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Louis hates frat parties.
Not because he hates people. Or fun. Or dancing while slightly tipsy and fully dramatic to a Dua Lipa remix. No—he thrives in chaos when the chaos doesn’t take place in his literal living room.
But frat parties? The ones that smell like beer and boy sweat, where someone is always shirtless for no reason and there’s a mysterious stain on the ceiling no one will take responsibility for? Yeah. Those make him want to bury himself under his bed and wait for the semester to end.
Maybe it’s because this frat is his own. His home. His sanctuary, where he’s supposed to sleep, not trip over empty beer bottles and dodge drunk freshmen trying to twerk to Pitbull. And tonight—after six hours of lectures, three in the lab, and a group study project where no progress was really made besides him wanting to change groups—he just wants to curl up with his tea and spiral about that Econ quiz he definitely failed.
But no. Apparently, as a frat brother —God, even thinking the phrase makes his soul itch—he has a duty to attend. To show support for his fellow “brothers” and their triumphant victory over some other equally sweaty team. They scored their first win of the season, and now the living room has become ground zero for football players dry humping the air to celebrate.
Louis missed the game because his group project went late, so this party appearance is the least he can do.
That—and the fact that the team’s golden boy, the quarterback, and also the president of their frat, is none other than Harry Styles. And Harry Styles is dramatic. Not in the usual frat boy way of yelling "Chug!" at inappropriate times—but in the way where if Louis skips both the game and the party, he’ll get that Look . The pout. The tragic eyes. Like Louis personally ran over his childhood pet and then reversed to be sure.
God, he really needs to change frats.
He knew he should’ve gone with the nerdy one across campus—the one where they play video games and drink kombucha and wear fuzzy socks unironically. Louis loves video games. He would’ve ruled that place. They would’ve made him president by week two.
And it's not like Louis isn’t beloved here, too. He is. Everyone loves Louis. Professors, students, people passing by—he’s charming in that unfair way where even his sarcasm comes off as flirtation. He's got that sparkly-eyed thing going on. That soft-boy-with-a-knife vibe. He's not above using it either—just ask the poor kid at the campus café, who nearly dropped his entire tray of teas the other day when Louis flashed him a smile and a “Thanks, love” in his sweetest voice.
His friends find it hilarious. Louis finds it practical . Why pay five dollars for tea when you can be adorable?
But right now, tea is the last thing on his mind.
If he wants to survive this night—the noise, the sweat, the very real possibility of witnessing someone doing a keg stand in a Pikachu onesie—he needs a drink. Maybe two. Honestly, if he’s already going to miss his 8 a.m. lecture (which, let’s be honest, was always a lost cause), he might as well go for three.
He makes his way to the drink table and lets out a pleased little hum when he spots his favorite gin sitting untouched. Students, he swears. No taste. Vodka this, jungle juice that. Meanwhile, a perfectly good bottle of floral, fragrant gin has been left to gather existential dread next to a tower of solo cups.
He pours a generous amount and adds tonic water from the fridge like the civilized man he is. A little lime, if he’s feeling fancy. (He is.) Then, glass in hand, he turns to survey the room—and despite himself, he smiles.
In one corner, Niall and Liam are locked in a heated beer pong match with a few freshmen. Well, Liam is heated—face flushed, eyebrows furrowed, posture way too intense for a drinking game. Niall, on the other hand, looks like the human version of a sunny day. He’s all smirks and chirpy one-liners, watching Liam’s slow descent into tipsy chaos with the air of someone thoroughly entertained. Sober as ever, of course. Louis sometimes suspects Niall’s made of anti-alcohol.
Across the room, Ed is DJing, bless him. His red hair bounces under the too-dim string lights like a warning flare as he nods along to a remix that has way too much bass. Someone needs to tell him the crowd is not, in fact, on molly—but Louis isn’t that someone. He’s just impressed that the living room speakers are still alive.
Charlie and Tom are dancing with a trio of cheerleaders in the middle of the floor, limbs flailing in a way that somehow manages to be both uncoordinated and charming. Sweet Danny is curled up on the couch nearby, kissing his girlfriend like it’s a Nicholas Sparks movie and he’s about to go off to war. Louis would mock him, but honestly, it’s kind of adorable.
This— these people—this is why Louis puts up with frat parties and communal showers and accidentally seeing someone eat mayonnaise straight from the jar. They’ve watched terrible rom-coms at 2 a.m. and cried over fictional breakups together. They’ve built Ikea furniture half-drunk and set off the smoke alarm trying to bake a birthday cake. They’re ridiculous. And they’re his ridiculous.
He spots his soccer team scattered around the living room, laughing and hyped up about next month’s game. Louis is determined to win their first match of the season too. If the football guys can do it, so can they. And with Louis on the field and in charge of half the pre-game playlist, they’ve already got a secret weapon.
He takes a sip of his drink, lets the gin burn just a little on the way down, and leans back against the wall with a small, content sigh.
For now, things are okay.
Which, of course, is exactly when he spots Harry.
He’d seen Harry earlier, just before his own shower, when he first dragged himself into the house after a day that chewed him up and spit him out. Louis hadn’t even made it up the stairs—he’d walked straight into Harry’s waiting arms at the base of the hall, tucking himself under one of those annoyingly strong, annoyingly warm limbs.
“Proud of you, ace,” he’d murmured into Harry’s damp skin.
Harry had pulled him in tighter, leaned down until only Louis could hear his reply: “Thank you, sweetheart.”
They hadn’t had much time after that. The house was a frenzy—half-dressed frat boys carrying boxes of plastic cups, arguing over playlist orders, spilling chips on freshly vacuumed rugs. Both Harry and Louis had to shower and get ready, pulled apart before they could linger too long. Still, before leaving, Harry had caught his wrist gently and said, soft and hopeful, “See you in there, yeah?”
His green eyes had sparkled, boyish and expectant.
Louis had smiled, small but real. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
That was an hour ago.
Now, Harry is across the room, surrounded— of course —by a cluster of admirers. Mostly girls. Mostly giggling. And one of them, a blonde Louis unfortunately recognizes from his debate class, is practically in Harry’s lap. Lena. That was her name. Lena with the fake laugh and the emotional depth of a puddle. She can’t make it through a two-sentence presentation without dissolving into giggles, and yet somehow she’s in college and in his class.
Life is cruel.
They look good together, Louis will give them that. She’s tall, flirty, blonde, has objectively fantastic boobs—or, you know, whatever straight people notice —and Harry is smiling at something she just whispered to him.
Louis frowns. He doesn’t think she’s that funny.
He drains the rest of his drink without tasting it and reaches for a random shot off the table, tossing it back like it might wash away the bitter taste that’s forming in his chest.
He doesn’t know why he feels like this. He knows Harry is hot. Knows he’s popular. Knows that half the people in this room would crawl across broken glass to sit on his lap. And yeah—Harry looks ridiculously good tonight in that stupid white tank top and ripped jeans, curls still damp from his shower, jaw glistening with the faintest shimmer of aftershave. Whatever.
Louis doesn’t think . He just moves .
One second he’s watching from across the room, and the next he’s at Harry’s side, brushing past the girl like she’s an inconvenient throw pillow. With absolutely no preamble, Louis slides himself into Harry’s lap, curling into his chest with the shamelessness of a pampered housecat and the drama of a jealous ex.
“Hey!” Lena squeaks, all offended and sparkly, scooting back with a flounce.
Louis doesn’t even blink in her direction.
Instead, he presses his nose to the crook of Harry’s neck and breathes in deep—cologne and skin and faint shampoo—and lets himself hide there for a second. The smell is familiar, warm, and grounding. The noise of the party fades just a little.
Harry doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t stiffen. If anything, he just lets out a low, fond chuckle, one arm curling easily around Louis’s waist like this isn’t the first time Louis has claimed him like this—and probably won’t be the last.
“Drunk already, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice dipped in that gravelly warmth that comes out after dark, fingers trailing lazily up and down Louis’s spine.
“No,” Louis mumbles into the crook of Harry’s neck, breathing him in like it’s a form of therapy. “Just sleepy.”
And he is. Exhausted, really. The kind of tired that settles in his bones after a long day and too many social interactions. If Harry would just carry him upstairs and toss him into bed, Louis would gladly pass out in full jeans and eyeliner. He’s not picky.
“I thought you were jealous for a second there,” Harry teases, a smile in his voice.
Louis pulls back just enough to glare up at him, unimpressed. “As if ,” he says with a dramatic snort. “Hell will freeze over before I let Bimbo Lena make me feel anything but annoyed.”
He flicks his eyes in her direction with the sharp precision of someone who’s perfected passive aggression into an Olympic sport. “Please. I’ve seen more personality in a bag of frozen peas.”
Harry barks a laugh, loud and sudden, head tipping back, curls bouncing. Louis grins despite himself. He loves that laugh—carefree and boyish, all soft edges and sunshine.
“Don’t be mean,” Harry says, still chuckling. “She was nice. Said I looked like someone out of a superhero movie. Could be a compliment.”
Louis rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t tumble right out of his head. “Wow. Groundbreaking. I bet she thinks Thor is a type of dog.”
Harry chokes on another laugh. “Come on , Lou, she is sweet.”
Louis raises a brow. “Her boobs are sweet. I’ll give her that.”
“Louis Tomlinson!” Harry gasps, mock-offended, one hand over his heart. “I thought you were gay!”
Louis shrugs, deadpan. “I can still appreciate other genders’ body parts. I’m not blind. I can be cendid.”
“Candid,” Harry corrects, amused.
“Whatever,” Louis says, waving him off. “Also, as some annoying curly-haired frat boy once told me: ‘Bisexuality is a thing.’”
Harry smirks, that stupidly fond little tilt to his lips. “So are you bisexual now?”
Louis shrugs again, casually sipping his drink. “I mean, I could be bi for Jennifer Lawrence.”
Harry lets out a laugh that shakes his shoulders, and Louis tries very hard not to notice how good it looks on him.
“Oh right,” Harry says, grinning. “You do have a thing for her. I forgot.”
“I’d let her ruin my life,” Louis says without hesitation. “With joy.”
“She would destroy you.”
“Hot,” Louis says dreamily.
Harry shakes his head, still smiling, his hand settling again on Louis’s waist like it never left. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m versatile,” Louis says primly, lips twitching. “Emotionally unavailable, but versatile.”
Harry gives him a long, amused look—eyes dropping to Louis’s mouth, lingering just a second too long, before sliding back up with intent. Then he leans in, breath warm against Louis’s ear, voice low and unreasonably seductive.
“Are you wearing it?”
Louis feels the heat creep up the back of his neck instantly. But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react—at least not outwardly. Instead, he gives a perfectly neutral shrug, playing it cool even as his heart kicks against his ribs.
“Maybe.”
Harry grins, dimple flashing, eyes darkening just slightly. “You are wearing it,” he says, gaze trailing over Louis in a way that makes him feel seen —and not entirely clothed. “God… are you gonna let me see it later?”
Louis meets his stare, the picture of calm mischief, though he’s fighting the urge to squirm under that heat.
He gives Harry a sweet smile, all teeth and bite. “I don’t know,” he says airily. “You looked pretty busy earlier. Not sure you’ll have the time.”
Harry doesn’t miss a beat. His voice drops again, steady, sure. “I will,” he says, eyes locked on Louis’s like a challenge. “Always will.”
The words sit heavy in the air—too warm, too steady for something that's supposed to be casual.
Louis swallows, throat dry, then abruptly rises to his feet with more flair than necessary.
“Okay, ace,” he says brightly, brushing invisible lint from his jeans. “Let’s see how charming you are in a few hours when you’ve had four beers and no sleep.”
Harry leans back on the couch, arms spread, watching him go. “Charming’s never the issue.”
“Right,” Louis mutters, already walking away. He spots Liam at the corner of the room, squinting down at the table with the focus of someone already two shots past his limit, a ping pong ball bouncing off his forehead like karma in real time. Louis snorts. “Jesus. I’ve gotta step in before someone ends up in the ER.”
He doesn’t glance back—but he knows Harry’s still watching. Can feel it like a hand on his spine.
And if he’s smiling just a little as he joins the game?
Well.
That’s between him and his gin.
____________
“Fuck, I knew you were wearing it,” Harry growls, before crashing their mouths together.
His tongue licks into Louis’s mouth like he’s starving for it, hands gripping Louis’s lace-covered ass like he’s found treasure. The delicate fabric barely holds up under Harry’s touch, and Louis can feel the drag of lace against his skin as their hips grind together—hard cocks rubbing through layers of cotton and need.
Louis kisses back just as hungrily, hands clutching at Harry’s biceps, using him for balance as his knees threaten to give out. The way Harry kisses him—hot and deep and unrelenting—has him spinning.
Clothes come off in a tangle of limbs and half-laughed curses. Quick, messy, efficient—except for Louis’s panties. Those stay on. The black lace pair he’d picked for Harry, like a damn idiot. The ones Harry had asked for. The ones Louis had worn .
The house is quiet—post-party lull—but Louis couldn’t care less. Not with Harry’s mouth trailing down his neck, biting at the sensitive spot just under his jaw.
“Don’t leave marks,” Louis gasps into Harry’s curls, already breathless. “I can’t show up to training looking like someone tried to eat me alive. It’s summer!”
Harry just chuckles, low and smug, and presses a softer kiss over the bite, like that makes up for anything.
Louis decides then and there he’s not losing control. Not tonight.
So he drops to his knees slowly, deliberately, fingers hooking into the waistband of Harry’s boxers. His eyes stay locked on Harry’s as he pulls them down, smirking when Harry steps out of them with zero shame—completely bare now, like this is his own personal fantasy.
Louis doesn’t even glance at his cock. Doesn’t need to. He knows it. Knows it . Instead, he wraps a hand around it with practiced ease, leans in, and licks a single, teasing stripe along the underside.
Harry’s breath stutters. His mouth falls open, just the way Louis likes it.
“Jesus, baby,” Harry mutters, voice rough. “You look so fucking good on your knees for me.”
Louis smiles up at him, all sass and sin.
“I always look good,” Louis says sweetly, lips glistening. “You just get extra stupid about it.”
Then, without another word, he takes Harry’s cock into his mouth—slow, deep, and with clear intent to ruin him. Harry’s gasp is immediate, hands flying to Louis’s hair, tugging just enough to guide him, to urge him to take more.
Louis lets him.
He relaxes his jaw, tongue slick and practiced, the weight and taste of Harry familiar by now. Spit drips messily down his chin, pooling on the floor, but he doesn’t care. If anything, it adds to the show. His eyes flick upward to meet Harry’s, full of mischief and heat, and the sight makes Harry groan out loud.
“Fuck, baby,” Harry breathes, head tipping back. “I wanna fuck you—will you let me, sweetheart? Please?”
Louis loves this part. Loves how the golden boy of the frat—President Perfect, Mr. All-American—is begging to bury himself inside him like it’s a privilege.
He rewards Harry by swallowing him deeper, letting his throat flex and flutter until Harry curses again, hips twitching forward on instinct.
“F-fuck, fuck, fuck—please, sweetheart, don’t wanna come like this,” Harry chokes out, already shaking.
Louis decides to be merciful.
He pulls off with a wet pop, presses a teasing kiss to the tip of Harry’s cock, and then—on slightly unsteady legs—rises to his feet. He turns around slowly, making sure Harry gets a good look at the lace stretched tight over his ass as he walks to the bed. Then he crawls up on all fours, arching his back just so, before looking over his shoulder.
“Eat me out,” Louis says with a smirk, “and maybe I’ll let you put it in me.”
Harry’s already moving before Louis finishes the sentence—quicker than he’s ever moved on a football field. He practically dives onto the bed, hands gripping Louis’s ass like he’s been handed a gift from the gods.
“Best ass in the world,” Harry murmurs reverently, kissing each cheek like they’re holy. “Thank you for letting me eat it.”
Louis snorts, can’t help the laugh that bubbles out. “You’re so fucking polite sometimes,” he mutters—just before his laugh turns into a sharp moan.
Because Harry’s already pushing the lace aside and licking a stripe up the seam of Louis’s ass, slow and filthy. He doesn’t even tease—just dives in like a man starved.
Louis’s spine arches at the first press of Harry’s tongue, his fingers clenching the sheets. Harry gets so into it—like Louis is a five-star meal and he’s starving.
He always starts the same: soft, kittenish licks around Louis’s rim, warm and maddening, before he moves lower to suck on Louis’s balls until Louis’s seeing stars. Then, when Louis is panting and whimpering, Harry dives back in with renewed purpose, tongue fucking him deep and eager, no hesitation.
Louis whines, grinding back against his face. “Jesus, ace, you’re so good at this it’s actually rude.”
Harry doesn’t answer—just groans low and hungry, like Louis’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.
Louis lets him have his fun—lets him eat him out like a fucking meal. Harry’s tongue is slow at first, almost reverent, licking into him like he’s got all night, like Louis isn’t squirming under the weight of it, moaning softly into the mattress. It’s filthy. Wet. Hot breath ghosting over flushed skin, Harry’s broad hands spreading him wider, thumbing into his ass just to watch it clench around nothing.
Louis bites his knuckle, trying not to lose it too soon. He could come like this. Has , many times. Harry knows just what to do with that sharp tongue of his. But tonight?
Tonight, Louis wants to be wrecked.
He pushes up on one elbow, flushed and impatient, and reaches for the drawer beside the bed. Lube. Condoms. His fingers close around them automatically, tossing them over his shoulder like he’s done a hundred times. His voice is wrecked and needy, sharp with want: “Come on, Ace.”
Behind him, Harry groans. He pulls back just enough to murmur, low and smug, “Yeah? Want me to open you up, sweetheart?”
“ Please. ”
“Anything for you.”
One last kiss to Louis’s rim, open-mouthed and obscene, and then he’s kneeling behind him, snapping the lube open. The slick sound is embarrassingly loud in the quiet room. Louis can feel the air shift as Harry gets to work, one thick finger sliding in easily, the stretch already delicious.
Two fingers. Then three. Harry’s pace is purposeful, fingers scissoring, curling, searching —like he’s got a fucking GPS for Louis’s prostate. Maybe he does. Louis wouldn’t put it past him.
“Jesus—” Louis gasps, back arching, thighs trembling. “You’re obsessed with my ass, aren’t you?”
Harry laughs, breathless and smug. “Damn right. You should see how you look from back here.”
“I’d die of vanity.”
Harry adds a fourth finger, slow and deep. Louis lets out a cracked moan, face buried in the pillow.
“Jesus fuck—” Louis gasps, clawing the mattress. “You love prepping me, you fucking freak.”
Harry laughs darkly. “I do. I love getting you ready for my cock. Love how greedy this hole is.”
But just when Louis starts grinding back, needy and wrecked, Harry pulls his fingers out with a slow, obscene pop . Louis groans at the loss, panting, forehead pressed to the mattress.
Then Harry is flipping him like he weighs nothing, onto his back, one strong hand braced on his thigh, the other yanking Louis’s soaked panties down and off. The lace sticks to his skin, and Harry tosses them away, eyes dark and greedy.
He props a pillow under Louis’s hips, lining them up like a goddamn artist, then leans in to kiss him—slow and consuming, all tongue and teeth and shared breath. Louis melts into it, lips parting, letting their tongues slide together, tasting lube and sweat and something sweeter underneath.
Even while kissing him, Harry’s hand is busy, blindly rolling on the condom like he’s done this a thousand times. And maybe he has—Louis doesn’t think about that. He doesn’t care , not when Harry’s cock is nudging at his entrance, thick and hot and demanding.
Harry pulls back just enough to ask, “Ready?”
Louis flashes a wicked grin, eyes heavy with lust. “Wreck me, Ace.”
And Harry does.
One deep, brutal thrust has Louis crying out, hands flying up to claw at Harry’s shoulders. Fucking hell. It always feels like too much at first—too thick, too deep, too fucking good. He swears he sees stars.
Harry sets a relentless rhythm, hips slamming into him with purpose, angling just right, just how Louis likes it. Like a man on a mission. Like Louis’s body was made to be fucked like this.
“Shit—just like that!” Louis moans, voice high and broken, back arched, legs spread wide over Harry’s shoulders. “Fuck, Ace, don’t stop.”
Harry is grinning now, sweating slightly, mouth dropping open as he drives in again and again, each thrust perfectly timed. “God, you feel unreal,” he pants, fucking into him hard enough the headboard knocks the wall. “How’re you still this tight?”
Louis doesn’t know. Doesn’t care . He just clings to Harry, moaning brokenly, eyes rolled back. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.”
Harry laughs darkly and thrusts deeper. Louis feels it—feels every inch, every thick, merciless push.
Then Harry’s hand is wrapping around his cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, filthy and fast. “You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna come all over us while I fuck you full?”
Louis nods wildly, moaning with every breath. “Yes, fuck , yes—”
It hits hard. His orgasm rips through him like lightning, thighs trembling, nails raking down Harry’s back as he cries out Harry’s name, over and over. His come lands across their stomachs, hot and sticky, and he’s shaking through the aftershocks.
Harry lasts a few more thrusts, growling Louis’s name as he spills into the condom, deep and low and spent. He slumps forward, collapsing on top of Louis, breath heavy against his neck.
They’re both slick with sweat, chest to chest, panting.
Louis grins, fucked out and gleaming. “Noise cancellation’s on, right?”
Harry huffs a laugh, boneless. “You think I’d let the whole frat hear those pretty little screams of yours?”
Louis hums, cocky and soft. “You better not. I’d have to start charging them.”
____________
Louis wakes up at 9:43, blinking against the sharp spill of sunlight pouring through Harry’s drapes like a personal attack.
His whole body aches. Not in the productive way, like after pilates or a good stretch, but in the used and manhandled way, the kind of soreness that settles in your thighs and your spine and right in your ass. It’s a full-body echo of last night, and Louis groans, face buried in Harry’s pillow, which still smells like him—clean sweat, cedar, and that ridiculously expensive hair product Harry pretends he doesn’t care about.
Harry’s not there.
Louis rolls onto his back, winces, and remembers Harry mumbling something about a “must-attend” seminar at 9 a.m. Something academic and tragic.
So he actually went.
Louis sighs. He hates waking up in Harry’s bed alone—especially this late. The frat is definitely awake by now, and he’ll have to do that stupid thing where he peeks out the door like a raccoon in a bin before sneaking back to his own room to pretend he didn’t get railed into the mattress eight hours ago.
He contemplates staying under the covers forever but eventually drags himself upright. Everything is sore. His legs wobble a bit when he stands, and his hips feel like they’ve been permanently adjusted. He mutters under his breath, “Asshole,” even though he’d begged for every second of it.
The only thing saving him is that Harry, being the golden boy slash frat president, has a private bathroom.
Louis limps toward it.
Another blessing? Harry already stocks his shampoo—the lavender one with the gold label—and his body mist. His loofah. His pink razor. His skin products are lined up beside Harry’s like they’re sharing more than just beds now. (They’re not. Obviously.)
The warm water helps, a bit. He moves slowly through his routine, groaning when he bends to wash between his thighs, wincing when he soaps his sore rim. He mutters something about needing hazard pay and briefly considers swearing off dick forever before remembering Harry’s mouth and changing his mind again.
By the time he makes it back to his own room, it’s blessedly empty—Tom must already be in class. Louis moves fast, tossing on soft jeans and a hoodie, spritzing a bit of cologne to cover the very Harry Styles scent still clinging to his skin. He combs his fingers through his damp hair and bites his lip in the mirror until he looks flushed in a cute way, not a just got fucked senseless way.
Then it’s go-time.
He walks down the stairs like a man on a mission, ignoring the way his thighs protest with every step. He plasters on his best sweet-boy smile.
“Morning,” he chirps at the few frat brothers lounging in the kitchen. He goes straight for the kettle to warm water for tea, already bracing for his 11:30 class, his seminar class and his debate class, and don’t forget the brutal library shift after. Coffee might have to make an appearance too, or he’ll be passed out in the returns cart.
“Morning, Lou,” a few voices called out warmly as he stepped into the kitchen.
Niall appeared beside him, already sipping tea and looking infuriatingly alert for this hour. “Where were you last night?” he asked with a pointed grin. “Tom said your bed was untouched.”
Louis shrugged, grabbing a mug and pouring hot water over a lemon tea bag like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Out.”
Niall arched a brow. “Hooking up again? Come on, are you ever gonna tell us who’s keeping your nights so busy?”
Before Louis could muster a decent lie, Ed chimed in from the couch. “Trevor was eye-fucking you at the party yesterday, just saying.”
Louis flushed, eyes dipping. Yeah, he knew that look—Trevor had been undressing him with his eyes all night, tongue practically hanging out like a cartoon wolf. Louis remembered that look well; it wasn’t the first time. They’d had a chaotic one-night stand back in sophomore year, before Louis had gotten tangled up in Harry Styles and his annoyingly good dick and unfairly nice hands and full-course appetite.
He hated lying to his friends. He really did. But he and Harry had agreed: whatever this was, it wasn’t anyone else’s business. Just a casual thing. A repeatable, toe-curling, brain-melting casual thing . Not a relationship. God forbid.
So he sidestepped the conversation like a pro, leaning over to kiss Niall’s cheek and sing-songing, “Gotta run, darlings. See you later!”
“Wait, Lou!” Niall called after him. He grabbed something from the counter and tossed it Louis’s way. “Harry made you a sandwich to go.”
Louis caught it mid-air—a neatly wrapped breakfast sandwich, still warm—and blinked. “Said you haven’t been eating properly,” Niall added with a shrug.
His face went crimson. He had mentioned to Harry, in passing, that he’d skipped lunch the last few days. He hadn’t expected Harry to do anything about it—definitely not to make him food like some sort of hot frat-boy housewife.
Fuck’s sake. Can’t he just be pretty and dumb like the rest of them?
Before Louis could come up with a snarky reply, Charlie’s voice cut through the room in a whine. “Why didn’t I get a sandwich? I’ve had a hell week too!”
“Maybe because you didn’t do your chores,” Ed said dryly, not looking up from his phone. “And because you ate Harry’s last box of cereal.”
“I was hungry ! It was Liam’s turn to buy groceries!”
Louis took that as his cue to escape, tucking the sandwich under his arm like contraband. “Later, boys!” he called over his shoulder, slipping out the door just as he felt Niall’s suspicious eyes following him all the way out.
____________
It was a few hours later, during a rare pocket of peace before his next lecture, that Louis finally flopped dramatically onto one of the hallway benches like he was a Victorian maiden overcome by hardship. He unwrapped the sandwich Harry had made for him with all the reverence of a starving man unboxing a sacred relic.
One bite in and—yeah. Unfairly good. Obnoxiously thoughtful. Disgustingly boyfriend-coded, which—he had to remind himself for the fifteenth time this week—Harry absolutely was not.
Just as he was chewing through a particularly smug mouthful of pesto, sun-dried tomato, and what he swore was homemade bread, his phone buzzed.
Harry: Did you get the sandwich?
Louis blinked. Paused mid-chew. Then slowly scanned the hallway like he was being watched by MI6.
Louis: Yes. Just eating it now.
Louis: What the hell, are you planting hidden cameras on me or something?
Harry: LOL no.
Harry: I’m in lecture :). Just making sure none of our gremlin brothers swiped it.
Louis rolled his eyes and wiped a crumb from his mouth with all the theatrical irritation of someone morally opposed to being well-fed by someone attractive.
Louis: You owe Charlie one too btw. He was whining that you never make anything for him.
Harry: He’s not the one who keeps my cock wet.
Louis nearly choked on a sun-dried tomato. He coughed hard, slapped his chest, and gave his phone the dirtiest glare it had ever received.
Louis: I’m eating, you absolute sewer rat.
Harry: You weren’t so disgusted last night.
Harry: I bet I could’ve made you come twice yesterday without you even touching your cock.
Louis sat up straighter, cheeks warming despite the cool air. He glanced around. No one was close enough to see his screen, thank god.
Louis: Then why didn’t you?
Harry: Because you were tired.
Harry: You curled up like a kitten after and fell asleep on my chest. What was I supposed to do, wake you up with my dick?
Louis: You’re lazy. Admit it.
Harry: Lazy?! I spent half an hour eating you out like you were the last dessert on earth.
Harry: I nearly dislocated my jaw, Louis.
Louis: Oh please. You were making satisfied noises like you were the one being fed.
Louis: I should’ve charged you for the privilege.
Harry: Joke’s on you. I’d pay in full and tip 20%.
Louis bit back a grin, shoving the last of the sandwich into his mouth in pure defiance.
He was not going to be flustered. He was not going to text back something horny in the middle of campus.
He was definitely going to save this thread in a locked folder, though.
____________
One of the things that had drawn Louis to join the frat in the first place was the mandatory community volunteering. Some people saw it as a chore. Louis saw it as a purpose.
He’d always loved giving back—it calmed him, gave him perspective. Even when it meant waking up early on a Saturday, with unread textbooks and half-finished assignments waiting for him at home, he never regretted it.
This semester, Louis had taken charge of organizing the frat’s volunteer schedule. Technically, it was supposed to be the president’s responsibility, part of managing all house activities for the year. But Harry had asked him—quietly, late one night with a sheepish smile and tired eyes—if he could hand this one over. Said he had too much on his plate.
Louis had agreed without hesitation.
Now, twenty frat boys stood in matching shirts at the One Heart center, hair messy and faces half-awake, but working steadily as they packed groceries into boxes. Canned goods, rice, pasta, hygiene kits—all going out to families in need later that afternoon.
Louis moved among them, checking that everything was running smoothly. But every now and then, he’d pause to talk with the other volunteers from the center, or with one of the recipients who had come early. He smiled easily. He asked names. He crouched down to talk to a kid about superheroes and helped an old woman tie her scarf tighter around her neck.
This was the part that got to him—not the organizing, not the logistics, but the people. Meeting them face to face. Seeing who they were helping. Putting warmth and dignity to need.
It tugged something soft in Louis’ chest—this whole day. The kind of quiet softness that settled behind his ribs and refused to be shaken loose. No frat chaos, no deadlines, no sleepless study nights could touch that part of him. Not today.
He had just finished sealing another box, brushing a smear of tape off his fingers, when a familiar laugh rang through the warehouse.
Harry’s laugh.
That loud, unfiltered, golden kind of laugh that cracked open a space in the room. Louis turned instinctively, something warm already unfurling in his chest.
There he was—Harry Styles, crouched in front of a little girl with messy pigtails and sparkly trainers. Her mother stood nearby, watching with soft amusement as her daughter told Harry something with wild hand gestures and bubbly giggles.
Harry listened like she was telling him the secrets of the universe. Dimples deep, green eyes shining, arms resting loosely over his knees as he grinned at her and responded with just as much enthusiasm. He looked—Louis didn’t want to say it. Couldn’t afford to think it. But—
He looked wonderful.
So natural. So patient. So stupidly good with kids that Louis felt his heart give a traitorous little thud.
“Very parental, huh?” Niall’s voice cut through from beside him.
Louis jumped like he’d been slapped with a wet towel. He turned sharply, expression caught somewhere between deer-in-headlights and scandalized schoolboy.
“Who?” he asked, far too quickly. Too high-pitched. He winced inwardly.
Niall raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Our Lord and Savior, President Styles. Who else?”
Louis sniffed and folded his arms. “Dunno what you’re talking about. He seems normal to me.”
“Hmm.” Niall dragged out the sound with an evil little smirk. “Are you fancying Harry, Lou-Lou? Because I swear to God, I could see the heart eyes from behind you.”
Louis deserved an Oscar. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Slid straight into his usual sass like a pro.
“Have you been drinking the hand sanitizer again?” he asked, expression pure judgment. “Hallucinations are a very clear sign of dehydration, Horan. You should sit down before Liam has to perform emergency CPR.”
Niall snorted. “Liam would love that.”
“Exactly,” Louis said. “And then we’ll have to listen to him monologue about his 'life-saving hands' for the next decade. You want that on your conscience?”
“Touché.”
They both turned back to Harry, who was crouched slightly, gently bumping fists with the little girl before rising to thank her mother with that effortless warmth. Louis’s gaze snagged there, even though he fought it, tried to look away. But he couldn’t stop tracing the way Harry’s smile softened, eyes crinkling like the whole world had shrunk down to just that small, quiet connection.
Louis must be tired. Exhaustion hung heavy in his bones, shadows under his eyes from too little sleep and stress. That had to be it. Because what they had—what Harry and Louis shared—was casual. It had to be. Louis told himself that like a prayer, even as a sharp pang twisted low in his chest. He didn’t care how naturally Harry stepped into that easy fatherly role, how his voice turned gentle and sure when he spoke to the child, how maybe, someday, he’d be the kind of man who could build a family. That wasn’t Louis’s future. Not his place to imagine.
____________
Louis got back from practice later than usual, every muscle in his body aching in protest. His back throbbed with a dull, persistent pain, and his legs felt like they’d been filled with cement, heavy and unresponsive after hours of nonstop drills. Sweat clung to his skin like a second layer, seeping into the collar of his shirt and trailing down his spine.
Apparently, Coach had decided that two days before their first match was the perfect time to break them. Louis had run until his vision blurred, until his lungs burned like open flame. He’d cursed the man in every language he knew when he shouted, “Faster, Tomlinson!” like Louis wasn’t already one bad breath away from collapsing.
All he’d thought about on the slow walk home was the promise of a hot shower, the blessed relief of his mattress, and a few hours of unconsciousness before his 9 a.m. lecture. No talking. No eye contact. Just blissful silence and sleep.
The house was quiet when he slipped in, the kind of late-night hush that wrapped itself around the walls. Most of the lights were off, shadows pooling at the edges of the hall. Louis dragged his feet toward the kitchen, already unzipping his hoodie, a yawn stretching his jaw wide—
And paused.
Harry was still up.
He sat at the kitchen table, bathed in the low glow of his laptop screen, textbooks spread around him in a chaotic sprawl. His hair was pushed back in frustration, his shoulders tense, eyes glassy with fatigue. But they found Louis immediately, like they always did.
“Hey,” Louis said, voice low and hoarse from yelling on the field. “What’re you still doing up?”
Harry gave a small, tired smile, one side of his mouth tugging upward like he couldn’t quite muster the full thing. “Trying to finish my psych essay. It’s due tomorrow, and this week’s been insane. I haven’t had a second to breathe, let alone write.”
Louis frowned, stepping further into the room. He knew that pace. They’d barely seen each other lately, passing like ships between classes, practices, meetings, assignments. Everything felt loud and fast and endless.
But Harry looked like he was holding himself together with string and stubbornness—fingers hovering stiffly over the keyboard, face pinched at the edges.
“What’s it about?” Louis asked, dropping his bag beside the chair and sinking down with a quiet groan.
Harry rubbed a hand over his face. “Something about how childhood attachment styles influence adult leadership. I don’t even know anymore. I’ve rewritten the thesis like a thousand times. Why did I minor in psychology? I’m rubbish at essays.”
Louis huffed a soft laugh, tilting his head to look at him properly. “You’re not rubbish at anything, ace.”
And he meant it. He’d seen Harry command a room without breaking a sweat, charm a lecture hall full of strangers, deliver speeches with sharp precision and heart. He made it look easy.
“You’re just tired,” Louis added, reaching for the laptop. “Scoot.”
Harry blinked at him. “Sweetheart, no—you’re wrecked. You’ve got class in the morning.”
“I’ll survive,” Louis murmured, already pulling the laptop toward him. Their shoulders brushed, the contact warm and grounding, a little too natural for how casual they were supposed to be. “You look like you’re two seconds away from face-planting into the keyboard. Let me read it.”
He could feel Harry’s gaze on him—steady, quiet, heavy with something Louis didn’t want to name. He refused to look up. He didn’t want to see the softness he knew would be there, didn’t want to face the way it curled warm in his chest like a secret.
This wasn’t about that. It was just a paper. Just helping.
He focused on the screen, combing through Harry’s sentences with practiced ease, shifting words and tightening phrasing like second nature. He was an English major, after all—if he couldn’t fix an essay half-asleep and aching, what was even the point?
“Could you make us some tea, Ace?” Louis asked quietly, fingers still moving over the keys. “I think we need it.”
Harry stood wordlessly, the chair scraping softly against the floor. A moment later, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Louis’s hair in silent thanks before turning to the kettle..
Louis paused—just for a beat. Just long enough to feel it. Then he pushed the moment away and kept typing.
It was nearly an hour before he finished.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was solid—clear, thoughtful, stitched together with enough insight to hold up. Maybe not Harry’s best work, but it wouldn’t hurt his grade either. That was enough.
Harry had been mostly quiet while Louis worked, occasionally shifting beside him, his fingertips brushing in slow, absent patterns along Louis’s thigh. Louis didn’t react. Didn’t flinch or lean in. Just kept typing. Pretended it meant nothing.
Later, they showered in Harry’s en-suite, too tired to do anything but stand under the hot water. Louis leaned against the tile wall, eyes barely open, as Harry lathered shampoo through his hair with slow, careful fingers, then moved to wash the rest of him—gentle, patient, unhurried like Louis was something fragile. The steam blurred everything around them, and for a few quiet minutes, the world disappeared.
By the time they collapsed into bed, they were both in nothing but boxers, too spent for anything but sleep. Louis curled into Harry’s side instinctively, cheek pressed to the solid warmth of his chest, already halfway under.
Fingers carded through his damp hair. Slow, soothing. Familiar.
Then Harry’s lips brushed the top of his head.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he murmured, soft and low. “Sleep tight. I’m here.”
Louis hummed faintly, already slipping under, the words floating past him like wind.
He didn’t think about what they meant. Didn’t need to. The steady rhythm of Harry’s breathing and the stroke of his fingers through Louis’s hair were enough.
____________
Louis scored three goals in his first game.
Three.
To say he was over the moon would be the understatement of the year. He was in orbit.
At one point, he remembered looking over at his frat after his second goal, chest heaving, sweat dripping into his lashes. They were a chaotic blur in the stands, shouting, standing on the seats, pounding plastic bazookas against the railings like deranged pirates. Harry had been in the middle of it all—loudest of them, head thrown back, arms raised—and Louis had felt it deep in his chest: pride. Affection. Maybe even something like belonging.
Harry had thrown another party at the frat house, loud and electric with post-victory energy, and for once, Louis wasn’t annoyed by the noise or the sweaty crowd. Tomorrow he only had an afternoon shift at the library, and tonight—tonight he was riding the high of adrenaline, cheap beer, and the way the entire student section had screamed his name. He let himself get swept up in it, laughing too hard, dancing too loose, his limbs warm and buzzing under the neon lights.
He flitted from group to group like a spark, exchanging quick words and big smiles with nearly every student he recognized. He felt seen in a way that wasn’t suffocating—for once, it felt earned.
He was mid-conversation with a group of English majors when a familiar grip wrapped around his waist from behind, pulling him in close. Louis blinked, caught off guard for only a second before melting into it, his back settling neatly against Harry’s chest like they were made to fit.
“Someone’s the real ace tonight,” Harry murmured, low and amused, lips brushing the shell of Louis’ ear.
Louis huffed a laugh, already grinning as he tilted his head slightly, giving in to the warm pressure. “Careful,” he said, voice light and teasing. “I might steal your golden boy crown.”
Harry turned him around then, slow and deliberate, hands still resting possessively on Louis’ waist. His face was flushed from drink and maybe from watching Louis all night—dimples carved deep into his cheeks, eyes crinkled, glowing with something quiet and intense.
“You can have it,” Harry said softly, eyes fixed on him like Louis was the only person in the room. “I’ll let you.”
Louis raised an eyebrow, mouth twitching. “Yeah? So if I want the frat, it’s mine?”
Harry’s grin deepened into something more tender. “Even the en suite shower,” he said. “Haven’t shared a room with anyone in ages, but I could. For you.”
Louis gave a short, surprised laugh. “We literally slept in your bed two nights ago.”
Harry’s smile turned crooked, sly. “That was different.”
“How?” Louis asked, arms looping easily around Harry’s neck now, their bodies close enough that the air between them practically hummed.
Harry shrugged like it was obvious. “It just is.”
Louis tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “No clever comeback, golden boy?”
Harry leaned in then, just a breath away, voice soft enough that Louis had to focus to hear it over the music. “I don’t think you’re ready for the answer yet.”
Louis blinked. The words hit somewhere unexpected, right in the chest. He felt them settle there, stubborn and unfinished.
Ready for what? He didn’t get a chance to ask.
“Oi!” Niall’s voice rang out across the living room, unmistakably loud. “Team captains! Beer pong! Let’s go! I’m not carrying the team again, you absolute freeloaders!”
Harry chuckled against him, already shifting away, but not before sliding his hand down Louis’ arm in a slow, familiar glide that left goosebumps in its wake. Louis stayed frozen for a second too long, lips parted, thoughts scrambled, heart pounding with something that had nothing to do with the game.
____________
Louis snapped back into form the second he and Harry teamed up against a pair of cocky sophomores. Whatever emotional confusion Harry had caused earlier was shoved firmly to the side. There was a game to win—and Louis was nothing if not a menace when he was feeling competitive.
Niall stood off to the side with a few of the frat boys, loudly heckling the other team with dramatic groans and theatrical gasps every time they missed a shot. He was also on cup duty, supposedly keeping things fair, but Louis had a sneaking suspicion Niall was pouring heavier on the other side. The sophomore with the red cap was already swaying a bit, blinking like the fairy lights had multiplied.
Didn’t matter.
They were still winning. Of course they were.
It wasn’t just the fact that Louis and Harry were both captains of their respective teams, it was the way they moved together. Natural. Effortless. A little dangerous.
They’d been a dream team since night one. Literally.
Louis remembered it vividly: their first frat party as nervous, wide-eyed freshmen. He’d been trying to figure out how to stay under the radar and off bathroom-cleaning duty for the week. That was when he’d spotted the tall, curly-haired guy at the corner of the table—beer in one hand, quiet confidence in the other. Louis hadn’t even known his name yet. Just walked right up, tugged at the hem of his shirt like they were old friends, and leaned in to whisper, “Curly, if we win this, Charles said we’re off frat duty for a week. I really don’t want to clean that bathroom again.”
Harry had looked at him with the kind of slow, amused smile Louis would come to know very well. “I’m not exactly dying to scrub the kitchen either.”
That was it. One unspoken pact and they were off, dominating the beer pong table with reckless charm and ridiculous accuracy. Harry sank shot after shot with the calm precision of a sniper. Louis? He weaponized his smile, sidled up to the opposing players and murmured sweet little threats or compliments laced with venom, grinning as they fumbled every time.
It was the night their nicknames stuck—"Ace" for Harry, because he didn’t miss a single cup, and “Sweetheart” for Louis, because he destroyed people with a flutter of his lashes and a whispered “Oops, did that distract you?”
And now, a couple of years and a thousand inside jokes later, here they were again—older, better, maybe slightly tipsier—but still unstoppable.
“Eyes on the cup, ace,” Louis said now, nudging Harry’s side as he lined up a shot. “We’re not letting that guy in the bucket hat take our legacy.”
Harry didn’t even blink. “Relax, Sweetheart. You think I’d let us lose to someone in flip-flops and socks?”
Louis snorted, shaking his head. “That’s a war crime.”
Harry’s shot was poetry—clean arc, soft bounce, and then plop —right into the center cup. The crowd responded instantly with a ripple of “Ooooh!” and someone even banged on a nearby table in approval.
Louis whooped and spun toward him, slapping a high-five so hard it echoed. Their palms met with a sting and Harry’s grin stretched wider, teeth bright under the twinkle lights.
“Drink up, boys!” Louis called smugly to the stunned sophomores, one of whom was already groaning and reaching for the doomed cup. “Don't worry, it’s just defeat with a citrus aftertaste.”
Louis then glanced sideways—just in time to catch that smirk tugging at the corner of Harry’s mouth. The kind of smirk that looked carved, practiced, but meant something specific when it was aimed at Louis.
That smirk always meant trouble.
Or something else.
Something unspoken and sharp-edged and close —close enough to tangle up in if Louis wasn’t careful.
His heart thudded hard, a leftover pulse of adrenaline—or maybe not. Maybe it was the way Harry was watching him now, head slightly tilted, curls damp against his forehead, eyes bright like he was seeing more than he was saying.
Louis swallowed and turned back to the table, aiming another shot mostly to avoid the way heat curled at the base of his neck.
Their opponents were staggering through their drinks, already looking dazed, while Niall kept yelling obnoxious play-by-plays like it was a championship final. But Louis wasn’t really listening.
Not to the game. Not to the noise. Just to the steady hum under his skin, that familiar awareness that only sparked around Harry.
____________
When the party died down and the crowd thinned, Harry reached for Louis’s hand—quiet and sure—and led him upstairs. His grip was gentle but firm, threaded through Louis’s fingers like he didn’t want to let go.
He didn’t say anything as they walked. Just smiled that small, private smile, the one that made something twist in Louis’s chest.
Harry only spoke once they were inside his room, locking the door behind them with a soft click. Louis didn’t wait—he all but collapsed onto Harry’s bed, face-first, exhaling like his whole body had been waiting for this moment to exhale. The adrenaline was gone, leaving him loose-limbed and slightly buzzed, his skin warm and heavy with exhaustion. He could’ve passed out right there if Harry let him.
But of course, Harry didn’t let him.
“Don’t fall asleep on me, Sweetheart,” Harry said, voice low and wicked with promise. “I have a surprise for you”
Louis cracked one eye open. “Is it your cock? Because I’ve seen it. Like, a hundred times.”
Harry laughed, shaking his head. “No, you menace. Though—” he winked, “—that’s part of it.”
That got Louis’s attention. He rolled onto his back, eyebrow lifting with interest. “Now we’re talking.”
Harry turned and opened his closet, rummaging for a second before pulling something out. A navy athletic shirt. He held it up with both hands, like a gift. “I had this made. For your first win.”
Louis sat up slightly, blinking as Harry turned the shirt around to show the back: a bold 28 , and beneath it, TOMLINSON in clean, white lettering.
“Oh,” Louis breathed, genuinely stunned. It was simple, but something about it—about Harry thinking ahead, planning this, making something for him—sent heat curling in his chest.
Before he could say anything, Harry peeled off his own shirt and pulled Louis’s jersey over his head. It fit snugly, the fabric clinging to his torso, stretching slightly across his shoulders and biceps. It shouldn’t have looked that good—but of course, it did.
Louis stared, wide-eyed. His throat felt dry.
Harry grinned, slow and knowing. “Here’s how this goes,” he said, walking closer. “You scored three goals today.” He paused in front of the bed, watching Louis like he was something precious. “So you get three orgasms.”
Louis blinked.
Harry leaned in slightly, voice dipping. “For the last one… I want you to ride me. While I’m wearing this. While I show you just how proud I am. How’s that sound, sweetheart?”
Like a dream , Louis thought, already squirming at the tightness in his jeans. His heart beat like a war drum. He wanted this—wanted Harry, wanted to lose himself in him until everything else faded.
Classes, pressure, expectations—it all blurred when Harry touched him like that. Looked at him like that.
“I hope you’re ready, Ace,” Louis said, voice just slightly breathless. “Because I’m not stopping until I can’t feel my legs.”
Harry’s smile turned sharp. “Then I’d better make the most of it.”
Harry was always good on his promises.
Louis should’ve known he wouldn’t make it out of that room walking straight.
Harry’s hands were on him—hot, certain, possessive. Louis barely had time to breathe before Harry had him on the bed, naked, stretched out, legs parted like a prize. His voice was low and dark, all honeyed filth and quiet growls, promising him things Louis both craved and feared in the best way.
Louis was already trembling when Harry tugged him up and told him, “On my face. Take what you need.”
He did.
With his thighs shaking around Harry’s head, Louis rode the high of it—grinding down against Harry’s mouth while those wicked green eyes stayed locked on his. He could barely keep still, could barely think. Harry devoured him like he was starving, like he liked watching Louis fall apart, panting, gasping, falling over the edge with a ragged cry and no warning.
And still, Harry kept going.
Louis hadn’t even caught his breath before Harry had him on his back again, coaxing his cock back to life like it was nothing—like Louis wasn’t already wrung out and shivering. His fingers were rough, relentless, unforgiving in the best way. Stretching him open, pushing deep, curling just right . Louis was helpless—moaning into the mattress, rutting against the sheets like a mess while Harry whispered filth in his ear.
“Such a greedy hole, sweetheart,” Harry murmured, dragging his fingers deeper. “Sucking me in like you were made for it. You want to be ruined, don’t you?”
Louis whimpered, too far gone to form words.
“You should’ve seen yourself today,” Harry went on, voice slick with praise and something darker. “Running around that field like you didn’t know how good you looked. All I could think about was dragging you behind the bleachers, pushing you down in the grass, and making you scream for me.”
Louis came like a spark catching fire—desperate and sudden, swearing breathlessly as his whole body shook.
But Harry wasn’t finished.
Not until he pulled Louis into his lap, spread him wide, and slid inside him in one long, slow thrust. Louis cried out, back arching, fingers clawing at Harry’s shoulders. His legs were weak, trembling, but he couldn’t stop—didn’t want to stop. Especially not with Harry staring up at him like he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, wearing Louis’s name across his back like a promise.
Harry guided him through it—rough when Louis could take it, gentle when he couldn’t. And when Louis collapsed against his chest, overstimulated and gasping, Harry just gripped his hips tighter, fucking up into him hard and fast until Louis was breaking apart again with a wrecked sob.
He came with Harry’s name on his lips and didn’t even realize he was crying until Harry kissed the sound out of his mouth, still thrusting, still whispering, “Good boy. Just like that. Give it to me.”
Harry followed moments after, shuddering beneath him, pulling him close like he never wanted to let go.
____________
Louis and Harry were always careful.
Well— mostly . Careful enough not to get caught. Except for the times they almost did. Which, honestly, was more than Louis liked to admit.
There was the infamous Door Incident , when Harry forgot to lock his room and Niall barged in looking for his charger. He found Louis instead, asleep on Harry’s shoulder, curled up like a smug little housecat. Harry, unbothered and half-dressed, had muttered something about a late-night study session. He conveniently didn’t mention that Louis was completely naked under the covers, his legs tangled with Harry’s, his boxers probably still stuffed under the pillow.
Then there was the football championship night. Everyone was drunk— violently drunk—and somehow Louis had ended up in Harry’s lap in the middle of their living room, laughing too loudly, flushed with booze and adrenaline. At some point, Harry’s hand had wandered south, gripping Louis’ arse like he owned it. Louis had let him. Worse, he’d leaned in like he was going to kiss him— in front of everyone . If not for the distraction of a beer can being kicked over and Niall trying to body surf off the coffee table, they might’ve been exposed right then and there.
Miraculously, no one seemed to remember. Or at least, no one brought it up the next day when Louis woke up with marker on his cheek and a bruise shaped like a bottle cap on his thigh.
After that, they got smarter. Craftier. Louis only slipped into Harry’s room when everyone else was either at the gym, out at parties, or deep in an all-night video game bender. Harry had even installed soundproof panels—because, as he put it, “Baby, if you’re gonna make noises like that, we need to reinforce the whole damn wall.”
So when Louis was on shift at the library one Thursday night, bone-tired and up to his eyeballs in half-shelved philosophy books, the last thing he expected was a text from Harry.
Harry: Where are you, sweetheart?
Louis frowned down at his phone, already suspicious. Nothing good ever started with that level of endearment mid-shift. He was knee-deep in abandoned coffee cups, dusty returns, and one guy who insisted Plato invented capitalism.
Louis: Working. Trying not to throat-punch the next person who asks me if Freud wrote the one with the edible complex.
Louis: Why?
A beat passed. Too long. That was never a good sign.
Harry: You left something in my room.
Louis felt a sudden, cold pit settle in his stomach.
Louis: What is it?!
Louis: Tell me it's my hoodie. Or my charger. Or my soul.
Harry: Check the pic x
The image loaded.
Harry’s hand, fingers slightly curled, holding up the waistband of Louis’ pink lace panties . The ones with the little satin bow in the front. Sheer. Delicate. Currently pinched between two fingers like a damning piece of evidence.
Louis stared, frozen in place. His face burned so hot it could've melted the library’s sad fluorescent lighting.
The bow looked smug. Mocking, even. Like it knew it had just single-handedly ended Louis Tomlinson’s life.
Louis: FUCK. FUCK.
Louis: Who found it???
Harry: Niall :)
Louis nearly knocked over a teetering stack of psychology journals as he dropped his head into his hands.
Louis: NO
Harry: We were in my room studying and he picked them up like a trophy. Grinning like a psycho.
Louis groaned softly, dragging his fingers down his face like he could peel the embarrassment off.
Louis: I'm going to pass away. Tell my mum I loved her.
Louis: This is my villain origin story.
Harry: I told him they were from some girl I had a one-night stand with.
Louis: Okay, that’s good. I’m breathing again. My goal of killing myself is finally stopping.
Silence. One minute. Two.
Louis narrowed his eyes at the screen.
Louis: Did he buy it? TELL ME YOU LIED GOOD.
Harry: He asked for her name.
Harry: I panicked.
Louis: FUCKING SHIT. WHAT DID YOU SAY?!
Harry: I said her name was Louisa.
Louis slapped his forehead so hard the woman at the next desk flinched.
His desire to kill was now no longer self-directed—it had found a new, worthy target.
Louis: LOUISA?! Is that even a real girl you know??
Harry: No. But apparently Niall is good at “finding things.”
Harry: So. Turns out there is a girl who studies here named Louisa.
Louis let out a shaky breath, finally relaxing into the chair. Maybe—just maybe—they’d be okay. Maybe this was survivable.
Then his phone buzzed again.
Harry: But she doesn’t look like a girl who wears sheer panties. or one who will be into me. She looks like a school shooter really.
Harry: I don’t think he bought it.
Louis: I hate everything. I hate your room. I hate your sheets. I hate my own ass for looking good in those.
Harry: That’s not what you said last night. x
Louis: STOP FLIRTING WITH ME WHILE I’M MOURNING MY DIGNITY.
Harry: But mourning looks so good on you 😘
Louis: Blocked. Reported. Sent to the Vatican.
Harry: They’ll just send me back. Too sinful 😇
Louis: You’re not even Catholic , you cretin.
Harry: I’d convert for you. Especially if it involves confessions.
Louis: I swear to god. If you’re not using those to polish your shame right now I’m never sleeping with you again.
Harry: :’)
Harry: …What if I am polishing something else?
Louis: STOP. STOP. I AM IN THE LIBRARY. THIS IS A PLACE OF GOD
Harry: Then I guess I’m going straight to hell.
Harry: Wanna come?
Louis: I hope Niall posts the picture of those panties in the frat group chat and tags “@Louisa.”
Louis: Then I’ll watch you implode in real time. With popcorn.
Harry: Worth it x
____________
Niall didn’t mention the incident. Not a word about the lace, the mysterious "Louisa," or the sheer humiliation Louis had suffered via text. For now, Louis could breathe next to him without combusting.
But he was still mad at Harry.
Mad about the dumb lie, about the smug emoji, about the fact that Harry was supposed to be the “ace liar” of the frat and that was what he came up with. Louisa . Honestly.
Ace, my ass, Louis thought bitterly.
Even when Harry pouted at him for hours, dragging out apologies like a melodramatic teen in a soap opera, Louis wouldn’t budge. He refused to let Harry win with charm.
He slept in his room that night, regretting every questionable life choice he ever made. One that included the decision to start hooking up with Harry Styles.
_______________
The next morning, Louis was woken not by his alarm, or by Tom mumbling in his sleep, but by a sharp knock on the door.
He groaned, dragging himself out from under the warm cocoon of blankets, his hair sticking up at ridiculous angles. He cracked the door open with bleary eyes—and found Danny standing there, one eyebrow raised and holding an armful of wildflowers.
The bouquet was charming in a disorganized sort of way—uneven stems, a patchwork wrap of kraft paper and tissue, and a few petals already threatening to give up. But it was thoughtful. Careful in its chaos. And unmistakably real.
Danny held it out like it might detonate. “You’ve got a delivery,” he said, voice caught somewhere between suspicion and awe. “They signed their name ‘Sorry-ass-motherfucker.’”
Louis blinked. “You’re joking.”
Danny arched a brow. “Do I look like the kind of man who cracks floral humor before breakfast?”
Fair point.
Louis took the bouquet gingerly, muttered a thank-you, and retreated back into the room, the flowers held awkwardly against his chest like they might accuse him of something if he squeezed too tight.
His cheeks were flushed—and not from flattery. No, this was confusion. Mild panic. Maybe even guilt.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the bouquet like it might start singing.
He really needed to stop sleeping with Harry.
It was getting too messy—edges smudged like wet ink, lines impossible to keep straight. Too close to something with weight. Something that looked, sounded, and smelled like a relationship, even if they refused to call it that. They didn’t date. They didn’t hold hands in public. They didn’t even talk about what they were doing.
And yet Harry still sent him things like this—flowers, as if they were trapped in some low-budget romcom with questionable dialogue and absurdly perfect lighting.
And just as Louis was internally spiraling—still squinting at the purple thistle tangled between yellow daisies—there was another knock. This one softer. More rhythmic.
Harry stepped into the doorway, freshly showered and still glowing from the gym. His curls were damp and pushed back, his cheeks flushed from exertion, and he wore a sleeveless tank top that should have been illegal. His shoulders looked carved. His forearms flexed like they were showing off on purpose. And even with all that sinful perfection , his face was contrite. Soft. Pouty. Like he was one regret away from composing a sonnet.
“Did you get the flowers?” he asked, voice lower than usual. A little hopeful. A little cautious.
Louis didn’t answer right away. He kept his expression carefully neutral, even as his heart thudded a little too loudly in his chest.
Then he raised a brow and said, dryly, “Yeah. No idea who the moron is who thinks I can grow anything. I forget to water myself half the time.”
Harry blinked, as if the joke had caught him somewhere vulnerable. Like he hadn’t expected it to sting. Like maybe, despite the dramatic gesture, he hadn’t actually thought this through.
And that expression—it hit Louis somewhere he didn’t want to admit existed. A small, soft ache bloomed in his chest, and he hated how easily Harry got in like that. No force, no battering ram. Just that stupid look .
He really, really needed to stop doing this.
He needed to start going out again. Meet someone normal. Someone who’d take him to indie movies and text back in full sentences and not send him wildflowers wrapped in emotional turmoil. Someone who wouldn’t show up at his door looking like a Calvin Klein ad with a tragic backstory.
“I guess…” Harry said hesitantly, reaching behind his back, “you don’t want this, then?”
He held out a small box. Elegant. Square. Wrapped in a slick cobalt-blue paper, tied with a carefully knotted purple ribbon. It looked expensive. Thoughtful. Like something you’d find in a boutique shop that didn’t list prices and judged you when you walked in wearing Adidas.
Louis narrowed his eyes, but he took it. He did like gifts. His love language was somewhere between dramatic gestures and verbal groveling, so this ticked a few boxes already. He untied the ribbon slowly, drawing out the moment with deliberate apathy.
Then he lifted the lid.
And froze.
Inside, nestled in delicate tissue paper, was a pair of lavender lace panties. Soft. Dainty. Clearly hand-selected. With a small, scalloped trim and a satin bow on the waistband. Ridiculously pretty. The kind of thing he would never buy for himself but secretly admired when passing the lingerie section in stores. The kind of thing that knew it was too good for the drawer it would be stuffed in.
Louis stared. Then looked up at Harry. Then back down again. Louis narrowed his eyes, still holding the delicate lace between two fingers like it might bite him. “You bought me apology lingerie.”
Harry’s mouth twitched. “Well. Yeah.”
Louis tilted his head, expression sharp as glass. “You think this is going to fix things?”
Harry’s smile faltered, sincerity creeping in like sunlight through a cracked curtain. “No. I mean—no. Not exactly. I just…” He exhaled, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, sweat-damp curls sticking to his temples. “I was trying to… soften the blow? I don’t know. I panic-shopped. I’m bad at this.”
“You don’t say,” Louis said dryly, but there was a flush creeping up his neck, and it wasn’t from rage.
The panties hung between them like a velvet rope to a club neither of them had officially joined, fluttering slightly as Louis’s hand trembled from nerves or amusement—hard to say.
“I just…” Harry started again, his voice lower now, more earnest. “I didn’t want you to think I didn’t care. I do. I mean, I know we’re not, like— together . But I still care. You matter. And sometimes I say dumb shit or lie badly or let Niall find your underwear, and I don’t know how to apologise without turning into some deranged man wandering a lingerie aisle with a crisis and a coupon.”
Louis blinked. His heart did something stupid in his chest, a slow, traitorous little flip. That sincerity—unguarded, warm—was unfair. Weaponized vulnerability in gym shorts and cologne.
Louis stared at him for a long beat, then sighed—long and low, the kind of exhale that let the fight drain out with it.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice quieter now. He set the lace carefully back in the box and closed it. “You’re so bloody weird.”
Harry didn’t argue. He just stood there, hopeful and still a little sheepish, like he wasn’t sure if this was the part where he got forgiven or gently kicked out.
Louis rubbed the back of his neck. “Put the flowers in water. And if I find them wilting by tonight, I’m never speaking to you again.”
Harry blinked. “Wait. Does that mean—?”
“It means,” Louis cut in, glaring half-heartedly, “you can buy me coffee later. One coffee. Don’t make it weird.”
Harry’s grin bloomed, full and boyish. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Louis narrowed his eyes. “You’re absolutely dreaming of it.”
Harry shrugged, already stepping inside to find a vase. “Only a little. And I’ll be dreaming harder if you ever actually wear the panties.”
Louis groaned and shoved the box against his chest. “You’re lucky I have a weakness for sorry-ass-motherfuckers.”
Harry beamed like he’d just won something.
____________
October was hell month. Universally agreed upon by students of all years, all majors, and all caffeine addictions. But for Louis, it wasn’t just the midterms breathing down his neck or the avalanche of paper deadlines threatening to crush him—it was also the fact that soccer season decided to peak in chaos right when his life did. Two games a week until November? Who approved that schedule? Satan?
On top of that, there were frat events to attend (because apparently, “bonding” couldn’t wait), a rotating list of house chores to tackle (since living in a frat house that smells like socks and regret was apparently “unpleasant”), and his part-time job at the library, where he spent hours pretending not to judge people for misusing the Dewey Decimal system. And somewhere in between all of that, Louis was expected to find five minutes to breathe. Five whole minutes. Luxury.
The frat house, usually a noise circus of yelling, music, and someone inevitably trying to microwave something metallic, had transformed into a sacred temple of silence. A single cough could get you publicly executed. Study groups spread across the living room like a low-level cult. Others barricaded themselves in their shared rooms with enough snacks to outlast a nuclear winter. And some—absolute monsters—had taken over the kitchen. The kitchen.
Louis, in desperate need of a cup of tea and the illusion of peace, made the grave mistake of entering that territory. One foot on the tile and suddenly every head snapped in his direction like a horror movie. The electric kettle hadn’t even finished boiling when someone hissed, “Shhh!” at him like he’d strutted in with a marching band. One of Charlie’s friends even glared at his teabag like it had personally offended his GPA.
Everywhere felt the same lately—too tense, too competitive, too suffocating. Even the library had morphed into a battlefield, with students furiously scribbling and typing like their lives depended on it. Which, to be fair, they kind of did.
So Louis had started gravitating to Harry’s room most nights. They didn’t talk much—just sat side by side, computers open, the soft hum of Harry’s playlist filling the gaps. And for the first time all day, Louis could breathe.
It was one of those nights. The kind where Louis had read his own paper so many times it blurred into nonsense. He threw his head back with a groan, clutching his laptop like it had personally betrayed him.
“I can’t do this. God. I can’t do this.”
Harry looked up from his own screen, concern softening his face. “What is it, sweetheart?”
Louis gestured wildly at the document. “I don’t even know what I wrote anymore. I swear this isn’t English. It’s—it's Elvish. Or ancient gibberish. Or, like, legally cursed text.”
Harry chuckled and set his laptop aside, leaning back on his hands as he watched Louis dramatically collapse onto the bed.
“I don’t even know why I’m in uni,” Louis continued, arms spread like a martyr. “With my face and body, I could just marry rich. Find a sugar daddy. Live comfortably.”
“You absolutely could,” Harry said, grinning. “But you’d be bored out of your mind within two minutes.”
“Bored more than I am writing a ten-page essay on ‘Parental Figures and Their Role in Child Development’ ?” Louis demanded, eyes wide. “Doubt it. I should just sell toe pics on OnlyFans. There are freaks for that. They’re not picky. I have decent toes.”
Harry barked a laugh, full and genuine, and Louis felt his stupid heart do a little joyful flip in his chest.
“I think this is escalating,” Harry said at last, getting to his feet and reaching for his shoes. “come, let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” Louis asked, reluctantly sitting up and ignoring the concerning click his back made.
Harry shot him a look over his shoulder, playful and warm. “Somewhere you don’t have to threaten feet-based entrepreneurship to feel okay.”
____________
Harry drove them to the grocery store, and Louis gave him a look like he was being personally betrayed.
“Sorry, Chef Gordon Ramsay, but I don’t think shopping for groceries is going to uplift my existential crisis,” Louis said flatly as they stepped inside.
Harry just grinned, unbothered. “Trust me.”
Louis followed him grudgingly through the fluorescent-lit aisles until they reached the back of the store, where a small deli counter sat, mostly quiet this late. A sweet-looking older woman perked up at the sight of Harry, smiling like she knew him.
“Hey, can we get two pastrami sandwiches?” Harry said warmly. “One with extra mayo, no veggies. The other with extra mustard, everything on it.”
Louis blinked. “I don’t get it.”
“You will,” Harry promised, then stepped aside as the woman started prepping their sandwiches with practiced ease.
Louis leaned closer, brows furrowed. “No, seriously. Why sandwiches? Why here?”
Harry leaned against the counter, watching the woman work for a moment before answering. “I’ve been coming here since first year. Back when I almost quit the frat.”
Louis’s frown deepened, interest piqued.
“Remember when Charles was president?” Harry said, his voice quieter now. “He hated that I was better than him at football. Took it personally. So he made sure I got stuck with all the worst chores. Cleaning up after every party, scrubbing the toilets, taking out trash at 3 am. And he’d humiliate anyone who hung out with me—especially girls who stayed the night. Made it into some kind of public joke.”
Louis nodded slowly. Oh, he remembered. He’d hated Charles on sight—preppy, smug, dripping in outdated frat-boy superiority. The type who thought being loud and cruel made him a leader. He ran the frat like it was still 2002: keg stands, shirtless beer pong, hazing rituals that made no sense and weren’t even fun.
“That guy was the biggest dickhead alive,” Louis muttered, arms crossed.
Harry huffed a dry laugh. “Yeah. Anyway, one night I walked out after cleaning up puke that wasn’t even mine, and just—wandered. Ended up here. She,” he nodded toward the sandwich lady, “made me a sandwich, told me I looked like I needed salt, and asked no questions. I sat outside on the curb eating that thing like it was a five-star meal. And for some reason… it helped.”
Louis looked at him, a little stunned. “So you’re trying to give me the Healing Sandwich Experience?”
Harry smirked. “Something like that. Magic pastrami therapy.”
Louis shook his head with a soft laugh, his heart doing that fluttering thing again. The sandwich lady handed over their paper-wrapped sandwiches with a kind smile, and Harry paid before Louis could protest.
“Come on,” Harry said, handing Louis the mayo-loaded one. “Let’s go sit outside.”
______
The night air had a bite to it, crisp and clean in that way only late autumn could manage. They found a bench outside the grocery store, worn down and cold beneath them, but somehow perfect. The street was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and the rustle of dry leaves skittering across the pavement.
Louis unwrapped his sandwich with a theatrical sigh, the crinkle of paper loud in the stillness. He took a bite—and immediately let out a moan so indecent it made Harry choke on his first mouthful.
“Oh my God ,” Louis mumbled around a mouthful of pastrami, eyes going wide like he’d just discovered religion. “What is this? Is there... cocaine in this?”
Harry burst out laughing, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks like they had a personal vendetta against Louis’s composure. “No clue,” he said, still grinning. “But it’s the best, right?”
Louis nodded furiously, already going in for a second bite. “Why the hell did you keep this from me? You know I love food. This is betrayal.”
Harry watched him fondly, chewing slowly, his gaze soft as it lingered on Louis. “I don’t know,” he said finally, voice quieter now. “It just became my safe place. Like—when everything got too much, I’d come here. Breathe for a bit.”
Louis slowed down at that, licking mustard off his thumb as he studied Harry’s face. He understood. He really did.
Harry didn’t just carry his own stress—he carried the weight of everyone else's too. Captain of the football team, quarterback, frat president... and unlike Charles—the absolute dickhead before him—Harry took it all seriously. Maybe too seriously. He was the one who made sure every new pledge felt welcome, the one checking in when someone missed meals or skipped class. The one organizing house meetings that actually mattered, making sure their concerns reached university's ears.
Louis remembered when Liam had his breakdown last year—shaking hands, lost in a spiral of panic and silence. Everyone else froze, but Harry had stepped in like it was second nature. Took Liam to the campus health center himself. Sat with him in the waiting room for hours. Then followed up every day after, quietly making sure Liam took his meds, listened without judgment, and made it clear that the frat house would be a place of support, not stigma. Harry didn’t just lead—he protected . He showed up .
And Louis—well, Louis felt something warm and solid settle in his chest. Pride, maybe. Or something deeper.
They finished their sandwiches in companionable silence, their breath misting slightly in the cold air.
“So,” Louis said eventually, brushing crumbs from his lap. “Why now? Why bring me here tonight?”
Harry glanced at him, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Because you needed it,” he said simply. Then, with a playful glint in his eye: “And because I don’t approve of you selling feet pics to strangers online.”
Louis barked a laugh, throwing his head back. “It’s called diversifying my income streams , thank you very much.”
“Mm-hmm,” Harry murmured, already on his feet and heading back inside the shop. He returned with two absurdly large cookie-cream ice cream sandwiches and an armful of sweets—gummy worms, sour belts, marshmallows, even tea biscuits.
When they got back to the frat house, Harry called out into the dim hallway. “Everyone still awake—tea in the kitchen, now!”
And somehow, people came. Stressed-out students shuffled in, wrapped in blankets and oversized hoodies, drawn by the promise of warmth and sugar and the kind of comfort only late-night group tea could offer.
By the end of the night, Louis was curled up on the couch, cheeks flushed from laughter, a marshmallow stuck to his sock. The pressure in his chest had lifted. He felt full, not just from food, but from something quieter and harder to name.
Harry caught his eye across the room and smiled.
Louis smiled back. Stress forgotten. Heart full.
____________
After that night—Harry leading him to his secret place, the one no one else knew about—Louis noticed something shift. Or maybe shift wasn’t the right word. If he was being brutally honest with himself, the feeling had always been there, lurking in the background. From the moment they’d become best friends, he’d been drawn to Harry like a moth to a flame—hungry for his attention, addicted to the way it felt to be lit up by it.
But somewhere between the stolen kisses, the tangled sheets, and the way Harry would quietly take care of him—press a glass of water into his hand, tuck him under the blankets—Louis realized he’d crossed a line. He wasn’t just attracted to Harry anymore. He was in danger. He had feelings.
Louis wanted to hurl himself off a cliff for how cliché that sounded. Of course he’d fall in love with Harry Styles—the golden boy with the soft laugh and the bad habit of breaking hearts, always with good intentions and that infuriating smile.
He knew he should stop now. Cut it off before it got worse. But as he watched Harry move around the room during one of their quiet nights, turning down the lights, making sure Louis was warm before climbing into bed beside him, he thought—just for a second—that maybe Harry felt it too.
Maybe this time was different.
God. What a disaster of a love story.
____________
To celebrate their brief moment of peace after the chaos of midterms, they headed to yet another frat party—this time at one of the all-women houses. Louis was particularly grateful it wasn’t hosted at theirs for once; the idea of not waking up to sticky floors and half-eaten pizza slices was enough to put him in a good mood before they even arrived.
The place was already pulsing with bass-heavy music, laughter spilling out through open windows. Louis recognized a lot of the girls from his classes—bright, friendly faces he actually liked being around—so for once, he didn’t feel like a guest. He felt at home. With a drink in hand and the stress of exams finally behind him, he let the music take over, relaxing into the rhythm.
They quickly devolved into chaos. A karaoke machine had been dragged into the living room, and soon Louis, Harry, Niall, and a few others were butchering pop songs at full volume. They were loud, off-key, and utterly ridiculous—Harry nearly pulled a muscle trying to hit a Mariah Carey high note, and Louis doubled over laughing when Niall sang with one shoe on his hand like a puppet.
The only exception was Danny, who took the mic with surprising sincerity and serenaded his girlfriend with such dramatic flair that it earned him a round of applause and a kiss that nearly knocked him over. In the middle of the clapping, Louis caught Harry’s eye across the room. They exchanged a grin—wide, warm, and a little fond—wordlessly agreeing: Danny had it bad.
As the night wound down and bodies began collapsing onto couches and rugs, someone suggested a game of truth or dare. It was a bit juvenile, the kind of thing they used to do in someone’s basement after school—but with enough alcohol in their systems and zero responsibilities until next week, it suddenly seemed like a brilliant idea.
The dares started stupid and only got worse: Liam was dared to send their stiffest, most humorless professor a friend request with the message, "Hello Mr. T, I’m really enjoying your lessons! Happy to connect and learn more!” —he did it, and the room howled.
Niall had to lick the head cheerleader’s belly button (she shrieked and smacked him playfully after), and Harry—red-faced and drunk—ended up twerking in just his boxers on a coffee table while someone threw popcorn at him. Louis laughed so hard he nearly cried, hiding his blush behind another sip of vodka to keep from looking too obviously charmed.
Then it was his turn.
He was too tipsy, too comfortable to risk a dare, so he lazily called out, “Truth.”
Niall, never one to pass up an opportunity to stir drama, leaned forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Alright, Louis. Who are you fucking all the time?”
The room went silent in that horrible, electrified way. Every eye turned to him, the kind of attention that felt like a spotlight. Louis felt the heat crawl up his neck. He didn’t dare glance at Harry.
“No one,” he said, but even to his own ears, it sounded pitifully unconvincing.
Tom raised an eyebrow. “Really? Then where do you sleep four nights a week?”
Louis tried to laugh, but it came out a little strangled. His blush was burning now, and he swore he could feel Harry’s gaze on the side of his face, hot and steady.
He should have picked dare. Dammit.
Louis waved a hand lazily, though his voice came out far too high-pitched to be convincing. “I crash on different couches all the time, it’s not a big deal—Niall, you literally slept in a bathtub last week. Where’s your interrogation?”
“That was once,” Niall grinned wickedly. “And I didn’t look that satisfied the morning after.”
“Or walk away with marks like you were mauled by a wild animal,” Liam added, smirking in Louis’ direction.
“Or waddling into the kitchen like someone rearranged your spine,” Charlie chimed in with a mock salute.
The group burst into laughter, even the girls howling at the mental image. Louis forced a laugh, but his ears were hot. His drink was too empty, and there was nowhere on the couch to disappear into.
Still, one thing Louis had always been good at—his most sharpened defense mechanism—was being snarky when uncomfortable. So he rolled his eyes theatrically and deadpanned, “God, not everything is about sex. Maybe I just sleep better where the sheets don’t smell like cheap beer and regret.”
Niall snorted into his drink. “So you’re sleeping with a clean person. Got it.”
And then—just when Louis thought he might combust—Harry’s voice cut through the noise. Calm but firm, the kind of tone that didn’t ask for attention, just commanded it.
“Let’s keep going, yeah? Ease off the part where we make Sweetheart here wish the ground would swallow him. That’s not really the vibe we want.”
The group chuckled awkwardly and quieted down. Louis turned his head just slightly, catching the look on Harry’s face: composed, unreadable, jaw set, and eyes sweeping across the room with quiet authority. The presidential look, as Louis called it. The one that said “don’t fuck with what’s mine” without needing to say anything at all.
Relief washed over Louis like a warm tide. He knew that expression. He loved that expression. And maybe, just maybe, Harry wasn’t quite as good at hiding as he thought.
“So,” Sara—the head cheerleader and gleeful instigator—grinned and turned to Harry with a glint in her eye, “you wanna take the next question then? Truth or dare, Styles?”
Harry gave her a charming, lopsided smile. “I’m not fucking anyone at the moment,” he said easily, raising both hands in mock surrender. “Don’t have the time.”
The room let out a collective “Oooooh” like middle schoolers witnessing a burn.
Louis blinked.
Smooth. So smooth it almost made Louis roll his eyes. Almost.
For a guy who had nearly combusted with panic the day Niall found Louis’s panties under his pillow, Harry could lie with impressive ease when he wanted to. And tonight, it seemed, he wanted to more than anything.
“No,” Ed said, his grin slow and bright beneath the dim golden lights strung across the ceiling. His ginger hair practically glowed, a beacon in the cozy clutter of the living room. “I’ve got a question for you, Cap.”
The room shifted around the edges, a ripple of interest running through the group like static. Someone turned the music down, others leaned in, sensing the question would land somewhere deeper than the usual dares and dirty jokes. Harry looked over, relaxed and unbothered, offering Ed a nod that gave permission without fanfare.
“Why aren’t you ever in a relationship?” Ed asked, the question casual on the surface but pointed enough to draw a few knowing chuckles. “And don’t hit us with that ‘I don’t have time’ crap. We’ve all been in something—even the chemistry weirdos who spend more time with their lab coats than actual people.”
The room laughed again, warm and buzzing with alcohol and affection, but Louis didn’t. He just sat there, quiet, watching the way Harry’s fingers tightened for a moment around his cup. It was small, barely noticeable, but Louis caught it. He always caught those moments—the flickers behind the mask Harry wore so well. Because Ed wasn’t wrong. Everyone here had been in a relationship at some point. Even Niall, who once dated a girl who claimed Mercury was responsible for all his emotional damage. Even Liam, who’d accidentally proposed to a barista because he misread a dare. They’d all been there, in one form or another. Everyone… except Harry.
Harry Styles was the golden boy who belonged to no one. He flirted with everyone, slept with a few, and vanished before sunrise. Magnetic. Effortlessly adored. Always just out of reach. No one had ever kept him—not for more than a night.
Until Louis.
And when Louis let himself think about it—really think about it—this quiet, messy, undefined thing they had was the longest Harry had ever stayed. A year. Twelve months of secrets, glances, tangled limbs, and pretending it didn’t mean anything. A year of waking up in Harry’s bed and trying not to admit it was starting to feel like home.
Harry shifted slightly, the faintest change in posture, before flashing the room a familiar smile—easy and charming, carefully designed. It looked real enough to pass, but Louis knew better. He recognized the weight behind it, the way Harry wore it like armor.
“Well,” Harry said smoothly, drawing the attention back to himself with that practiced calm, “if you all must know, I just haven’t found my person yet. Not the one I’d want to last longer than a night with.”
The words floated in the space between them, met with laughter and a few teasing groans. But Louis didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink. The smile on Harry’s face didn’t falter, didn’t crack, but Louis felt something cold settle deep in his chest, sharp and unyielding. Because they had lasted longer than a night. So many nights. He knew how Harry liked his coffee, how he twitched in his sleep when he was about to dream. He knew the stupid songs Harry hummed under his breath when he thought no one was listening. But apparently, none of that meant anything. Not enough to count. Not enough to be his person.
Louis looked down into his drink, the condensation cold against his palm, and brought it to his lips if only to keep from saying something he'd regret. The vodka tasted bitter now. Or maybe it was just everything else. He told himself it didn’t matter. That he already knew Harry would never say his name out loud in a room full of people. But hearing the lie delivered so smoothly, like it meant nothing at all, still hurt in a way Louis hadn’t prepared for.
So this was what it felt like—knowing you were someone’s secret, but never their answer.
____________
Louis stayed. Of course he stayed. He laughed when the others laughed, nodded along to the next questions, sipped his drink whenever someone looked his way. He kept his smile fixed and his eyes bright, because that’s what people expected from him. The charming, clever Louis, quick with a quip and unbothered by anything. It was easier than trying to explain why his throat felt tight, why his chest ached in that stupid, quiet way it always did after Harry said something that reminded him he didn’t matter—not like that.
The game went on. Someone dared Charlie to sing Britney Spears in a falsetto while standing on the coffee table, and everyone cheered. Niall tried to prank call their old gym coach, but accidentally reached someone’s grandmother instead, and now they were all convinced he had to go to brunch with her. There was glitter everywhere—Louis had no idea where it came from—and the smell of spilled beer clung to the air like a second skin. It was chaos, warm and loud and familiar.
But Louis felt distant from it all, like he was watching the night happen through a sheet of glass. The noise was too much, the lights too bright, and even when someone leaned into his side or threw an arm over his shoulder, he felt cold. Like something inside him had been left out in the rain.
Harry didn’t look at him. Not once. Not after that answer. He laughed with the others, tossed popcorn at Liam’s face, let one of the girls draw hearts on his cheek with a pen Sara pulled from her purse. He looked normal—unbothered, relaxed, like nothing had shifted at all.
And maybe for him, nothing had.
That thought stuck like thorns in Louis’s chest, digging deeper the longer he sat there. Maybe this had always been more to him than it was to Harry. Maybe it had been foolish, all along, to hope for anything else. Harry was golden and untouchable, never meant to be anyone’s. Louis had just made the mistake of hoping he might be the exception.
So, at some point—he wasn’t even sure when—Louis slipped away. He left the circle of bodies on the floor and wandered through the kitchen, ignoring the half-empty bottles on the counter, the stickiness of the floor under his shoes. No one stopped him. No one noticed. That was the thing about parties: the louder they got, the easier it was to disappear.
He stepped outside.
The porch was empty, save for a couple of girls curled up in a hammock sharing a blanket and a joint. They barely looked up as he passed. The night air hit him hard—cool and still, a stark contrast to the heat of the house—and he breathed it in like medicine. His lungs ached around it, but at least it was quiet. At least no one was asking him questions here.
He sat on the edge of the porch, elbows on his knees, fingers curled loosely around the cup he hadn’t realized he was still holding. The silence settled around him like a blanket. Not comforting, but necessary. He needed the space. Needed something that didn’t feel like pretending.
He didn’t cry. Louis had always been good at holding things in. But his jaw ached from clenching, and his eyes stung from too much blinking, and he kept replaying Harry’s words over and over again in his mind.
I just haven’t found my person yet.
He didn’t know how long he sat there—long enough for the party to grow louder, then start to thin, long enough for someone to throw up in the bushes and for Liam to start singing an old boy band ballad inside.
Louis didn’t go back in.
He couldn’t.
____________
Louis didn’t pull away from Harry all at once. It was a slow retreat, deliberate but subtle—so gentle no one else seemed to notice it happening, not even Harry. He stopped accepting every late-night invitation, let the messages go unanswered longer, made casual excuses when Harry asked. He was busy, he said. Final projects were piling up, he’d picked up extra shifts at the library, and soccer practice ran late with the championship games approaching. All of it was true, in a way. But mostly, Louis needed space.
Space from Harry’s hands and the ache that bloomed in his chest every time he remembered that stupid, easy smile and the words that had gutted him quietly at that party.
He didn’t disappear. Louis was too careful for that. He laughed with the group, showed up to the volunteering shifts they’d signed up for, cheered during football games, teased Harry when the moment called for it. He was still there—warm, bright, dependable. No one would’ve guessed he was holding himself together with breath and willpower alone. No one saw how carefully he was rearranging his heart to fit this new shape. No one saw how it fractured every time he replayed Harry’s answer in his head.
So Louis stayed present, kept smiling, kept pretending. Because that’s what he was best at—looking unbothered even when something inside him had quietly started to rot.
Harry didn’t question it. He accepted Louis’s distance the same way he accepted most things in life: with a shrug, a crooked smile, and the assumption that everything would eventually slide back into place. Finals were approaching, winter break looming, and he was busy, too—tired, overextended, stressed. If he noticed Louis pulling away, he chalked it up to pressure, to exhaustion, to life.
Still, sometimes, Harry would look at him—eyes flicking over with that quiet, thoughtful frown he got when he was trying to figure out a puzzle without asking for help. And Louis, who was already practiced at pretending, would meet his gaze with an easy smile, light and careless, like everything was perfectly fine.
They still had sex sometimes. Less often now, more spaced out. But when they did, Harry held him differently. Tighter. Like he was afraid Louis might disappear if he let go. Sometimes he’d bury his face in Louis’s neck and breathe him in like something sacred, something his body knew better than his mind. But Louis refused to let himself believe in that. It was probably just comfort. Familiarity. Habit. Nothing more.
He wasn’t Harry’s person.
And he needed to accept that.
He knew, too, what would happen if he ever told Harry about his feelings. Harry wouldn’t be cruel. He never was. He’d be soft about it, careful, full of tenderness and regret. He’d say all the right things— that he loved Louis as his best friend, that nothing would change between them, that he was honored Louis felt that way, that he was sorry he couldn’t return it.
He will also mean it. Every word. Harry always meant it.
And that would be the worst part.
Louis could picture the way Harry would let him down: thoughtful, considerate, gentle enough to make the rejection feel almost beautiful. And in doing so, he’d cement himself even deeper into Louis’s bones. Because that’s who Harry was—kind, devastatingly beautiful, and too fucking charming for his own good. The best sex Louis had ever had. The best everything Louis had ever had.
It wasn’t Harry’s fault that Louis had fallen. That was all Louis’s own doing. He’d known from the beginning—Harry didn’t do relationships. Harry didn’t stay. Louis had seen them all—the string of pretty things with tousled hair and easy laughs who had stumbled out of Harry’s room looking dazed and satisfied. Harry had never hidden it. He’d made it clear from the start.
They’d even talked about it, that first time, skin still flushed and warm, Harry curled beside him asking, “What does this mean?” and Louis shrugging, laughing softly, pretending his heart wasn’t already beating too fast. “Nothing,” he’d said. “Just fun.”
So now, he was doing what he had to: rationing his time, managing his dosage of Harry like it was something addictive and dangerous. Pulling away in pieces before it destroyed him completely.
But it wasn’t easy. Not when Harry still laughed like that, full-bodied and bright, or showed up at the library with dinner because Louis had skipped lunch again. Not when he did Louis’s laundry without asking, because Louis hadn’t realized his boxer drawer was empty and he’d started pulling out panties again. Not when he made Louis feel known— seen —in all the ways that mattered, without even realizing it.
And that was the problem.
Louis couldn’t let that go. Even if he knew he’d have to.
____________
Two months had passed, and exams were finally over. Louis could breathe again, loosening from the tight, anxious knot of stress that had kept him wound up since midterms. Tomorrow, he was headed back to his hometown for winter break—a full month with his family—and he could already taste the comfort of his mum’s cooking, hear the sharp cackles of his sisters' laughter, picture the familiar streets he’d grown up on and the dumb antics of his childhood friends. He missed it all—missed the quiet, the simplicity, the pause from responsibility. Missed not living in a house packed with twenty boys he loved like brothers but who could be overwhelming, loud, and far too present sometimes.
He had something to be proud of, too. His team had won the soccer championship, and Harry’s team had done the same. They’d celebrated together like they used to—with noisy parties, sweaty with joy and victory, but also with quiet, hushed moments in between. Soft “I’m proud of you” murmured into hugs that lingered too long, teasing that never quite turned mean, flirtation that burned under the skin.
And sex— God , the sex. So good, so grounding, so intense Louis had almost managed to forget the emotional mess under his surface. Harry made it easy to fall back in. Too easy. They found themselves drawn close again, naturally, the way they always did. Louis kept crawling into Harry’s bed like it was the only place in the world he could sleep. They talked late into the night, laughing quietly in the dark, sharing warmth like it meant nothing—but it meant everything . Louis was already dreading the distance the break would bring.
Tonight was the final party of the semester, hosted in their frat house. Louis felt light, nearly giddy. His bag was packed, his ticket was booked, and he and Harry had agreed to take the noon train out together. He was filling up his cup in the kitchen, relaxed, swaying slightly to the music. Niall stood beside him, halfway through a ridiculous story about one of the new pledges and a mysterious older woman, when it happened.
Louis saw him.
Harry.
And Sara.
Harry was laughing, head tilted toward her, and Louis froze. The sound of Niall’s voice faded to a low hum as his eyes locked on the scene unfolding across the room. Harry wasn’t just laughing—he was flirting . Louis knew the signs. The dimples, the bright, focused eyes, the way he leaned in slightly when someone held his attention. Sara touched his face and Harry didn’t pull away—instead, he held her waist, pulled her closer, looked enchanted .
They were both drunk, sure, but that didn’t change what Louis saw. That connection. That spark . Harry whispered something to her that made her throw her head back and laugh, loud and unbothered. He looked proud of himself. Happy. So fucking happy . And Louis recognized that look in his eyes, that hungry focus, that quiet awe. It was the same look he used to get from Harry—and it gutted him.
He didn’t even realize he’d interrupted Niall mid-sentence. Didn’t remember what excuse he mumbled, only that he had to get out. He couldn’t bear to watch Harry lead her to his room, couldn’t handle the thought of hearing those familiar sounds—the moans, the mattress creaking, the low groan Harry always made when he lost control. The thought made him sick.
Louis slipped away unnoticed and climbed the stairs, the party noise fading behind him. He stepped into his room and closed the door quietly, like shutting out a storm. His suitcase waited by the door, zipped and ready. He stared at it, then at his bed, then back again. He wanted to leave now . Wanted to be home already, wrapped in a world that didn’t ache like this.
But he couldn’t. He had to wait until morning. So he sat down on the edge of the bed and let the hopelessness sink in—slow, thick, relentless. It crept up his spine like cold water and wrapped around his chest, curling into the hollow space beneath his ribs until it stole the air from his lungs.
He didn’t even remember when the tears started. One moment he was staring at the floor, unblinking, and the next his cheeks were wet. A tear slipped past his jaw, then another, and then the sobs came. Not soft, not subtle—but full-bodied, wrenching cries that ripped from his throat like something dying. The kind of crying he hadn’t done in years, the kind he didn’t let himself do. But now? Now there was no stopping it. The dam had broken, and every hurt, every buried feeling, came surging up with brutal force.
He moved on instinct, stripping out of his clothes one by one and shoving them blindly into the closet, as if putting them away would help contain the mess unraveling inside him. Then he crawled beneath the covers and pulled the blanket over his head like a child hiding from the world. The music from downstairs still pounded through the walls, a distant reminder that life was continuing without him. Laughter echoed up the staircase, voices shouting about something exciting—someone winning a round of beer pong, probably, or a dumb dance-off. But all of it felt like it was happening in another universe. One where he didn’t exist.
He cried until his throat burned, until his pillow was soaked, until the sobs turned into hiccuping gasps. And still, the ache stayed. Still, the image of Harry and Sara burned behind his closed eyes.
He must have fallen asleep at some point, still curled up under the covers, still crying. Because the next thing he knew, the door creaked open and footsteps padded into the room.
“Is Louis in here?” Harry’s voice came through the dark, quieter than usual, threaded with concern.
Louis didn’t move. The blanket remained draped over his head like a barrier, muffling the sound but not enough to miss the tone in Harry’s voice.
Tom’s reply came, casual but reassuring. “Yeah, I told you not to worry. Niall said he told him he wasn’t feeling great—probably just went to sleep early.”
There was something Harry murmured in response, too soft for Louis to make out. But Tom’s chuckle was clear.
“Go to sleep, Cap. You’re drunk. Louis’ll still be here in the morning. And don’t smother him, yeah? He’ll roast you alive if he finds out you had me check his breathing like a mother hen.”
Harry hesitated for a second. “Okay, fine. Wake me if something happens.”
The door closed gently after that, and silence settled again—softer now, less suffocating. Louis lay still, listening to the quiet rustling as Tom undressed and climbed into bed on the other side of the room. The mattress shifted, springs groaning, and then everything was still.
Louis blinked into the darkness beneath his blanket, breath still uneven. He didn’t know what to make of what he’d just heard. He didn’t want to make anything of it. His head throbbed from crying, and exhaustion dragged at his limbs like lead.
Eventually, sleep pulled him under again—not peaceful, but heavy. A surrender more than rest.
______________
He took the first train in the morning alone.
The sky was still the kind of deep, heavy blue that comes before dawn, and the house was silent, save for the ticking of the old clock in the kitchen. Louis moved quietly, every creak of the stairs under his suitcase wheels making him flinch. He didn’t turn on any lights—just let the dim early light guide him through the living room, past the half-empty beer bottles and discarded plastic cups, the remnants of a night he couldn’t bear to remember.
He didn’t pause. Didn’t look back. Just shut the door behind him gently, the click of it closing somehow louder than expected.
At the station, he changed his train ticket with the help of a kind woman at the counter who smiled warmly at him, maybe noticing the puffiness under his eyes or the way his voice didn’t quite reach its normal pitch. He thanked her and boarded without fanfare, sinking into a window seat and letting his head fall against the glass. The city blurred past, but he didn’t see it. His mind was somewhere else. Back in a house where the music throbbed and laughter echoed—and where Harry had smiled at someone else like she mattered.
The call came two hours into the ride. His phone lit up with Harry’s name, and Louis stared at it for a second too long before answering.
“Where are you, sweetheart?! Your things are gone,” Harry said, breathless, like he’d just run up and down the house checking every room.
Louis closed his eyes and took a long breath. “Yeah, sorry. I left early.”
“What?! Why didn’t you wake me? I thought we agreed to catch the train together.”
He could picture it perfectly—Harry sitting up in bed, confused, hair a mess, his voice fraying at the edges. Louis didn’t tell him the truth—that he hadn’t dared knock on his door, hadn’t wanted to risk seeing Sara again. Naked. In his arms.
“Yes, I know. Sorry, Ace.”
The line went quiet. Then Harry’s voice came, low and tired and cracking around the edges. “What’s going on with you?”
Not angry. Just... sad. Hurt. That made it worse.
Louis felt it like a punch to the stomach, the way Harry cared. The way he noticed. He always noticed—more than Louis ever gave him credit for.
“Nothing,” Louis said, forcing a breath out. “I just... I was homesick. So I left early.”
Another pause. A long one. Then, “You’re lying.”
Louis blinked. His throat tightened.
“You think I didn’t notice how distant you’ve been for the last two months?” Harry continued, not harsh, just wounded. “I know you like the back of my hand. What the hell is going on? I thought we were good. You... you came back to me for a bit. You stayed in my bed again. And then last night you just left, and now this. Talk to me, sweetheart. Please.”
Louis stared at the passing countryside, the glass cold against his temple. He was glad he’d cried it all out the night before, because if he hadn’t, he might’ve started again just hearing the way Harry’s voice broke.
He had no right to want this much. He’d told himself not to want anything. But God, he loved him.
Still, he swallowed the ache and whispered, “Nothing, Ace. I just felt unwell yesterday. I missed my mum and my sisters. That’s all.”
The other end was quiet again, save for a faint shuffle, maybe Harry running a hand through his hair or rubbing at his face. Then came a soft sigh, and Harry said, “Okay, sweetheart. Enjoy your time off.”
There was a beat before he added, more quietly, “If you need me... if you need to tell me what’s really bothering you—I’ll be here, okay? Every hour of every day.”
Louis bit the inside of his cheek and nodded, even though Harry couldn’t see. “Okay.”
“Have a nice vacation, Ace,” he said, trying to keep his voice light.
“You too,” Harry murmured. And then the line went dead.
Louis sat with the phone in his lap, the silence stretching long and hollow. He didn’t cry. There was nothing left to spill. But his chest ached like it had been hollowed out completely.
And still, he loved him.
____________
When Louis told Harry he missed his family, he hadn’t exactly lied. It was true. He just hadn’t said it all.
Because when he stepped off the train and caught sight of his sisters waiting at the platform—Lottie bouncing on her heels, Fizzy waving like mad, and the twins practically vibrating with excitement—it did something warm and aching to his chest. They screeched when they saw him, all tangled limbs and giggles as they rushed to hug him like he’d been gone a year and not just a semester. His mum pulled him into her arms and held him so tightly he could barely breathe, rubbing his back and murmuring, “You’re too thin, Lou Bear. I hope you’re not surviving on snacks like a bloody raccoon.”
Louis had laughed so hard he forgot, for a moment, that anything had ever hurt.
Home wrapped around him like a thick, knitted blanket—soft, slightly frayed at the edges, and comfortingly familiar. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t have to pretend. He didn’t have to overthink every look, every text. No second-guessing, no sick twist in his stomach every time he heard someone laugh like him . Just life, loud and chaotic and full of people who adored him simply because he existed.
He kept moving; that was the key. He stayed busy, filling his days with everything he’d missed: reading bedtime stories to the twins while they curled up beside him in their matching pajamas; wandering around shops with Lottie and Fizzy, teasing each other as they picked gifts and snacks; letting Phoebe and Daisy climb into bed with him in the mornings like they used to when they were small and afraid of thunderstorms.
He let his mum spoil him shamelessly. Let her make his favorite meals without protest. Let her fuss over his hair, tug at his jumper, kiss his forehead without pulling away. She put on old Christmas movies in the evenings, and Louis sat curled up on the couch, buried under blankets and sisters, with a warm drink in his hands and laughter in his ears.
He helped clean the house one weekend, turning it into a full-blown event. He made charts, blew a whistle like a coach, and declared war on dust bunnies. The twins took it very seriously. Fizzy cheated. Lottie tried to bribe him. Louis declared himself judge and jury and made everyone dance to Taylor Swift in the kitchen when they were done.
He met up with old friends, drank cheap beers at familiar pubs, played pool badly, and listened to them talk about their university lives. For a few hours at a time, he could pretend he belonged in that simple, untangled version of the world—where no one looked like Harry or sounded like Harry or touched him like he mattered, only to rip the floor out from under him.
Christmas came, wrapped in lights and laughter. His birthday passed too, with cake and noise and gifts wrapped in ridiculous sparkly paper. His mum made him wear a paper crown. His sisters gave him socks with cartoon wolves on them and mugs with sassy quotes. They watched “The Holiday” and “Love Actually” and piled on top of him like he was the family pet.
Harry texted him here and there—checking if he made it home safely, sending a simple Merry Christmas x , and a separate Happy birthday, sweetheart on the morning of the 24th. Nothing heavy. Nothing complicated. No pressure. It felt like space. It felt like respect. And Louis appreciated it in a way that made his chest pinch. Harry understood, somehow, that whatever conversation they needed to have would be better face-to-face.
____________
The month passed faster than he expected, and suddenly he was folding clothes again, zipping up his suitcase, tucking away the comfort of home for another stretch of time. The house was quieter than it had been all week—just his mum in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil.
She called to him softly, “Lou Bear, come drink tea with me.”
He followed, smiling as she poured out two mugs from her favorite old teapot, the one with blue roses and a tiny chip in the handle. The steam rose gently between them, and Louis closed his eyes briefly, inhaling the scent—chamomile, honey, and something warm and floral that always reminded him of safety.
He took the cup and sat beside her, only half-surprised when she reached for his hand.
“How’s it going, baby?” she asked gently, her thumb brushing over his knuckles.
Louis blinked. The question hit harder than he expected. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, honestly. A goodbye, maybe. A warning to eat properly.
“I’m okay, mum,” he said quietly. “Really.”
She tilted her head and frowned, eyes narrowing like she was squinting at a secret. “Then why’s your light so dim?”
Louis opened his mouth to answer, but no words came. His throat ached.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she murmured, tightening her hold on his hand. “Mums always know, darling. Don’t try to hide anything from me.”
Louis stared down at the tea in his hands, watching the steam curl upward like it might carry him away if he focused hard enough. The warmth of his mother’s fingers still wrapped around his own made his throat close up.
She didn’t rush him. She never did.
He sniffed, once, trying to hold steady. But his lips trembled when he finally spoke. “You remember Harry, right? The one with the curls? I showed you pictures.”
His mum hummed, a smile tugging faintly at the corners of her mouth. “The one with the pretty dimples. Looked like he could charm the birds out the trees.”
Louis gave a watery laugh, blinking fast. “That’s the one.”
She squeezed his hand gently. “What about him, love?”
Louis swallowed hard. “I—he’s my… we’ve been…” His words fumbled out, thin and crumbling, “We’ve been seeing each other. Kind of. For a while.”
His mum didn’t look shocked. Just nodded slowly, still watching him like she was giving him space to breathe.
He cleared his throat. “It’s not just a hookup or something, Mum. I—I really… care about him.” He blinked again, a tear escaping before he could catch it. “God, I think I—”
He stopped, biting the inside of his cheek. But it was already spilling out of him, years of holding it too close. “I think I love him.”
And once he said it, he couldn’t stop the way his shoulders shook. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, trying to muffle the stupid little noise that broke out of him, like some dam inside had cracked.
His mum didn’t speak right away. She didn’t have to. She just set her tea down, reached out, and wrapped both arms around him, pulling him into her chest like she had when he was seven and scraped his knee, or twelve and heartbroken because someone had called him names at school.
Louis pressed his face into her shoulder, breathing in fabric softener and perfume and the grounding scent of home. He wasn’t sobbing exactly, but the tears came steady, like they’d been waiting. All the pain he hadn’t let himself feel in the rush of avoiding Harry, avoiding the ache—it found him there, in the kitchen, with his mum’s hands running through his hair.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, hiccuping against her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to cry, I just—”
“Oh, hush,” she murmured, rocking him slightly. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Crying doesn’t make you weak, darling. Especially not over love.”
Louis sniffed. “It hurts.”
She kissed his head, soft and sure. “That’s how you know it’s real.”
He let her hold him like that for a long moment, until the trembling passed and he could sit up again. His mum handed him a tissue, and he wiped his eyes, feeling wrung out but lighter.
“Want to tell me what happened?” she asked gently, her fingers still warm around his, her tea cooling between them. Her voice wasn’t pushy. It was the voice she used when she used to sit on the edge of his bed after a nightmare, or when she sensed he wasn’t quite telling the full story as a teenager. Steady, patient, kind.
And Louis did.
It took a moment to find the words. His mouth felt dry, and his cheeks burned red before he even began. But when he started, the words tumbled out of him, tripping over each other as if they couldn’t wait to be free.
He told her—about how it started with drunken kisses and lingering touches that neither of them named. How they’d fallen into a rhythm, secret and sacred, tucked in shadows between lectures and frat events and soccer games. About how no one else knew. Not their friends. Not the frat brothers they lived with. Not even Niall, who usually knew everything.
And she listened. Not once did she look scandalized or judgmental. She just watched him with that calm, loving expression of hers, like she’d known the outline of this story long before he said it aloud.
He told her about Harry, about how he made Louis tea the exact way he liked it without asking, how he stayed up with him through study nights, how he made Louis laugh when he thought he’d forgotten how. He described how safe it felt to fall asleep next to him—how warm, how full his chest felt waking up tangled in those strong limbs, those curls soft against his neck. It was never just about sex. Not really. Not to Louis.
And then came the party. First the one who Harry confessed to “not finding his person yet”, then the second when he sees Harry with Sara. He told her about the moment he saw Harry laughing too closely with her, how the flirting felt like a slap in the face.
As he spoke, his eyes stung. He tried to blink it away, but when his mum reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear, the tears spilled over. Just one at first. Then another. Silent and slow.
She squeezed his hand, saying nothing until his voice broke on the last few words.
“And then I left,” he whispered, eyes glassy, “because I couldn’t stand there and act like he hadn’t just broken something.”
The quiet that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick with understanding. His mother sat with him in it, not rushing to fill it with platitudes.
When she finally spoke, her voice was low. “And you don’t believe he feels the same?”
Louis gave a shaky laugh, wiping under his eyes with his sleeve. “No. I told you—he doesn’t want a relationship. He made that very clear.”
“Did he?” she asked, head tilted slightly. “Or did he say what he thought he had to say, in a crowded room, with people watching?”
Louis hesitated, caught off guard. “Maybe. But it still hurt.”
“I know, baby,” she murmured, rubbing slow circles into the back of his hand. “But it doesn’t sound like you’ve spent this last hour telling me about someone who didn’t love you. You didn’t sit here and list off all the ways he made you feel disposable. You told me how he cared. How he made sure you were fed, checked in when you were stressed, took care of you in small ways every day.”
Louis opened his mouth to argue—but found he couldn’t. She was right. All the memories he’d spilled out had been filled with warmth, with softness. The ache came not just from what happened at the party—but from everything good it seemed to undo.
She arched a brow, smile gentle but amused. “Also, I love you dearly, but I’m still reeling from the part where you said ‘we had sex sometimes.’ Louis Tomlinson, four times a week is not sometimes.”
“Mum!” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Oh my god.”
She laughed, nudging him with her knee under the table. “What? You brought it up! I’m just impressed you’re still walking properly.”
Louis groaned louder, but even through the embarrassment, he felt something loosen. A weight lifted. A laugh he hadn’t known was caught in his throat slipped out, breathless and wet with the remnants of tears.
“Anyway,” she continued, more gently now, “you keep saying you weren’t dating, but sweetheart… everything you told me sounds like a relationship. Just one you were too scared to name.”
Louis dropped his hands, eyes tired but clearer now. “He’s not looking at me like that. I would’ve seen it.”
“And if you were too scared to look up?” she countered, her expression kind but firm. “Have you asked him how he feels? Or are you assuming because it’s easier than risking the truth?”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the question sat too heavy in his chest.
His mum leaned over, kissing his temple the way she always had when he was younger. “You don’t have to know everything right now. And you don’t owe him anything, not after how he hurt you. But baby… don’t walk away from someone who might love you just because you’re afraid.”
Louis closed his eyes, letting her words settle in him like warmth under the skin.
He didn’t know what he’d say to Harry. Or when.
But maybe, just maybe, he owed it to himself to find out.
And for now, that was enough.
____________
He came back to campus feeling lighter than he’d left, like the emotional weight he'd been dragging around finally got confiscated by the peace of his family. Two days before the semester officially kicked off again, Louis rolled up to the frat house with his suitcase, his hoodie soft from the wash, and a distinct sense of I’ve got this in his chest.
And god—it felt good to be back. Back to his friends, back to his brothers, back to the familiar scent of testosterone, takeout, and whatever questionable thing had been spilled on the living room rug and never fully cleaned up. The frat house wasn’t just a building anymore. It was his chaos-laced, fart-joke-filled sanctuary.
Most of the boys were already home, except Harry, who, according to Liam, was driving in later that evening. Louis was welcomed with loud voices and rough hugs, and someone yelled “The prodigal twink returns!” which, fair enough. He tossed his things in his room (ignoring the mystery sock on the floor that definitely wasn’t his) and headed downstairs to bask in the comfort of yelling over video games and being mildly roasted for sport.
Soon enough, they were four FIFA matches deep and screaming through Mario Kart like their lives depended on it. Louis laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch when Niall—after losing spectacularly—started dramatically dirty-talking Tom in a mock interview that somehow ended up on Instagram before the race even finished. It was stupid. It was perfect.
They ordered pizzas, someone produced beers like a magician, and for the first time in weeks, Louis didn’t feel like he was balancing heartbreak and hope on a knife’s edge.
He was mid-race against Liam, eyes narrowed and tongue slightly out in concentration, when the front door creaked open and a voice floated in, all casual and warm and stupidly magnetic: “Hey, guys.”
Louis felt it instantly—like a sucker punch made of nostalgia and hormones. His heart gave a little flip, the traitor, and sank straight into his stomach like it had spotted a crush in gym class.
Don’t look. Don't be that guy. Focus on the game.
He clamped down on the fluttery mess in his chest and kept his eyes glued to the screen, ignoring the shifting noises and greetings happening behind him. The game. He had a mission. Kill Liam with kindness and blue shells.
But then… he felt it. That familiar warmth next to him, a soft thud as someone sat down. The smell of pepperoni and stupid expensive cologne filled his nose, and before he could brace himself—
“Hey, sweetheart.”
Oh, come on.
Louis glanced sideways and nearly swallowed his tongue. Harry was sitting next to him, pizza slice in one hand, dimples out on full display like some cruel trick of the gods. His hair was a little longer, his smile lazy and sun-warmed, and he was wearing the stupid gray hoodie that made his eyes look even greener than usual.
Louis offered a shaky smile that he hoped passed for casual and not I just remembered every inch of your body in cinematic detail.
“Hey, ace,” he muttered, nodding before snapping his attention back to the screen. He pressed buttons with more force than necessary, hoping Liam wouldn’t notice the way he suddenly couldn't feel his own legs.
Harry leaned over like this was just any normal day—like nothing had cracked between them—and started giving him unprompted gaming advice. Somehow, impossibly, it worked. Louis edged past Liam just before the finish line, and a cheer went up. For a moment, it really did feel normal. Like no party had happened. Just him and Harry, the dream team. Silly and safe and easy.
And then, of course, Harry had to ruin it.
“My turn now,” he said, grinning with mischief. “You ready to lose, babe?”
Louis rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the babe that made his spine buzz. “You sure you want that, ace? You could lose your precious nickname.”
Harry leaned in just a touch, voice syrupy with confidence. “Told you before—losing to you doesn’t feel like losing. I’ll always be an ace in your eyes.”
And then the bastard winked .
Louis nearly choked on air. His brain short-circuited. He was vaguely aware of someone passing him a beer, but his hand refused to move. He stared at Harry, struck dumb by the dimples and that stupid, ridiculous mouth. How was he real? How was any of this fair?
This man’s flirting is a health hazard , Louis thought as his face went up in flames. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to start drooling on the couch like a cartoon dog.
“God damn it,” he muttered under his breath, smashing buttons on the controller like it could protect his dignity.
Normal had returned. Kind of. And somehow, that was both the best and worst thing that could’ve happened.
____________
Louis had been putting it off.
The talk. That talk.
The one with Harry that loomed like storm clouds on a clear day—always there on the horizon, no matter how bright things looked for a moment. He told himself he needed time, space, clarity. All noble reasons. But truthfully, he was just scared.
So, he ignored it. For a week and a half, he leaned into the rhythm of frat life like nothing had changed. He laughed at Niall’s terrible puns, joined late-night Mario Kart tournaments, let Harry drape himself lazily across his lap during movie marathons like old times. And yet… it wasn’t old times . There was a quiet line drawn between them now, one neither dared cross. The air between them crackled with things unsaid, loaded glances, and moments that hovered just a second too long.
Still, Louis told himself, not yet .
Then came the tea.
He was in the cafeteria, half-asleep, hoodie hood up and eyes bleary as he stood at the counter ordering his usual. Harry was beside him, muttering his coffee order like it was a personal prayer, leaning against the counter in that annoyingly casual way that made Louis’ insides lurch. And that’s when Louis spotted Trevor .
Tall. Built like a linebacker. Tattoos peeking out from his sleeves and a grin that could disarm a bouncer. Trevor had been a brief, chaotic chapter in Louis’ dating life—one of those we-both-know-this-isn’t-going-anywhere flings that never quite found its footing. But they liked each other, kept things friendly, and on occasion, if the night was drunk enough and the lighting right, they'd end up tangled in a bathroom stall or a stranger’s couch.
Louis hadn’t seen him in months, and the familiarity made him grin.
“Hey you,” he called, voice easy, warm.
Trevor glanced up from behind the counter, smile breaking across his face like sunshine. “Oh, what a sight for sore eyes,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Jesus, do you get more beautiful every time I see you?”
Louis flushed immediately, the compliment catching him off guard. “Nuh-uh,” he laughed, cheeks pink. “You probably just need better glasses.”
Trevor leaned an elbow on the counter, voice dropping into that teasing lilt Louis remembered all too well. “Don’t think I do. Best-looking date I ever had, Lou.”
The words made Louis snort out a laugh—but then he remembered. Harry . Right beside him. Quiet. Still.
Before Louis could react, a hand curled around his hip—firm, claiming. Not gentle, not exactly rough either, just there , like a flag planted.
“Hi, man,” Harry said, smiling in that polite, razor-sharp way that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “When will our order be ready?”
Trevor blinked, momentarily thrown, but nodded. “Just a sec.”
Louis tried not to freeze, but his spine straightened without permission. Harry’s hand stayed exactly where it was, fingers splayed over the curve of Louis’ hip like he owned it—like he had every right. His touch burned through the fabric of Louis’ hoodie, and Louis couldn’t decide if it made him want to lean in… or run.
Trevor returned to prepping drinks, and Louis chanced a glance at Harry, who was still staring at the counter like it had insulted his mother. His jaw was set, mouth a firm line, and his hand—still resting casually on Louis’ hip—felt heavier now, like a silent claim. The line between them hadn’t just blurred—it had been dragged across the floor, scratched into the tiles, all while Louis tried to pretend he didn’t notice. When their drinks were finally ready, Louis followed Harry toward the door, his tea warming his palm but not easing the chill of uncertainty that settled in his chest.
“Are you okay, ace?” he asked quietly, eyes searching Harry’s face.
Harry turned to him, and this time, the smile he offered wasn’t stiff or forced—it was soft, real, curling at the corners with familiar fondness. “Yes, sweetheart, of course. Why are you asking?”
Louis shrugged, unsure now if he’d imagined it all—the stiff posture, the iron grip, the flash of territorial energy when Trevor had called him beautiful. “You seemed a bit… possessive. About Trevor flirting.”
Harry gave a quick shake of his head, casual. Dismissive. “No, it was nothing.” Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he reached down and took Louis’ hand. “I’ve got to run to class. See you at the house later?”
“Sure,” Louis said, trying to sound normal, like his brain wasn’t doing cartwheels.
Harry smiled again, leaned in like some ridiculous Disney prince, and pressed a kiss to his forehead—warm, lingering, affectionate in a way that made Louis’ knees wobble. Then he gave his hand a quick squeeze, turned to go… and Louis caught it. That split-second glance—Harry’s eyes flicking toward Trevor behind the counter.
And then he was gone.
Louis stood there, tea in hand, forehead tingling, wondering what the actual hell had just happened.
____________
Louis left with a tangle of confused feelings he stubbornly shoved to the back of his mind. Harry hadn’t mentioned what happened the other morning—so Louis didn’t either. That was their unspoken rule, it seemed: if it wasn’t said out loud, maybe it didn’t matter.
Now, they were at another party—this time for Liam’s birthday, a full-blown pub crawl that ended in a crowded club with pulsing lights and floors sticky with spilled drinks. Niall had reserved a table for the final stop, and by then, they were all gloriously drunk and shamelessly ridiculous.
Louis was in his element, loud and magnetic, dragging Liam into outrageous dares and dancing like the floor belonged to him. He had the whole group laughing, flushed with alcohol and affection, and Harry was glued to his side the entire time—playing the loyal co-conspirator with an easy smile and warm hand at the small of Louis’s back whenever he leaned too far into his antics.
It felt good. Familiar. Safe.
But the air shifted when Louis caught sight of someone across the club.
Trevor.
He hadn’t seen the guy in almost half a year, and now—twice in one week? Louis frowned, blinking against the haze of sweat and neon. Trevor stood with a group of friends near the bar, looking just as surprised to see Louis. And then he smiled—that slow, knowing smile he used to wear like a weapon.
Harry had gone to fetch another round of drinks, so Louis rose, steadying himself before weaving through the crowd. “Hey,” he greeted, casual. Trevor grinned wider.
“Louis Tomlinson, as I live and breathe.”
They talked. It started simple, awkward, but quickly slipped into old rhythms. Louis invited them all to join their table—most of them already knew him from the soccer team. It didn’t take long before they were folded into the group like they’d always been there. Louis, ever the charmer, was drinking and laughing and dancing again. He lost track of Harry somewhere in the noise, last glimpsed chatting with Niall and a few others at the edge of the dance floor. He didn’t think much of it—Harry had always been friendly, just like him.
But an hour in, Louis found himself practically curled in Trevor’s lap, legs draped loosely, their bodies pressed close in the booth. They were laughing about something—some stupid inside joke from a hookup Louis barely remembered—but it felt reckless. Familiar. A little dangerous.
Trevor’s hand slid low, cupping the curve of Louis’s ass with ease. Louis inhaled sharply. He felt small suddenly, held there like a secret.
“What are you doing?” he asked, smiling around the question, trying to keep it light.
Trevor shrugged, his hand not moving. “I don’t know. Missed this, I guess.”
“Missed groping my ass?” Louis deadpanned, raising an unimpressed brow.
Trevor laughed, head tipping back. “No, you menace. Missed you. Being with you like this.”
Louis flushed, pleased despite himself. “Well, I’m unforgettable.”
“You are,” Trevor said, quieter now, and leaned in.
And something in Louis went still.
His body locked, a strange guilt slithering through the warmth of the alcohol. He didn’t know why—he’d been flirting all night, hadn’t he? Trevor was attractive, easy, familiar. But the thought of kissing him made something twist in Louis’s stomach.
Because Harry was still here.
“I need to go to the toilet,” Louis blurted, scooting off Trevor’s lap before he could think better of it. “Sorry.”
Trevor blinked, then smiled, easy as ever. “Not a problem, Lou.”
But Louis didn’t turn back. He walked fast, away from the booth, away from Trevor’s touch, heart thudding like a traitor in his chest.
____________
Louis had just finished splashing cold water on his face, the beat of the club still thudding faintly through the walls, when the door creaked open behind him. He looked up into the mirror—and froze.
Harry stepped in, his face shadowed with something fierce. His jaw tight. Eyes bright, but not with amusement. He looked…hurt. And angry.
Louis turned, blinking the water from his lashes. “What is it, ace?” he asked carefully, the alarm rising in his voice.
Harry let out a humorless laugh that didn’t sound like him. “You tell me, sweetheart.” His voice was low, bitter. “Are we fucking other people now?”
Louis stared, stunned. His mind blanked. “W-what?”
Harry moved toward him, and Louis instinctively stepped back until his spine met the cool tile wall. Harry followed, boxing him in with both arms braced above his head, green eyes locked on his face.
“Did we decide while I was unconscious or something?” Harry bit out. “Because you were practically dry-humping Toby’s leg.”
“Trevor,” Louis corrected automatically, and then frowned, pushing past the shock. “What do you mean ‘did we decide’? When did this become a thing we talked about?”
“I thought there was an agreement!” Harry’s voice cracked slightly, and he shook his head, exasperated. “But then you stopped answering my texts. You stopped coming to bed. You started looking at me like—like we’d never meant anything. And I let you have space, Louis, I tried . I thought maybe you needed time to figure yourself out.”
He swallowed hard, voice dropping. “And then I walk in here and see you climbing all over some guy like you never even looked at me that way.”
“Harry…” Louis whispered, dizzy from the flood of emotion hitting him all at once. “I don’t understand.”
Harry’s face crumpled into something raw—tired and vulnerable and desperately trying not to fall apart. His curls were a mess, stuck to his forehead, and his hands clenched above Louis’s head like he was trying to hold himself together.
“God,” he muttered, eyes cast down, “I thought if I waited, you’d realize what we were. What we are . But of course you didn’t. I’m such an idiot. A fucking idiot.”
“Hey, no,” Louis said softly, his hand moving up to touch Harry’s cheek. “Don’t say that. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
Harry leaned into the touch for just a moment, eyes fluttering closed. When he opened them again, there were a thousand things swimming in their depths—hope, hurt, frustration, love. Things Louis, drunk and overwhelmed, couldn’t begin to untangle.
“I can’t do this here,” Harry said, voice cracking like glass. “Not while we’re both like this. Can we… can we just go home, sweetheart? We need to talk. Really talk. But when our heads are clear. Please—will you come home with me?”
There was a plea in his voice that went straight through Louis’s ribs. Like Harry was offering something fragile he didn’t know how to protect. And Louis—Louis would make a fool of himself a hundred times over if it meant Harry looked at him like he was worth something.
“Yeah,” Louis said, nodding. “Sure, ace. Let’s go home.”
Harry’s shoulders sagged in relief. He didn’t hesitate, just laced their fingers together tightly and pulled Louis toward the door. They left without a word to the others, slipping out of the club into the cool night, hand in hand, hearts racing, silence stretching between them—heavy with everything unsaid.
And in Louis’s head, a million questions spun, none of them with answers he could face. Not yet.
____________
They got to the frat house quickly, the cab ride quiet—heavy, almost—but Harry never once let go of Louis’s hand. His thumb kept brushing over Louis’s knuckles like a grounding rhythm, like reassurance.
When they stepped inside, the air shifted. A few people looked up, saw them, and then looked away without a word. There was something unreadable in their expressions—something careful. Louis felt it settle under his skin, prickling, but Harry didn’t flinch.
If Louis thought Harry would let go now—maybe give him a quiet goodnight at the door—he was wrong. Harry guided him upstairs without hesitation, fingers still laced with his, like they’d already made the choice hours ago. He shut the door behind them and locked it with a quiet click.
Without a word, Harry pulled a cold bottle of water from the mini fridge and handed it over. Louis took it gratefully, tipping it back and drinking in deep gulps, only then realizing how parched he was. The coolness soothed something in his chest.
They undressed with tired, clumsy hands, clothes landing wherever they fell, until they were down to boxers. And then they crawled into Harry’s bed like it was the only place that made sense—Louis curling into Harry’s chest, Harry wrapping around him tightly, like he was afraid to let go. Like Louis might vanish if he loosened his grip.
Louis couldn’t stop seeing Harry’s face when he’d asked him to come home. There’d been something raw there, something desperate, and it replayed in his mind like a heartbeat.
He was half-asleep, mind foggy and floating, when Harry whispered into the dark, voice low and close to his ear. “Sweetheart… stay, okay? Don’t disappear tomorrow. I’ll lose my mind if you pull away again before we talk. Promise me.”
Louis barely nodded, murmuring, “Promise,” soft as a sigh. Then he let himself melt into the warmth holding him, the solid chest beneath his cheek, the arms keeping him safe like a shelter.
Harry kissed the top of his head, his voice almost inaudible. “Thank you, baby.”
Neither of them said another word. They drifted off like that—entwined, exhausted, and quietly afraid to let go.
____________
Louis woke up groggy, his mouth dry and his limbs heavy, the kind of sluggishness that comes from too many emotions rather than alcohol. Thankfully, there was no headache pounding behind his eyes—he silently thanked whatever god put a bottle of water in his hand last night. Or, more accurately, Harry.
The morning light filtered through the window, painting a soft streak of gold across the bed. Louis blinked slowly into it, his hand reaching out across the sheets instinctively. The space beside him was empty. Still warm, but empty. He frowned with his eyes still closed, unwilling to believe it until he cracked one open.
No Harry. Just rumpled covers and the lingering ghost of his scent.
Louis sighed, rolling onto his back. He spotted his phone on the nightstand, fully charged. He didn’t remember plugging it in. Another Harry thing, probably. His chest pulled strangely at that thought.
He sat up slowly, disoriented, the events of the night before spinning like a foggy film reel in his head—flirting with Trevor at the club, Trevor leaning in too close, the almost-kiss. And then Harry: angry, hurt, confusing. Pleading, really. Come home with me , he'd said, like the words cost him everything. Like he meant them.
Louis ran a hand down his face. He needed to find Harry.
He heard faint noise from downstairs—sizzling, maybe music—but he didn’t head down right away. Instead, he slipped into the adjoining bathroom. Brushed his teeth, washed his face, stepped under the spray of a quick shower. One of Harry’s towels was hanging by the door, still damp from his earlier use. Louis dried himself with it, inhaling the familiar scent of Harry’s soap and skin. It made his stomach twist, aching in a way he didn’t have words for.
Fortunately, he'd left a change of clothes here—clean boxers and a fresh T-shirt. He got dressed quickly, running a towel through his damp hair. Just before stepping out, he paused in front of the mirror.
Something in his reflection stopped him. There, behind the sleep-soft eyes and flushed cheeks, was something he hadn’t seen in a long time.
Hope.
Louis padded barefoot down the stairs, the floor cool under his feet. The scent hit him immediately—bacon, eggs, something buttery. His stomach gave a loud, ungraceful growl.
The house was unusually quiet. No shouting, no footsteps, no thundering TV. Just the soft hum of a playlist and the sizzle of breakfast from the kitchen.
He turned the corner and found Harry at the stove, dressed in soft sweatpants and a hoodie, barefoot, flipping bacon like it was the only thing that mattered. His brow furrowed slightly in concentration, his curls still damp from a shower, the morning light warming his face. He hadn’t noticed Louis yet.
Something tender swelled inside Louis.
He crossed the room in a few quick steps and wrapped his arms around Harry from behind. Harry startled, just a little, before relaxing instantly into the hold, his hands instinctively resting on Louis’s forearms.
“Hey, beauty sleeper,” Harry murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. “I was starting to wonder when you’d wake up.”
Louis made a sleepy noise against his shoulder. “Hmm.” Words were too hard without tea.
He glanced around, realizing just how quiet it was. “Where is everyone?”
Harry flipped the bacon one last time, like he hadn’t just dropped a casual bomb. “I kicked them out.”
Louis blinked. “You what ?”
Harry shrugged, still calmly plating food. “I needed the place quiet. Just for us.”
Of course. Only Harry Styles could evict twenty college boys from a frat house without breaking a sweat.
Louis didn’t press. He didn’t want to think too hard about why Harry did it. He needed caffeine, not emotions.
He untangled himself from Harry, only to discover the kettle was already warm, waiting on the counter like it knew he was coming. Harry finished up as Louis brewed them both mugs of tea, the scent calming his nerves.
When everything was ready, Harry turned to Louis with a smile and a single, devastating dimple. “Sit, sweetheart. Let’s eat.”
Louis sat with two mugs of tea, placing one down for Harry as he joined him at the table. Harry set the plates in front of them—eggs, bacon, and perfectly golden toast he must’ve grabbed from somewhere mid-cooking frenzy. They both dug in like they hadn’t eaten in days, tearing into the food with the kind of focus usually reserved for midterms or heartbreak.
They ate in comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t ask for words. The kind that feels like the breath before a storm.
When the plates were empty, and only the dregs of tea remained in their mugs, Louis drifted to the couch. He rearranged the pillows with care, settling into the corner with his tea still in hand. Harry followed a moment later, folding himself onto the other end of the couch, facing him.
For a while, they just sat there, eyes locked across the small space between them. Louis searched for something to say, but all he could think about was how devastatingly beautiful Harry looked in this light. Soft curls glowing like gold, cheeks still faintly flushed from cooking, lips slightly pink from the heat of the tea. He looked like a painting. Like something fragile and eternal all at once. Louis had to fight the urge to reach out and capture the moment on camera, just to prove it was real.
Harry broke the silence, voice low and sincere, “Sweetheart… I want to apologize for last night.”
Louis blinked, surprised by the words.
Harry kept going, hands fidgeting in his lap. “I know it was a lot. I was a lot. I kind of… burst in like a lunatic. And I was drunk, and dramatic—God, so dramatic—and I think I took things too far.” He looked down, almost sheepish. “I didn’t mean to confuse you. Or scare you off.”
Louis saw the nerves flickering beneath Harry’s surface, the way he braced himself like he expected to be brushed off or shut down. He could feel the tension in the air—fragile and aching.
So he leaned on humor, like he always did when things got heavy, “Yeah, you were dramatic, ace. Like a bloody Nicholas Sparks cliché.”
Harry huffed a laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “Well, at least I look adorable doing it.”
Louis smirked, taking a sip of his tea. “Who told you that?”
“You, actually,” Harry said, lifting a brow. “You told me once I look like a sad puppy trying to get adopted when I’m being dramatic.”
Louis frowned, then snorted. “I must’ve been really drunk when I said that.”
Harry nodded, lips curving. “You were. But it stuck with me.”
Louis raised a brow, teasing, “Wow, you must not get many compliments.”
Harry barked a laugh, eyes bright. “I do. But yours are the ones that stay with me.”
That shut Louis up for a second. He felt the warmth crawl up his neck, settling into his cheeks. He looked down at his tea, smiling quietly into the rim.
Something between them had shifted again—not sharp or loud this time. Just soft. Real.
“Well… I accept your apology then,” Louis said quietly, voice barely above a murmur, like he wasn’t entirely sure what it meant to do so. His fingers curled tighter around the warm ceramic of his mug, seeking comfort in the small, familiar motion. “But I still want to know what you meant last night. Everything you said.”
Harry looked at him for a long, silent beat, his eyes searching Louis’s face like he was looking for some hidden answer in the soft curve of his mouth or the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Then he blinked slowly and tilted his head, lips twitching like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “You still don’t know?” His voice held no accusation, only disbelief. He studied Louis a moment longer, then huffed out a dry, amused breath and ran a hand through his curls. “Jesus Christ, you might be the most oblivious person alive.”
Louis frowned, his brows pulling together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Harry let out a small, choked laugh, like the absurdity of it all was finally hitting him. “It means that I think literally everyone knows how I feel about you—except you.”
The words settled like a weight in Louis’s chest, heavy and sudden. His heart stuttered and his throat went dry. “W-what do you feel?” he asked, almost against his will, the question falling from his lips in a voice that barely sounded like his own.
Harry raised an eyebrow at him, like he couldn’t believe he was being made to spell it out, but there was no annoyance there—just a strange softness. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, and the light from the window painted gentle golden lines across his face, catching on the curve of his cheekbone and the mess of his hair. “You really need me to say it?”
Louis nodded, unsure if he was breathing. “Please.”
Harry stared at him for a moment more, like he was weighing every word before letting them go. Then he exhaled slowly and said, “Fucking hell, sweetheart. I’m in love with you.” The confession wasn’t grand or loud, but it hit Louis like a crashing wave. “I loved you before we started fucking—when we were just best friends. But when we got closer, when I got to actually touch you and hold you and fall asleep with you—I fell even harder. It wasn’t something I could help. I started seeing new things to love, little details I’d missed before. Like the way you get defensive about your tea, or how you fake snore when you’re annoyed at someone talking too much. I couldn’t stop falling, Louis, not even if I tried.”
Louis’s heart pounded so loudly in his chest he was sure Harry could hear it. The words were everything he wanted to hear, and yet one memory rose up like a wall between them—something that had haunted him more than he let on. He swallowed hard. “But… you said I wasn’t your person.”
Harry’s face shifted in confusion. “When did I say that?”
“At the party,” Louis said, keeping his voice even, though his hands trembled just slightly. “That truth-or-dare game. Ed asked why you weren’t in a relationship and you said… you hadn’t found your person yet.”
Recognition dawned in Harry’s eyes, followed by something like disbelief, and then he actually laughed—a low, amused chuckle that made Louis feel momentarily stupid. “ That’s what this is about?”
Louis didn’t answer. He just stared.
Harry shook his head with a quiet smirk. “Sweetheart, you really think I’d stand up in front of a bunch of half-drunk students and announce I’m in love with you ? When we hadn’t even talked about what we were? That’s the fastest way to ruin everything, and probably get punched in the face by you in front of a crowd.”
“I wouldn’t hit you,” Louis said, though his lips twitched.
Harry’s smirk softened. “Still. I didn’t say anything because I was scared, Lou. You’re not the easiest person to read. You keep your feelings locked up tight, and I didn’t want to push you. I didn’t know what you wanted from… this. From me. I was just so fucking grateful you kept coming back, crawling into bed with me, curling into my chest like you belonged there. I thought maybe I was imagining the rest.”
He paused, his gaze lowering for a second before he looked back up at Louis, more vulnerable now. “I told myself I’d give you time. But then you started pulling away—disappearing into the library for hours, ignoring my texts—and I figured… I figured maybe you knew how I felt and didn’t want it. That you didn’t want me .”
Louis felt the guilt hit him low in the stomach, twisting. “What?”
Harry’s voice turned exasperated, though not unkind. “Don’t look at me like that! You didn’t talk to me, Louis! I was spiraling. I didn’t know what the hell was going on. I thought the worst case was that you realized I’m in love with you and you wanted to end it. The slightly less shitty scenario was that you just got bored of the sex.”
A startled laugh escaped Louis’s mouth before he could stop it. “Like that could ever happen,” he said, shaking his head, the disbelief curling at the corners of his lips. Harry grinned at that, wide and warm, and for a moment the tension between them softened, but Louis’s mind was still tangled, still chasing down all the questions that had kept him up too many nights. He hesitated before speaking again, quieter now, the words more uncertain. “But… what about Sara?”
Harry blinked, his expression folding into confusion. “What about her?”
“You…” Louis hesitated, his voice catching. “You flirted with her. You looked at her like… like you were into her.” He shifted on the couch, his fingers clenching slightly in the fabric of his pants. “I saw it. That night before winter break. You were laughing with her, leaning close, and I—” He paused, pressing his lips together like the memory itself left a bitter taste in his mouth. “It was shitty, Harry. If you wanted me all this time, then watching you with her… it really fucking hurt.”
Harry stared at him for a beat—and then, the bastard laughed . A warm, surprised, incredulous sound that bubbled out of him before he could stop it. Louis’s jaw dropped. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to throw his tea at Harry or kiss him.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Harry said between chuckles, leaning forward like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Darling. Light of my life. Sara knows about us. ”
Louis blinked, thrown completely off-balance. “What?”
“I mean, not the details ,” Harry added quickly, “Not the… intimate parts. But she figured something was going on ages ago. Said I get this ridiculous look on my face every time I talk about you. At the party, she straight up teased me—said it was tragic that the golden boy of the uni was too chicken-shit to admit he was in love.”
Louis stared at him, stunned. “She said that?”
Harry nodded, smiling fondly like he was remembering it clearly. “She did. And for the record, she’s dating Kelly. You know, the quiet one from the squad? With the glasses and the soft voice? They’ve been best friends since their first year and apparently finally got their act together. That’s why she recognized the loser energy I was radiating.” He shook his head, amused. “It wasn’t flirting, Lou. She was laughing at me .”
Louis felt his whole body sag with the weight of realization. He’d spent weeks— months —twisting himself up over that night, letting it gnaw at him like an open wound. And now it felt like someone had yanked the rug out from under his anger, revealing nothing underneath but his own messy assumptions. He leaned back against the couch with a sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face, embarrassment blooming red across his cheeks.
Harry was looking at him like he’d just solved the world’s dumbest mystery. His voice was soft, somewhere between awe and exasperation. “You really didn’t know.”
Louis scoffed, running both hands through his hair like that might shake the sheer disbelief from his brain. “How was I supposed to know? You’ve had more flings than I’ve had hot meals. You flirt with anything that blinks at you long enough. I’ve seen you compliment a vending machine.”
Harry tilted his head, entirely unrepentant. “That vending machine gave me two Kit-Kats for the price of one. That’s love language, Louis.”
Louis groaned and jabbed a finger toward him. “You’d flirt with a packet of rice if it had a barcode tattoo and a tragic backstory.”
Harry gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest like a man fatally wounded. “Are you calling me a man-whore?”
“I didn’t say that,” Louis replied, voice all false innocence, his smirk cutting through it. “I said you could flirt with anything carbon-based and mildly sentient. Totally different.”
“Oh, please ,” Harry fired back, his cheeks pink from laughter and a little bit of indignation. “Like you didn’t have a different hookup every time I blinked. Tom practically had to pay rent in Liam and my room because you were constantly hanging socks on the door like we were in prison.”
Louis flushed, letting out a breathy laugh as he buried his face in his hands. “Okay, yes. Fine. That was... a phase.”
“A phase , he says,” Harry repeated with a snort. “That ‘phase’ lasted half the academic year. You turned our hallway into a walk of shame corridor. I started keeping earplugs in my toothbrush holder.”
Louis lifted his head, eyes dancing with mischief. “Well, I haven’t done it in a while.”
Harry’s expression softened. His voice, when he spoke, dropped in register, quieter, almost proud. “Yeah. A year now. Not that I was counting or anything.” Then he puffed his chest a little, eyes glinting. “And I wasn’t doing it for anyone else. I stopped sleeping around the second you started coming to my bed. And stayed. Conquered it, really.”
Louis let out a laugh that turned into something more genuine, more tender. “Well, I was named after Louis, the King of France. Conquering is practically in the job description.”
Harry laughed too, that full-bodied sound that always made Louis feel warmer than it should. Then, as if realizing the moment was ripe, his smile faded into something cautious, something real. “So... does that mean you feel the same?”
Louis tilted his head like he was considering it, purely for the drama. “Who told you that?”
Harry gave him a squint. “I don’t know, the fact that you haven’t fled the room screaming seemed like a decent hint.”
Louis shrugged one shoulder, casual and infuriating. “You’ve got a nice face. Can’t scream at someone who tells you they love you when their jawline looks like that. I have standards.”
Harry threw his head back and groaned, like he couldn’t believe he was falling for this. Again. “Jesus Christ, you’re impossible.”
“Thank you,” Louis said sweetly.
“I’m not giving up, you know,” Harry added, nudging his socked foot against Louis’s under the coffee table. “I’ll keep pushing until you fall for me. Fully. No takebacks.”
Louis hummed, leaning back and stretching his arms behind his head with an infuriating grin. “Just so you know, I’m high maintenance. Full-time job. Emotional rollercoaster. I come with mood swings, skincare routines, and dramatic exits. This is not a trial version.”
Harry leaned forward like he was closing a deal. “Perfect. I like my men theatrical, radiant, and occasionally unhinged.”
Louis blinked. “That’s just a mirror, Ace.”
Harry grinned like the devil himself. “Exactly. I like what I like.”
____________
They ended up in Harry’s bed, wrapped in the warmth of each other and the honesty that had finally passed between them. Louis felt impossibly light, giddy and breathless, his heart racing in his chest. Maybe it was love, or maybe it was adrenaline, or maybe it was just Harry. God, he’d missed him. Missed this . Or, alright, maybe also Harry’s cock—he wasn’t going to lie about that.
They came together like a fuse being lit, no teasing, no patience. Their clothes came off in frantic movements, each piece flung carelessly aside as if fabric was the only thing keeping them from breathing properly. They barely made it to the bed. There wasn’t much foreplay—not in the traditional sense. Just kisses that tasted like relief, hands that mapped skin like they were making up for lost time, and bodies that knew each other better than either of them wanted to admit. They were young, horny, reckless university students, and nobody could blame them for the sheer intensity that overtook them.
Harry had him coming twice before Louis even thought to catch his breath. Once with their chests pressed flush, Louis gasping into Harry’s mouth with every grind of their hips. And again when Harry whispered that he loved him, over and over, like it was the only thing that could keep them tethered to the present. Louis clung to him like he was drowning, pressing kisses to his neck and jaw, moaning into his skin because he didn’t have the words to say how much he’d missed being seen like this—wanted like this.
When it was over, Louis was wrecked in the best way, trembling in Harry’s arms with a warmth that went bone-deep. His body was sore, his hair a mess, and his lips kiss-bruised, but he’d never felt so whole. So satisfied. He melted against Harry’s chest with a quiet sigh, feeling something settle in him for the first time in weeks. Maybe longer. Maybe forever.
____________
Later, they stumbled into the shower together, barely speaking, too spent and blissed out to do much more than lean on each other. Louis was boneless, eyes half-lidded and limbs heavy, and he could’ve fallen asleep standing up if not for the hot spray of water waking up every inch of his skin. He stood quietly under the stream, letting the heat melt him, while Harry moved around him with gentle hands and soft hums—ever the caretaker when it came to Louis.
Harry lathered soap over his skin, rubbing slow, patient circles into his sore muscles, massaging shampoo into his hair with fingers so delicate it made Louis shiver. He didn’t speak, just kissed Louis’s temple now and then like he was something sacred, something worth handling with reverence. And Louis, in his dreamy haze, thought he could definitely get used to this—being spoiled rotten by a boy with strong hands and a stupidly soft heart.
But apparently, they weren’t done.
Because before Louis could even step out and reach for a towel, Harry caught him by the waist and bent him gently forward against the foggy mirror, mouthing at the back of his neck like he was starving all over again. Louis didn’t protest—his knees went weak the second he felt the hard press of Harry’s cock against his ass, already lining up with maddening precision.
Then Harry pushed in with one smooth, brutal stroke, and Louis gasped—his body arching, slick with water and heat and sweat. There was no time to catch his breath. No room for anything but the sound of skin against skin and Harry’s filthy voice in his ear, low and full of awe.
“Fucking beautiful, sweetheart,” he rasped, hips snapping forward with force, “look at yourself in the mirror.”
Louis tried. He lifted his head, eyes fluttering open, and stared at the vision in front of him. His reflection was a picture of sin—flushed cheeks, wet hair sticking to his temples, mouth parted in a moan as his body took everything Harry gave him. His eyes were nearly black with lust, wild and gleaming, and he swore he didn’t recognize himself. Not like this.
“F-fuck, Ace,” he moaned, overwhelmed, eyes beginning to flutter shut again—but Harry wasn’t having it.
A strong hand wrapped around Louis’s throat—not tight, not choking, just firm enough to hold him there. Keep him open. Keep him watching .
“Don’t stop looking,” Harry whispered, voice dripping with hunger. “I want you to see how fucking sexy you are when I fuck you. Want you to remember this.”
Louis whimpered, caught in that place between pleasure and surrender, his legs trembling under the weight of Harry’s pace—unrelenting, perfect, like he knew exactly what Louis needed. And maybe he did. Because every thrust knocked the air from Louis’s lungs and built a pressure inside him so strong, so desperate, he thought he might shatter from it.
And if this was what breaking felt like, he’d let Harry destroy him every damn time.
____________
Three Months Later
Being Harry Styles’ boyfriend doesn’t feel all that different from being his… whatever-the-hell-they-were-before. Friends with benefits? Kinda. Best friends with emotional attachments and excellent sex? Maybe. Louis isn’t sure they ever got a proper label, but the vibes were consistent: chaotic, horny, and stupidly sweet.
He still sleeps over at Harry’s most nights, still gets wrecked in ways that should come with a chiropractor’s note and a medal. Their sex life is basically an Olympic event—loud, athletic, and dangerously competitive. Louis is pretty sure they’ve both pulled muscles trying to outdo each other in the “who can make the other come more times before passing out” game.
At parties, they still flirt like drunk teenagers. Harry, the golden retriever in a Greek god’s body, still charms everyone he meets. And Louis still gets those god-awful knock-knock jokes via text at 2 a.m. like it’s a love language. (It is. Unfortunately.) He still goes to all Harry’s games and cheers so loud it embarrasses them both, still parties with him after, still gets doted on like he’s the last piece of cake at a birthday party.
So yeah—not much has changed.
Except now they say I love you like it’s a habit. Now there are dates—real ones, with actual food and feelings. Now they talk about scary stuff like insecurities and childhood trauma over milkshakes. Now they get jealous, like, embarrassingly so. Harry nearly knocked Trevor’s teeth out when the guy got too friendly with Louis last week. Louis, for his part, almost growled at a girl who tried to sit on Harry’s lap at a party. Almost. He just glared instead. Progress.
But the biggest not-change? No one knows . Not their friends, not their frat brothers, not the pizza guy who sees Louis in Harry’s shirt every weekend.
They’ve talked about it—many times, in fact—but every time they get close to going public, one of them says, “Maybe just a little longer?” and the other agrees too fast. Because sneaking around is weirdly hot. And being in their own private bubble of inside jokes and secret kisses is kind of addictive.
It’s not the most mature plan, Louis knows. It’s definitely a bad habit. But it’s their habit. And honestly? It’s working. For now.
Until it all came to a screeching, soap-opera-style halt—because of course it did. And of course, it happened on spring break.
It was supposed to be the ultimate getaway. The whole frat booked a villa near the beach—ten bedrooms, a private pool, and enough patio furniture to pass out on after a tequila-fueled night of bad decisions. Everyone was buzzing with excitement, ready to temporarily forget final exams, deadlines, and whatever emotional crisis they’d been ignoring.
Liam was in charge of booking the place (because he “had points”), but Louis, ever the schemer, took it upon himself to assign rooms. With twenty people and limited space, everyone had to bunk up. So naturally , Louis volunteered to share with Harry and oh-so-casually stuck them in the furthest room from everyone else.
Because here’s the thing: Louis likes to be loud when he’s getting railed by Harry’s Godzilla-level dick. And he doesn’t particularly want to scream “Harder, Ace, fucking ruin me” while poor Niall is brushing his teeth next door.
The plan was foolproof. Until it wasn’t.
It was one of those lazy spring break mornings. The sun was shining, birds were chirping, and Louis was riding Harry like it was his only purpose in life. Slow, sweet, filthy—Harry was gripping his hips like he owned them, whispering all kinds of nasty encouragement while Louis stroked himself toward orgasm number one of the day.
All was well.
Until the door exploded open.
Louis barely had time to gasp before Liam started to scream, arms flailing like he’d walked in on a crime scene.
“OH MY GOD. OH MY ACTUAL GOD!” Liam shrieked, face turning every shade of trauma. “I—I SAW EVERYTHING! LOUIS, I SAW YOUR WHOLE ASS! I SAW YOUR—WHATEVER—YOUR—OH MY GOD!!”
Harry tackled Louis down onto the mattress like a soldier diving on a grenade, trying to cover him with the sheet while Louis just sort of squeaked and flailed and wished for death.
“What’s happening?!” Tom shouted as he came sprinting down the hall, crashing into the doorway like a human wrecking ball. “WHY ARE YOU SCREAMING?!”
“They’re— fucking! ” Liam wailed, clutching the doorframe like he needed emotional support. “I walked in on Louis riding Harry like a goddamn porn star! ”
And then—because chaos has absolutely no brakes —Niall arrived. Then Ed. Then Charlie. Then Danny. One by one, the entire frat assembled outside their door like they were watching a live-action telenovela. Everyone just stood there , frozen, staring at Harry and Louis like they'd just admitted to being secret agents. Or, worse— in love .
“I knew it!” Niall screeched, practically vibrating, bouncing on his toes like a sugar-high bunny at a rave.
“You knew what ?!” Louis snapped, face redder than a fire truck. “You didn’t know shit!”
“Really?” Niall replied with a smirk so smug it could be classified as a hate crime. “You two aren’t as sneaky as you think. ‘ Louisa ’? Really, Harry?”
Harry groans out loud while Louis shakes his head at him. He knew Niall won’t buy it.
“Who’s Louisa?” Tom asked, eyes still wide, looking like someone just broke his brain. Liam, meanwhile, refused to look directly at either of them—his gaze fixed somewhere in the upper corner of the room like he was trying to disassociate mid-air. Louis was going to owe him so many drinks. So many.
“Well—” Niall started, but Harry cut in, full president mode activated.
“All of you—GET OUT! NOW!” he barked. “This isn’t a free show! We’re NAKED down here!”
The younger frat boys scattered instantly, scrambling like panicked hens who just witnessed their rooster doing... too much . All but five: Liam, Niall, Tom, Charlie, and Danny remained, apparently immune to both shame and boundaries.
“Guys—” Harry began, his voice more exhausted now, but Charlie wasn’t having it.
“What does this mean?” he demanded, arms crossed like he was about to start a group intervention. “Are you two in a relationship , or just casually defiling every mattress within reach?”
“We…” Harry tried, but Louis rolled his eyes hard enough to sprain something.
“We’re in a relationship, you gossip gremlins ,” Louis said, still tangled in the sheets like a disgruntled burrito. “Now leave , so I can mourn the orgasm Liam screamed away.”
“But…” Danny said, his voice small, like he was witnessing his parents tell him Santa isn’t real. “But you guys can’t be in a relationship ! No! That means—if you break up—we’ll have to choose sides ! I can’t choose! I love you both!”
Tom patted Danny’s back solemnly. “It’s okay, Danny. Dad and Daddy would never make us choose.”
There was a long beat of silence.
Then Harry dropped his face into the pillow with a muffled groan, and Louis—because his mouth had no brakes either—blurted out, “Okay, but if you had to choose, you’d all pick me , right?”
Harry’s head snapped up like he’d been personally attacked. “ I’m sorry?! I’m their frat president. I was literally elected. I have been chosen.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Louis waved him off, stroking Harry’s bare arm with deliberate casualness. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, ace.” Then he turned back to the others, pointing accusingly. “Well?!”
The five looked at each other with all the seriousness of a jury in a murder trial.
“I’d actually pick Harry,” Niall said, too cheerfully.
“WHAT?!” Louis shrieked. “I’m your soccer captain ! What do you mean you’d choose Harry?!”
Niall shrugged like it was obvious. “I love you, Lou, but you can’t cook. I’m not living in a house where dinner is microwave noodles and toast for six months straight.”
Harry puffed out his chest like an arrogant peacock. “Thank you, Niall.” He turned to Louis with a shit-eating grin. “Sorry, sweetheart, but they would starve under your regime.”
Louis gasped, scandalized. “ Liam ?!”
Liam, still staring fixedly at a very safe corner of the ceiling, spoke flatly. “I choose Harry. I literally can’t look at you right now. Not after seeing… what I saw. I need therapy. Possibly Jesus.”
Louis flopped back on the bed and muttered bitterly, “I knew I should’ve let you do all the work this time, you lazy asshole.”
Harry just smirked and kissed his shoulder. “Next time, sweetheart. I’ll even light candles.”
“I’d choose you, Louis,” Tom said, raising his hand like they were in homeroom. “But only if I get my own room when we all move into the fallout house. I refuse to sleep on a couch again while you cry-fuck your way through a breakup. That era of my life was… dark.”
Louis groaned, dragging a pillow over his face.
Danny sniffled quietly. “I still don’t want to choose.”
“You don’t have to,” Harry said, softer now, his thumb brushing against Louis’s cheek as he pushed a bit of messy hair out of his face. “Because we’re not breaking up.”
“Yeah,” Louis agreed, lips twitching into a crooked smile as he jabbed a finger into Harry’s chest. “Not unless he calls me Louisa again.”
Harry grinned, all dimples and mischief. “I maintain it was endearing.”
Louis raised an eyebrow. “You also maintain that pineapple belongs on pizza, so your judgment is clearly flawed.”
For a moment, the room stilled. A strange kind of peace settled in the air—like the storm had passed and now they were standing in the slightly sweaty, definitely traumatized, but somehow sunny aftermath.
Then Niall clapped his hands with all the ceremony of someone trying to reboot the day. “Right! Now that we’ve all been emotionally stripped and visually assaulted, can we please have breakfast? I’m starving and, honestly, I think I used up my weekly serotonin quota.”
“I second that,” Liam muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’d aged ten years. “But I’m sitting as far as humanly possible from Louis . I mean it. I don’t want to see so much as a his hair.”
“Valid,” Harry said, holding up his hands in surrender, still naked under the sheet.
Louis groaned but allowed himself to be tugged up from the mattress, dragging the duvet with him like a royal cape of shame. His hair was sticking up at wild angles, his legs were wobbly, and there was a very real chance his thighs would be sore until Tuesday. “Fine. But don’t look at me. Or talk to me. Or breathe in my direction until I’ve had coffee.”
Harry just grinned wider, slinging an arm around Louis’s waist like nothing in the world had ever made him happier. “That’s my boy.”
As the guys finally filtered out—still muttering, still scandalized, still so very frat—the room slowly emptied. Charlie dramatically crossed himself as he passed the bed. Tom patted Louis on the back with a solemn, “You’re braver than the troops.” Danny whispered, “I’m still emotionally processing,” and wandered off like a Victorian widow.
And then, finally, it was just them.
Harry bent to kiss Louis’s temple, slow and lingering, and the tension in Louis’s shoulders melted like snow under sun.
“You know,” Harry murmured as they stepped into the hallway, fully dressed this time, “for a bunch of frat boys, that went surprisingly well.”
Louis snorted, leaning into his side. “You mean no one cried, and Danny didn’t faint? Sure. Let’s call that a win.”
“We survived coming out via unsolicited sex scene,” Harry said proudly.
“ Iconic, ” Louis replied, intertwining their fingers like it was second nature. “We should trademark it.”
The villa was buzzing now—sunlight pouring through the windows, the scent of bacon and something vaguely burnt wafting from the kitchen. Someone had connected a speaker and queued up a playlist titled “Gay Awakening: Poolside Edition.” Niall was already yelling about someone stealing his socks. Again.
Louis smiled despite himself. Tucked under Harry’s arm, sleepy, hair a mess, heart weirdly full.
This wasn’t how they planned to tell their friends.
But then again, they’d never been the planning type.
And maybe that was the whole point—love didn’t always have to be perfect. Just real.
Just theirs.