrically. “Our fallen soldier goes to war.”

“May your formulas be ever in your favor,” Liam said with mock solemnity.

Zayn smirked. “You’re going to do great, Lou. Stop acting like you’re headed to execution.”

“I am!” Louis protested. “It’s Managerial Economics, Zayn. I can’t even spell that half the time!”

Harry laughed. “You’ll ace it. You always do.”

Louis pointed dramatically at him. “That’s the spirit. See, Hazza believes in me. That’s the kind of energy I need.”

He started shoving his notebook into his bag. “And Harry,” he added, looking up suddenly, “I’ll be there for your trials today. I’ll try to finish my exam early and run straight to the gym.”

Harry frowned. “You don’t have to—”

Louis cut him off, eyes wide with exaggerated disbelief. “Are you mad? Of course I have to! I can’t miss my best friend’s trials! That’s against the bro code or something!”

“Louis, you make up your own codes,” Niall said, rolling his eyes.

“Exactly!” Louis said, pointing at him. “So it’s canon now.”

Zayn shook his head with a grin. “Lou, you should focus on your exam. Harry will understand.”

Louis placed a hand on his chest, scandalized. “Zaney, don’t be stupid. We can’t leave the godfather of our children alone in the arena!”

There was a beat of stunned silence — and then all of them burst out laughing, loud enough to earn a few glares from nearby tables.

Zayn turned scarlet, covering his face with his hand. “Oh my god, Louis—”

Harry was practically wheezing. “Did you just— godfather of your children?!”

Louis shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Manifesting the future, lads.”

Niall grinned. “Oh, he’s manifesting alright.”

“Alright, enough!” Zayn said, standing and throwing a napkin at Louis. “Go fail your exam or whatever.”

Louis caught the napkin and saluted dramatically. “Love you more darling!”

He dashed off, his bag bouncing against his hip, muttering something about coffee and capitalism.

When he disappeared into the crowd, Niall turned to Zayn with a smirk. “He’s totally going to pass with flying colors.”

Zayn sighed, still blushing faintly. “Yeah. And then he’s going to kill me for turning red.”

The conversation drifted easily after that — talk of exams, holiday packing lists, and Zayn’s upcoming “cinematic disaster,” as Niall called it. They were already picturing themselves on the beach, away from deadlines and late-night caffeine, basking in Hawaii’s sun while Louis probably forced them into matching shirts.

Zayn tried, half-heartedly, to downplay the whole “proposal” plan, but the moment he said, “It’s not really a proposal,” everyone started shouting at once.

“Mate, you’ve got a banner!” Niall yelled.

“And fireworks!” Liam added.

“And a speech!” Harry threw in, grinning.

“Alright, alright, it’s romantic, I get it!” Zayn groaned, burying his face in his hands again, but the laughter that followed was warm — the kind that softened the edges of stress and left behind only joy.

They lingered like that for a while — talking, teasing, pretending the exams weren’t waiting just around the corner.

Then one by one, they peeled away — Liam to accounting, Niall to sociology, Zayn to his Literature theory nightmare — until Harry was the last one left, gathering his bag. He stood, smiled at the now half-empty table, and muttered softly to himself,

“Alright then. Let’s do this.”

The gym awaited. And so did the first round of trials — the beginning of something bigger, brighter, and maybe, just maybe, something that would change everything.

----

The gym didn’t even look like the gym anymore.

It smelled like it — faintly of varnished wood, sweat, and detergent — but the rest of it had been disguised under layers of transformation. The basketball hoops had been drawn up. A makeshift stage now spread across the center floor, cordoned off by a neat line of white tape. Three folding tables formed the judges’ panel, arranged at the far end with name tags, water bottles, and clipboards. Beyond them, a small sound system hummed softly, the low buzz of a mic being tested.

Rows of plastic chairs lineed one side, filled with the ten or twelve competitors who were still waiting for their turns. Across the hall, the bleachers stretched up toward the walls — only half full, a scattering of friends and classmates leaning forward expectantly. Every few seconds, someone clapped, someone whispered. The atmosphere thrumed with a nervous, charged kind of anticipation.

Harry sat on the far left chair in the competitors’ row, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tight they’ve gone cold.

He was the eighth performer. Three more to go after him.

His heart felt too loud for his own body.

He was not supposed to care this much, not supposed to want this as badly as he did. It was just an inter-university trial, a stepping stone. But when he looked up at the small crowd, at the bright lights cutting through the dark gym, it felt bigger than that — too big. Like a stage he’d stumbled onto by accident.

Number five, Justin, had been incredible — confident, sharp, the kind of performer who made everyone else feel like a background character. The judges had even smiled, made notes, clapped. Harry had clapped too, because it was impossible not to. And then immediately afterwards, that familiar doubt had clawed back up his spine: What am I even doing here?

He rubed his palms on his sweatpants. His mouth was dry.

“Number eight,” the coordinator called, voice echoing through the microphone. “Harry Styles.”

He froze for half a second. He didn’t even register the sound of the applause at first. His body just moved — stood, breathed, walked toward the light.

The gym darkened completely except for the single, sharp spotlight that followed him to the center of the stage. Every sound seemed amplified: the squeak of his shoes on the floor, the creak of the boards underfoot, the shuffle of papers from the judges’ table.

He swallowed hard. His pulse raced in his ears. He couldn’t even remember the opening cue.

For a second, the darkness felt heavier than it should. You shouldn’t have done this. You’re not ready. Everyone’s better. Everyone—

The music began.

It was faint at first — low, haunting, the kind that curled in his ribs and dared him to move.

He inhaled once. Twice. Then he lets it take over.

But his mind kept splintering in between every beat, filled with flashes of Justin’s perfect turns, the way number seven’s crowd had clapped wildly. He felt clumsy, uncertain, too aware of his limbs. The judges’ expressions were unreadable.

He almost missed the step. His heart lurched.

Then, somewhere between one movement and the next, a sound cut through the darkness.

A sharp, familiar whistle — off-beat, completely out of place — echoing from the bleachers.

“COME ON, HAZZA!”

It was followed by frantic clapping, someone shouting, “LET’S GOOOO!”

Harry’s eyes flick edinstinctively toward the sound — and his breath just… caught.

Louis.

Of course it was Louis.

He was standing at the top of the bleachers, still in his half-unbuttoned exam shirt, tie hanging loose around his neck. His hair looked windblown, like he ran the entire way here. His bag was slung across one shoulder, and in his hand — God, in his hand — was what looked like a makeshift banner.

It was not even a proper banner. It was a random sheet of white chart paper, probably stolen from some noticeboard, and in the middle of it, written in giant black marker letters:

GO HARRY STYLES (kind of a big deal).

The handwriting was atrocious. The letters were half smudged. There was even a coffee stain on the corner.

Harry couldn’t help it. He laughed.

The sound burst out of him mid-step — startled, breathy, but real. The tension in his chest loosened, just like that.

Louis waved the paper again, grinning like a fool. “You’ve got this, superstar!”

Someone shushed him immediately, but he just laughed louder, cupping his hands around his mouth to yell again, “DON’T TRIP! I SWEAR IF YOU TRIP, I’M DISOWNING YOU!”

The audience snickered. One of the judges sighed audibly.

Harry’s cheeks ached from smiling, but for the first time in the entire day, he didn’t care. The panic, the doubts, the endless comparisons — they all dissolved under the warmth that rose in his chest.

He exhaled. The music swelled.

And this time, when he moved, it was effortless.

His body remembered what his mind forgot — the flow, the rhythm, the story. Every turn felt grounded, every gesture full. He stopped thinking about technique and started feeling it. The crowd faded, replaced by that steady thump of bass in his blood and the echo of Louis’ ridiculous laughter from somewhere up above.

When the sequence reached its final crescendo, he dropped into the closing pose, head bowed slightly, chest heaving.

Silence.

Then, applause.

He heard it — the clap of hands, the whoop from Niall (because of course Niall’s made it here too by now), and above it all, that unmistakable whistle again, cutting sharp and proud through the noise.

“THAT’S MY BOY!” Louis yelled, voice cracking.

Another collective shhh! from the front.

“Mr. Tomlinson,” one of the judges warned into the mic, exasperated. “Please—”

Louis threw both hands up in surrender, still grinning. “Sorry! Sorry! He’s just— he’s really good, innit?”

Harry laughed under his breath, shaking his head. He could see the judge fighting a smile too.

As he walked off stage, his legs still trembling from adrenaline, he caught Louis’ gaze across the room. Louis lifted the ruined banner like a trophy, eyebrows wiggling. His grin was so unguarded it made Harry’s chest ache — the kind of grin that felt like home.

Harry was halfway down the side steps when Niall and Liam appeared out of nowhere, both clapping him on the shoulder.

“Mate, that was unreal!” Niall said, practically bouncing. “You absolutely killed it!”

“Bloody brilliant,” Liam agreed. “Did you see Louis up there? I thought they were going to escort him out!”

Harry couldn’t stop smiling. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“Notice? He nearly gave me tinnitus,” Niall muttered, laughing.

From the bleachers, Louis yelled again, “DON’T PRETEND YOU’RE NOT USED TO IT, NIALL!”

Another round of shhhhhh! followed.

Harry groaned, covering his face. “Oh my God.”

But when he looked up again, Louis is waving the now half-torn banner like it was the most important thing in the world. The crowd was thinning, people whispering about who might make it to the top five, but Louis looked like he couldn’t care less. His focus was completely on Harry, eyes sparkling, proud in that stupidly loud way that was just so Louis.

Harry felt his throat tighten a little — not with embarrassment this time, but something quieter, softer. Gratitude. Fondness.

He remembers every conversation, every sarcastic text, every chaotic study night. Every time Louis had been there — sometimes annoyingly, sometimes silently, but there all the same.

And he realized then that no matter what happens next — whether he makes it to the finals or not — this moment is his victory already.

Because Louis showed up.

Because Louis always shows up.

The coordinator called for a short break before the final three contestants. The lights came back on, washing the gym in bright white. The crowd started buzzing again, people stretching, chatting, taking pictures.

Louis jumped down the bleachers two steps at a time, nearly tripping over his shoelace but somehow saving himself in the most ungraceful way possible.

“Hazza!” he called, jogging toward him.

Harry turned just in time to catch the blur of Louis nearly tackling him into a half-hug, half-shake.

“Bloody hell, you were brilliant! I almost cried!” Louis exclaimed. “I mean, I did cry, but that’s beside the point. The point is— you were amazing!”

Harry laughed, a little breathless. “You’re insane.”

“Thank you,” Louis said proudly. “I try my best.”

“Where did you even get that banner?”

Louis looked down at the wrinkled chart paper, pretending to study it. “Borrowed it from a first-year. She was making a poster for a charity bake sale.”

“You stole a charity poster to write this on?”

Louis shrugged. “She said it was fine. I think.”

Harry burst out laughing, unable to stop. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably supportive, yeah,” Louis said, grinning. “Someone’s gotta be your fan club.”

Before Harry could respond, one of the judges clapped into the mic, calling the audience back to attention. Louis straightened immediately, whispering, “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up now.”

He didn’t.

Within thirty seconds, he was whispering again, leaning close to Niall to comment on every single move of the next contestant. The judges glared at him more than once, and each time he offered an apologetic wave that looked anything but apologetic.

Harry just sat there, shaking his head, smiling to himself.

Because somehow, in all the chaos, in all the noise — Louis made him believe he could do it.

---

By the time the final three contestants finished their routines, the crowd had already thinned to a third of what it was earlier. The sound of chatter had dulled into the low hum of people gathering their bags, half-whispering their predictions, half-yawning from the long afternoon.

Harry sat on the edge of the stage, legs dangling off, a towel looped around his neck. His hair was still damp, skin still buzzing with the aftermath of adrenaline. He could feel the faint tremor in his calves — part exhaustion, part disbelief.

He did it.

He actually did it.

Louis, of course, is still there.

Everyone else — even the other competitors — had wandered off for water or air, but Louis hadn’t moved an inch. He was sitting cross-legged in the second row of the bleachers, the infamous chart-paper banner now folded neatly beside him like it was some sacred relic. His chin rested on his hand, eyes following the judges’ table as they deliberated.

Every few seconds, he tapped his foot against the bench, impatient, like a kid waiting for results in a school play.

Harry caught himself smiling. He could’ve left hours ago, he thought. He didn’t even have to come at all.

Finally, after what felt like forever, the head judge stood up. He was a tall man in a grey suit, with thin spectacles perched on his nose and a clipboard in hand. He adjusted the mic, cleared his throat, and the gym went quiet instantly.

“Thank you, everyone, for your performances today,” he began, his voice echoing through the near-empty hall. “We’ve seen some remarkable displays of skill and artistry this afternoon, and I’m happy to announce the five candidates who’ll move forward to the second round of trials.”

Harry felt his pulse spike again.

Beside him, Louis straightened in his seat, eyes wide.

The judge started reading the names.

“Justin Bieber.”

Predictable. The guy was a machine.

“Catherine Liu.”

Harry nodded faintly, she was brilliant too, fluid and sharp.

“Melissa Brooks.”

A clap echoed from somewhere in the back.

“Andy Rivera.”

Harry inhales slowly. One spot left.

“And finally…” The judge glanced at his clipboard again. “Harry Styles.”

For a split second, Harry didn’t even move. The name hung in the air like it didn’t quite belong to him.

Then Louis’ scream nearly knocked the roof off.

“YESSSSS! THAT’S MY BOY!”

His voice ricocheted off the gym walls like an explosion. Harry burst out laughing, head falling into his hands.

The judge, who had clearly already learned to expect this by now, smiled faintly and leaned toward the mic again. “Mr. Styles,” he said dryly, “it seems you have quite an enthusiastic support system.”

The crowd chuckles — what’s left of it, anyway.

Louis cupped his hands around his mouth, calling out, “He’s bloody earned it!”

Harry shook his head, trying to stifle a grin. “You’re incorrigible,” he muttered under his breath, though the warmth spreading across his chest betrayed him completely.

The judge continued, voice steady again. “The second round of trials will be held in March, where one of these five students will be selected to represent NYU at the statewide event in July. You’ll each receive an email with details regarding your preparation guidelines and performance structure. Congratulations once again.”

A polite round of applause followed — though “polite” didn’t quite fit Louis, who was on his feet now, clapping so hard it sounded like applause for a sold-out concert rather than a university shortlist.

As the judges began to pack up, most of the finalists gather their things, chatting excitedly. Harry exchanged brief congratulations with Catherine and Andy, but his gaze kept flicking back to Louis — who was still standing there like a proud parent on sports day, beaming.

When Harry finally walked over, Louis bounced down the steps toward him, waving the crumpled chart paper like a victory flag.

“I told you!” Louis crowed. “Didn’t I tell you? You’re bloody brilliant! I should start taking bets on you, I swear.”

Harry laughed, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

Louis grinned, chest still heaving slightly from excitement. “You’re welcome. I accept flowers, chocolate, and verbal gratitude.”

Harry tilted his head. “Verbal gratitude, huh?”

“Yep.”

He smiled softly. “Thanks, Lou.”

Louis’ grin faltered just a bit — enough for something quieter, warmer, to slip through. “Anytime, Haz.” He nudged Harry’s arm gently. “Told you, didn’t I? You just needed a bit of a shove.”

Harry huffed a small laugh. “You call yelling at me a shove?”

“Motivational yelling,” Louis corrected. “Big difference.”

They both laughed. The hall was nearly empty now; even the judges had left, their chairs half-stacked in the corner. The evening light filtered in through the high windows, painting the floor golden. It was quiet except for the faint echo of their voices and the sound of Louis’s sneakers squeaking as he walked backward toward the exit.

“Come on,” Louis said finally, jerking his head toward the door. “Let’s go celebrate. I’ve got leftover pasta from Candice’ care package, and I promise I won’t even complain if you eat most of it.”

Harry chuckled, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “You’re too good to me.”

Louis shot him a mischievous grin. “I know.”

Harry watched him for a second — the easy smile, the careless walk, the way he twirled the folded banner like a baton. It was ridiculous, really, how someone could be this effortlessly joyful, this unshakably loyal.

And as they stepped out into the fading sunlight, Harry realized something quietly, firmly — that whatever happens in March, whatever happens next — this moment would stay with him.

----

It was the day. The final day at the campus.

The corridors were louder than usual—laughter echoing off the walls, luggage wheels scraping the tiled floors, half-packed boxes lying near the hostel gate. Everyone was either leaving or pretending not to cry about leaving. The air smelled of old coffee and goodbyes.

Zayn and Niall had finished their last paper early that morning. Since they were roommates, it had been easy to throw everything in their shared suitcase, dump the leftovers of their semester into the hostel dustbin, and go pick up Liam—who was still half asleep and very much not ready for a 9 a.m. departure. They’d collected him anyway, then stopped by their neighbourhood to pick up Billie and Perrie, both done with high school exams, the whole lot of them already laughing in the car, arguing over who’d forgotten what, who was sitting in the middle seat, and whether they’d get to the airport before Harry and Louis.

Harry had opted to wait for Louis. His last class ended a bit later, and Harry didn’t want him to have to catch up alone. It had been twenty minutes since they’d agreed to meet outside the department.

The courtyard looked unusually empty now—just a few stray wrappers rolling across the ground, a bird perched on the railing, the echo of laughter drifting from far off. Harry leaned against a pillar, backpack slung over one shoulder, the winter sunlight streaking through the dusty windows. His phone buzzed—Liam texting, We’re already halfway there, mate. Don’t be late or we’ll leave you behind.

Harry smiled and typed back, Louis is still in his class. We’ll be there in twenty.

But ten more minutes passed. Then fifteen.

The laughter faded.

The department felt deserted.

Harry’s smile slipped a little. He looked around, spotting one of Louis’ classmates locking a classroom door.

“Hey—uh, have you seen Louis?” he asked.

The girl paused. “Yeah,” she said, frowning a bit. “He was called to the HOD’s office about half an hour ago. He’s still in there, I think.”

Harry blinked. “Oh. Okay, thanks.”

He didn’t know why, but a small, uneasy twist settled in his stomach. Louis wasn’t the type to get in trouble—at least not the kind that involved the HOD.

So he walked down the hall quietly, the soles of his shoes squeaking faintly against the tiles, stopping outside the office door. Muffled voices reached him—two of them. One sounded tense. The other low, old, authoritative.

He couldn’t make out words. Only tone. And Louis’ tone—God—it wasn’t the cheerful, confident one he was used to. It was small. Almost pleading.

Then, the door handle turned.

Harry straightened instinctively, expecting Louis’ usual grin. The little wave. The easy, “Sorry, took long, let’s go.”

But instead—

Louis stepped out with his head down, eyes red, tears spilling fast, his breath catching in hiccups that barely let him speak. His face was blotchy, raw, devastated. The sight of him like that—it didn’t fit in Harry’s head. Louis wasn’t supposed to look like this. Louis was noise and sunshine and unbreakable chaos.

And now he was—breaking.

Before Harry could say a word, Louis stumbled forward and just collapsed into him, arms around Harry’s waist, face buried in his chest, sobs shaking his whole body.

“Hey—hey—Lou—what happened?” Harry stammered, instantly wrapping an arm around him, one hand going to the back of his neck. “Louis—hey—it’s okay, what’s—what’s going on?”

Louis didn’t answer. He just shook harder, muttering something that came out muffled and wet against Harry’s sweatshirt.

The door behind them creaked again.

Harry turned his head slightly—and saw him.

Justin.

The same Justin from the trials. Polished, smug, all perfect posture and self-satisfied smirk.

He paused just long enough to look Harry dead in the eye—and smiled. Not a kind smile. A knowing one. A cruel, quiet sort of triumph.

Then he walked away, hands in pockets, whistling softly.

Harry’s jaw tightened. He looked back down at Louis, heart thudding hard. “What the hell was that?” he whispered. “Louis, talk to me, please.”

Louis only choked out, barely coherent through sobs, “I don’t—I don’t want to stay here, Harry. Please, I just want to go home. Please. Let’s go to our home. Or I won’t survive this.”

It was the way he said home that made Harry’s stomach twist. Not his dorm, not the hostel, but their home. Like that was the only place left that felt safe.

“Okay,” Harry murmured quickly, steadying him, tucking an arm around his shoulders. “Okay, Lou. We’ll go. We’ll pack up and leave, yeah? Just breathe for me, yeah? You’re alright. You’re okay.”

Louis nodded weakly, eyes swollen, tears still spilling down as Harry guided him out of the building. The halls were eerily empty now, every echo of their footsteps bouncing off the cold walls.

Back in their dorm room, Louis dropped onto the bed and buried his face in his hands. His sobs came harder again, sharp and helpless, the kind that made Harry’s throat ache just listening. Harry sat beside him, wordless, one hand resting gently on his back until Louis finally managed to choke out words between hiccups.

“He—Justin—he…” Louis stopped, breathing unsteadily. “He was supposed to collect the project files today. The professor wanted them printed, in hard copy, in a folder. Old-fashioned, right?” He laughed bitterly, then pressed a trembling hand to his eyes. “Justin was in charge of collecting all of them and giving them to the HOD’s office. And he didn’t submit mine.”

Harry froze. “What?”

Louis nodded helplessly. “He hid it, Harry. He just—he didn’t turn it in. The professor was furious when he didn’t find my name in the pile. I tried explaining, but he thought I’d missed the deadline, that I was careless. And Justin just stood there—pretending to look surprised.” His voice broke. “And now the professor says because just I’ve been good all semester, he won’t fail me, but—he’s revoked my break. I have to stay back and do ‘library assistance and clerical work’ for the department. I can’t go home. I can’t go with you.”

He wiped at his cheeks with the sleeve of his hoodie, but more tears kept falling, silent and desperate.

Harry sat completely still, his heart thudding in his chest. Anger flickered beneath the shock—slow, hot, and sharp. “So he—he sabotaged you. Just because of—me?”

Louis’s breath hitched again. He nodded. “He said—he said it was my fault you joined the competition, otherwise he would have won so easy because no one is as good as you. He said if I didn’t make you withdraw, he’d make sure I regretted it.”

Harry felt the air leave his lungs. “And you didn’t tell me.”

“How could I?” Louis whispered, voice cracking. “You were doing something you loved. You were happy. I didn’t want to ruin that.”

Harry swallowed hard, the weight of guilt pressing down heavy on his chest. He reached out slowly and took Louis’s hand. “Louis. None of this—none of this—is your fault. He’s just a pathetic jerk who can’t stand the idea of losing.”

Louis gave a broken laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “Yeah, well, that pathetic jerk just took away my holiday.”

Silence settled between them for a long moment—just the faint hum of the heater and the soft sound of Louis trying to breathe through the remnants of his tears.

Louis wiped his face with his sleeve, voice trembling again. “So now I can’t go home,” he said softly. “I have to stay here. Everyone’s leaving and I’m stuck. I can’t go with you.”

Harry stayed quiet for a moment. Then, gently, he said, “Then I’ll stay too.”

Louis’s head jerked up. “No, you can’t,” he said immediately, shaking his head hard. “You’ve been waiting for this trip for weeks, Harry. You love those idiots. You’ve packed snacks for Niall, playlists for Liam, and a neck pillow for Zayn—you’ve practically planned everyone’s holiday. You’re not staying back because of me.”

Harry gave a faint, crooked smile. “I do love them,” he admitted quietly. “All five of them. But you know why I’m even friends with them, Lou? Because of you.”

Louis blinked, confused. “What?”

Harry shrugged lightly, his voice softer now. “You’re the one who introduced me to them. You’re the one who made me sit with them that first day. If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be eating lunch alone in the back corner of the cafeteria, pretending I’m fine with it. You’re the reason I have a group, a home here. You’re the reason I even—fit.”

He looked at Louis earnestly. “So don’t tell me it’s unfair to stay. The only unfair thing would be to leave you behind.”

Louis shook his head, eyes filling again. “But, Harry, this was supposed to be your break. You’ve been so excited about it, and I—” His voice cracked. “I ruined it. I ruined it for everyone.”

Harry leaned closer, voice steady but gentle. “You didn’t ruin anything, Lou. The others are already at the airport, yeah, but they’ll understand.”

Louis gave a watery, skeptical laugh. “They won’t go without us. You know them. Especially Zayn—he’ll say something dramatic about friendship and turn the car around.”

Harry chuckled softly. “Then we’ll handle it.”

Louis looked at him through blurred eyes. “You can’t handle all of them. Niall’s probably crying already.”

Harry reached forward, took Louis’ shaking hands in his, and held them tightly. “Hey,” he said quietly, eyes locking with his. “Just relax, okay? It’s my headache now. I’ll handle all of them. I’ll make sure they go, that they get on that flight, so you don’t have to feel guilty about anything. You just—breathe. Let me take care of it.”

Louis stared at him, searching his face as if trying to argue, but no words came out. The tears welled again, heavy and helpless, and he let out a shaky laugh. “You’re such an idiot.”

Harry smiled softly. “You love it.”

Louis nodded faintly, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. I really do.”

Harry sat there for a long while after Louis had finally stopped crying, his head still buried in Harry’s shoulder. Every few seconds, a faint hiccup escaped him, a leftover from the storm that had just passed. When Harry felt the weight of Louis’s body start to slacken, he gently pried him off, whispering, “Come on, love. Let’s get you to bed.”

Louis didn’t protest, just nodded faintly, eyes heavy and red. His head was starting to ache, so Harry fished out a painkiller from the drawer and handed it to him with a glass of water. “Here. Take this, okay?” Louis obeyed wordlessly, too drained to argue.

“Lie down,” Harry said softly, pulling the blanket over him once he settled on the bed. Louis clutched the blanket tightly. “You’re not going anywhere, right?”

Harry smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from Louis’s forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Louis nodded, satisfied with that promise, and within minutes, his breathing evened out — the exhaustion finally winning.

Harry sat beside the bed for a moment longer, staring at the quiet face on the pillow. There was something about Louis asleep — he always looked so heartbreakingly young, too pure for the chaos the world threw at him.

He closed the bedroom door gently behind him and stepped into the shared lounge of their suite dorm. It was dimly lit, quiet except for the low hum of the mini-fridge. Their dorm wasn’t like the others — more like a small apartment with a kitchen, dining space, and that big, cozy couch Louis insisted was “the perfect crying spot.”

Harry leaned against the counter, exhaled again, and pulled out his phone.

Time to face the next storm.

He dialed the group chat’s call. Within seconds, the screen lit up — Zayn, Niall, Liam, Perrie, Billie — all answering at once, and the moment Harry picked up, the lounge filled with overlapping voices.

“Harry, what the hell happened—”

“Why aren’t you two here yet?”

“Is Lou okay?”

“Did someone die?!” Niall’s panicked voice cracked somewhere in the chaos.

“Put it on speaker!” Perrie yelled from the background.

Harry winced and raised his voice slightly, “Guys! Guys—just—breathe!”

The line fell quiet except for heavy breathing and the faint echo of an airport announcement in the background.

“Okay,” Harry said, rubbing his temple. “Now one person at a time. Please.”

Zayn spoke first, his voice low but steady. “What’s going on, H? We’ve been trying to reach you both for the past half hour. Louis isn’t picking up.”

Harry hesitated for a moment before saying, “He’s asleep now. He was… having a bad day. Something happened at his department.”

That got everyone’s attention again. “What do you mean ‘bad day’?” Billie asked softly.

Harry explained everything — Justin, the missing file, the punishment. The silence that followed was heavy and collective. You could almost hear the shock through the phone.

Then came the inevitable:

“Right, that’s it,” Zayn said firmly. “We’re coming back.”

“Yeah,” Liam chimed in. “There’s no way we’re leaving him like that.”

“I already called the Uber,” Zayn muttered, voice taut with worry.

Harry groaned. “No, no, please—listen to me, all of you. Don’t come back.”

“Harry—” Perrie started, but he cut her off.

“Just listen for a second. Lou’s shattered right now. He’s blaming himself for ruining everything—for ruining your trip, too. If you come back, he’ll never forgive himself. He’ll spiral even more. You all know how he is.”

Zayn went quiet, but Harry could hear the sound of movement — probably him walking, restless.

Finally, Zayn said, “I won’t leave him, Harry. Not when he’s like this. I can’t.” His voice cracked slightly, a rare thing for Zayn. “You know how much I love him.”

Harry froze. That was the first time Zayn had said it out loud. No jokes, no hiding behind his usual sarcasm. Just truth.

Harry swallowed hard and said softly, “Then this is the time to prove it.”

Zayn didn’t reply immediately.

Harry continued, “Don’t be selfish right now, mate. You’ll get your moment — you’ll get plenty of moments — to tell him how you feel, to make it official, to make it as grand as you want. But this—this moment—it’s not about you. It’s about him. And if you come back now, he’ll drown in guilt. You don’t want that.”

There was silence for a beat. Then Zayn sighed, long and shaky. “You’re killing me, man.”

Harry’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Yeah, well. You’ll survive Hawaii.”

Niall piped up, voice unsteady. “Can we at least talk to him?”

Harry’s eyes flickered toward the closed bedroom door. “He’s asleep. I gave him something for the headache. He wasn’t ready to talk. Not yet.”

Liam cleared his throat. “So… we go?”

Harry nodded, even though they couldn’t see it. “You go. Please. Have fun. Make him proud. Bring him something ridiculous from a gift shop so he can sulk about it later.”

Zayn’s voice was quiet again. “You’ll take care of him?”

Harry’s voice softened, his throat tightening. “With my life.”

There was a long pause, and then Perrie said gently, “Okay. We trust you, H.”

“Take care of our Lou,” Billie added.

And one by one, the others murmured their goodbyes.

Just before hanging up, Zayn said again, quietly but firmly, “Tell him I love him. Not the proposal way. The real way.”

Harry smiled faintly, the ache in his chest both heavy and warm. “I will.”

The line clicked off. The lounge went quiet again.

Harry let out a deep breath, his eyes landing on the door to their room. He could almost hear Louis’s slow breathing from behind it.

---

Harry turned the key gently in the lock, pushing the door open with care, as if he might disturb the air itself. He had a large duffel bag hanging off his shoulder, and another plastic bag dangling from his fingers. He didn’t switch on the lights; the room was already tinted gold by the setting sun bleeding through the tall window of their suite lounge. He placed the bags quietly beside the dining table, the sound of the zipper brushing against the wood faint against the soft hum of a heater.

From behind the couch, he heard Louis’ voice — low, quiet, not the usual spark it carried. He peeked over the edge of the couch and saw him there: sitting on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, head resting against the back of the couch. His phone pressed loosely to his ear, his eyes fixed somewhere outside the window where the world was slowly folding into twilight.

“I wish I hadn’t ditched you guys for it,” Louis said softly, his voice carrying that hollow kind of humor that comes from pretending. “Maybe it’s karma.”

Then he laughed — a single, flat sound, too forced to belong to him. “Love you too, Mom. Have fun. Don’t miss me too much.”

He ended the call and exhaled, staring at his reflection in the glass — tired, maybe even disappointed in something he couldn’t name.

Harry finally spoke.

“Hey,” he said quietly, stepping closer. “Was that your mom?”

Louis looked up, startled for a second, and then nodded.

“Yeah. She was just checking in. My cousin’s wedding’s this weekend,” he said, his voice soft, almost absent. “They were supposed to go as a family trip. I… kind of ditched them for this Hawaii plan.”

His lips twisted into a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “They’re already on their way to—uh, somewhere upstate. A few hours’ drive. It’s snowing there. Mom says the photos will be magical.”

Harry crouched down beside him, studying him. “You don’t sound very convinced.”

Louis stared at the sunset that was now fading into grey.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “It’s not about the file. Not about Justin either. It’s just—”

He trailed off, struggling for words. “It’s this evening. Everything feels… wrong. Heavy. Like something big is going to happen, and I can’t tell if it’s good or bad. It’s like the air itself feels sad, you know?”

Harry watched him quietly. There was no easy fix for that kind of feeling — that quiet dread that crawled under your skin for no reason.

So instead, he smiled. “Then we’ll just have to make the air happy again.”

Louis blinked at him, confused. “What?”

Harry stood up, brushing imaginary dust from his jeans. “Let’s go clubbing.”

Louis gave him a look that was somewhere between disbelief and a laugh. “Harry. You do realize I’ve already hit my alcohol limit for the week.”

Harry grinned. “Relax, I didn’t mean an actual club.”

Louis frowned slightly, watching him move toward the door where he’d dropped his bags earlier. “Then what—”

Harry unzipped the duffel dramatically and pulled out a bundle of fairy lights. They tumbled out like tangled starlight. Then a small rotating disco light, a Bluetooth speaker, a handful of glow sticks, and two plastic cups shaped like pineapples.

Louis’ jaw dropped. “You did not just steal the university’s stage props.”

Harry laughed. “Didn’t steal. Borrowed—from home.”

He didn’t mention that “home” was an hour-long train ride away, or that he’d sprinted through two platforms and three blocks to get back in time.

He just smiled as he spread everything on the floor.

For a moment, Louis just sat there, blinking at him — then something in his eyes softened, like sunlight returning after a long cloud.

“You’re insane,” he said, finally letting out a small laugh.

Harry grinned wider. “Takes one to know one. Now come on, DJ Tomlinson, we’ve got a club to build.”

They got up and started dragging the couch to one side, laughing when it got stuck on the rug. Louis’s half-hearted protests turned into genuine laughter as Harry spun the disco light experimentally, spraying tiny dots of color across the ceiling.

“Wow,” Louis said, hands on hips, pretending to assess. “Budget version of Ibiza.”

“Budget?” Harry smirked, connecting his phone to the speaker. “Excuse me, this is the premier lounge of Suite B12. Exclusive entry, limited edition pineapple cups.”

Louis rolled his eyes but he was smiling — really smiling now.

They pushed the coffee table against the wall, strung fairy lights around the window frame, and filled the air with citrusy freshness as Harry poured lemonade into the plastic cups. The scent of lemons, laughter, and flashing rainbow lights blended together into something that felt alive again.

Louis hummed along when the music started — an old song they both knew too well, one that once played at every party during first year.

He picked up one of the cups, raised it, and said, “To our very exclusive, very sad, pre-vacation party.”

Harry clinked his cup against his. “To making sadness jealous.”

Louis laughed — a real, warm laugh this time, echoing off the walls and through Harry’s chest. The air wasn’t heavy anymore.

And for that night — between fairy lights, lemon slices, and improvised dance moves — the world outside their little lounge could wait.

---

The first beat hit the floor like a pulse.

The fairy lights blinked wildly in time with the disco ball that Harry had somehow managed to balance on top of the bookshelf. A kaleidoscope of color swirled around the small lounge — pinks, greens, and electric blues scattering over the walls and catching on Louis’s hair like he’d just stepped through the middle of a neon storm.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Harry announced dramatically into a spoon he’d turned into a microphone, “welcome to the grand opening of Club Lemonade! Where the drinks are weak but the vibes are strong!”

Louis burst out laughing. “You’re an idiot.”

“Correction,” Harry said, tossing him one of the pineapple cups, “I’m a genius idiot. Cheers!”

They clinked cups again — lemonade fizzing and catching the light like champagne — and then, as if on cue, Harry hit play.

The speakers erupted with the first notes of “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” by Whitney Houston. The beat filled the entire dorm. Louis’s shoulders instinctively loosened. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard that song without smiling.

“Come on!” Harry yelled over the music, hopping in place like a kid on a sugar rush. “You can’t stand still during this masterpiece!”

Louis rolled his eyes — and then joined him. They danced in wild, uncoordinated chaos, feet slapping the floor, arms flailing like marionettes with tangled strings.

Harry twirled around, nearly crashing into the couch, and Louis yelled, “You’re breaking the set!”

“Authentic nightclub experience!” Harry shouted back, trying to spin again but tripping on the rug.

By the time the chorus hit — ‘I wanna dance with somebody, I wanna feel the heat with somebody!’ — both of them were shouting the lyrics like they were performing in a sold-out arena.

At one point, Louis bent dramatically backward, pretending to be drunk already. “Mate,” he slurred in a ridiculous accent, “you ever think about how, like, lemonade is just non-committal alcohol?”

Harry stopped mid-spin, squinting. “You’re breaking character. You’re supposed to be drunk.”

“I am drunk!” Louis protested, clutching his cup. “On citric acid and melancholy!”

That sent Harry to the floor laughing. He rolled onto his back, clutching his stomach as the lights flickered across his face.

When the next song switched to “Shut Up and Dance” by Walk the Moon, Louis kicked off his socks and jumped back onto the makeshift dance floor. “Come on, Styles! Less laughing, more moving!”

They jumped in circles, screaming the lyrics into invisible microphones. Louis spun around Harry, snapping his fingers dramatically like some old-school dancer, and Harry joined in with equally absurd commitment. When the beat dropped, they both froze mid-pose, looked at each other — and then collapsed in laughter.

“You know what,” Louis panted, leaning against the wall, “I think we’re, like, peak attractive right now.”

“Oh yeah,” Harry said, hair plastered to his forehead, face flushed. “Completely irresistible.”

Louis snorted. “We should totally flirt with each other. For the vibe.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Fake flirting?”

“Obviously. We’re method actors, Styles. Stay in character.”

Harry straightened up and grabbed one of the pineapple cups. “So, uh, do you—come here often?”

Louis laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “Wow, ten out of ten creativity.”

“Okay, okay, fine.” Harry lowered his voice dramatically. “If you were a fruit, you’d be a fineapple.”

Louis groaned. “You’re cancelled.”

“Admit it,” Harry said, stepping closer, grin mischievous, “you love it.”

Louis smirked. “I’d rather drink expired juice.”

“Bold words from someone holding the same juice,” Harry teased.

“Hey,” Louis said suddenly, pointing. “You’re breaking character again. You’re supposed to sound drunk, remember?”

Harry nodded solemnly, then immediately slurred, “Louuuiiiiissss, you’re, like, my besht mate, you know that?”

Louis burst into laughter, trying to match the energy. “No, you’re my besht mate! No one’s ever made me dance sober to Whitney Houston before.”

They both ended up on the floor again, half-laughing, half-singing nonsense. The lights flickered between them like tiny comets, casting rainbow shadows over the walls.

Then came “Dancing Queen.” Neither of them even tried to resist that one.

“You can dance! You can jive!” Louis belted, jumping onto the couch.

“Having the time of your life!” Harry yelled, pointing a finger dramatically at him.

“See that girl, watch that scene,” they sang together, completely offbeat, “digging the dancing queen!”

By the time the song ended, they were both gasping for air. Louis flopped onto the couch, hair sticking up, cheeks flushed from laughter. Harry dropped beside him, both of them grinning like idiots.

“Okay,” Louis said between breaths, “this… was actually genius.”

Harry grinned. “I accept all forms of gratitude, including baked goods.”

Louis tossed a pillow at him. “You’re not getting cookies for being an idiot with taste in disco.”

“Fine,” Harry said, leaning back and staring at the fairy lights above them. “Then I’ll take emotional validation.”

Louis chuckled. “You got plenty of that tonight.”

The music softened into something slower — “Yellow” by Coldplay — and the room seemed to exhale with it. The light turned warm again, calmer. They didn’t talk for a while. Just sat there, listening.

When the song ended, Louis turned his head toward him and said quietly, “Hey, let’s not let it end like this, yeah? This night.”

Harry smiled. “We won’t.”

Louis tilted his head toward the TV. “Movie night?”

Harry nodded instantly. “Movie night. You pick.”

Louis grabbed the remote from the table, scrolling through titles while Harry fetched a blanket and two bowls of popcorn — the instant kind that always smelled faintly burnt no matter how careful he was.

“Okay,” Louis said, eyes narrowing at the options. “Do we want comfort or chaos?”

“After what we just did?” Harry grinned. “Chaos. Always chaos.”

Louis laughed softly and hit play on “Pitch Perfect.”

As the familiar intro filled the room, they sank into the couch, wrapped in their blanket, sipping lemonade like it was the finest whiskey in the world.

Outside, the snow had started to fall — soft, lazy flakes glimmering under the yellow glow of the streetlights. Inside, two best friends sat side by side, tipsy only on laughter, music, and the rare kind of comfort that came from being exactly where they were supposed to be.

---

The night had settled deep around them, thick and unmoving.

The movie still played faintly on the screen — muted colors flickering across the dark room — but the sound was gone, replaced by the low hum of the heater and the steady rhythm of two people breathing in sync.

Harry stirred. His eyes blinked open, slow, unfocused. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was.

The couch felt too small. His arm was numb beneath Louis’s weight.

And then he remembered — Club Lemonade, the dancing, the lemonade in pineapple cups, Louis’s laughter filling the walls until even the shadows had softened. They’d fallen asleep like this, halfway through Pitch Perfect, tangled in a blanket that still smelled faintly of popcorn and citrus.

The room was dim, except for the faint blue light pulsing against the wall. A sound buzzed into the silence — short, sharp, insistent.

Harry frowned. It took him a second to realize it was Louis’s phone, vibrating across the wooden table.

At first, he ignored it. Probably a late text, he thought, someone from class or maybe his cousin from the wedding group chat. But then it started again. And again. The vibration kept breaking through the quiet like a heartbeat gone wrong.

Harry turned his head, groggy. The phone screen flashed in the darkness.

Barbara Malik.

Zayn’s mother.

Something cold slid into his stomach. It was late — far too late for Barbara to call anyone, especially Louis. He reached out carefully, trying not to wake him, and picked up the phone.

“Barbara?” His voice was low, hoarse. “Hey, it’s Harry. Everything okay? Did Zayn and the guys reach safely?”

For a moment, there was only muffled noise on the other end — shuffling, breathing, something that didn’t sound right. And then came the sound that made Harry sit straight up.

“Harry—” Barbara’s voice cracked. “Harry, where’s Louis? Please, tell me Louis is with you.”

Harry blinked, confused. “He’s—he’s right here. He’s asleep. Barbara, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

She was crying now, broken gasps pushing through every word. “Harry, it’s—oh, God, Harry—his family—”

Something in Harry’s chest went still. “What about his family?”

“They were driving to the wedding,” Barbara sobbed, her voice trembling so violently that words came out in pieces. “There was—there was an accident on the freeway. A truck—”

Harry’s throat tightened. “Are they—are they okay?”

A silence.

And then the words that ended the world.

“No, Harry,” Barbara whispered, and the sound of her crying shattered through the line. “None of them made it. His mum, his dad, his sisters… they’re gone. All four of them.”

Harry’s breath caught, a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob. The room spun for a moment, the walls closing in around him.

Barbara’s voice was still there, distant and breaking. “They’ve been taken to New York General. Please, get Louis and come there as soon as you can. Emma and I are already on our way.”

Then the line went dead.

Harry sat there, frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear, its screen gone dark. The silence that followed felt heavier than anything he’d ever known.

He looked down.

Louis was still sleeping beside him — head tilted slightly, mouth parted, hair falling across his forehead in soft, uneven strands. His face, always so animated, so alive, looked impossibly peaceful now. The faint flicker from the TV made his skin glow in shades of gold and blue.

Harry felt something break inside him — not sharp, but deep, slow, devastating.

How was he supposed to tell him?

How was he supposed to wake him up, pull him out of this brief, perfect calm, and tell him that his entire world — the people who loved him, raised him, filled his phone with texts and laughter — were gone?

The air caught in his chest. His hands trembled as he reached out, fingertips brushing Louiss arm, just barely. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not when Louis’ face still looked so peaceful.

Not when his laughter from a few hours ago still echoed faintly in the air.

Harry pressed his palms to his eyes. The tears came hot and silent at first, then harder, until his breath shook. He wanted to scream, but there was no sound that could make this real.

He looked at Louis again — at the boy who’d danced barefoot on their carpet, who’d laughed until he cried, who’d called his mom just a few hours ago and said don’t miss me too much.

And Harry thought — how do you tell someone that sentence will be the last thing they ever say to their mother?

He swallowed hard, his throat aching. The phone slipped from his hand and hit the carpet with a dull thud.

In the corner of the room, the fairy lights still blinked softly — gentle, oblivious.

The movie credits rolled on in silence.

And Harry just sat there, tears blurring his vision, staring at Louis, just eight words echoing in his mind:

‘Please take care of him for us, Harry.’