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Wednesday is excruciating.
The days before drops always are, to be fair, but this time around it's damn near insurmountable. What with everything else he’s been balancing, Louis is undeniably utterly exhausted. It's the goddamn fifth meeting of the day and it's hardly three in the afternoon. Pressure builds behind his eyes.
Someone at the head of the table says something about tariffs and how shipping prices to the US are going to be astronomical as a result, and the pressure behind his eyes increases. How is it possible that everything is such a bloody shitshow all at once?
“Louis, any thoughts?”
“On tariffs in general? Not really my area,” he says drily, pinching the bridge of his nose. Oli elbows him. He shoots him a glare; the arsehole doesn’t even have to show face tomorrow. “They fucking blow, I dunno. Sounds like there's no way around them, innit?”
“So, no thoughts, I guess,” Oli says. Louis just shrugs.
Everyone else goes back to discussions and he pulls his phone out under the table, glancing at his notifications.
H, 14:21 — Got home abt half hour ago. You almost out?
He glances around. Oli raises an eyebrow.
“H,” Louis mouths. Oli’s expression softens.
Louis, 14:42 — nope. one after this too
H, 14:42 — Damn.
H, 14:42 — Want me to order dinner?
Louis, 14:42 — plz
H, 14:43 — Getting a curry.
H, 14:43 — Or do you want butter chicken? I hear you’re into that these days
Louis snorts despite himself, earning another elbow to the ribs from Oli and a death glare from the event management team. He chews the inside of his cheek.
Louis, 14:44 — hate u
Louis, 14:44 — i could strangle u
H, 14:44 — You aren’t tall enough :P
Louis, 14:45 — u sunk low enough for me to reach w that one
Louis, 14:45 — couch for u tn
Louis, 14:45 — and i’m only 2 inches shorter than u wanker
H, 14:46 — You’d miss me.
Louis, 14:46 — always miss u
H, 14:46 — Sap.
H, 14:46 — Order placed, should be here around 7. See you soon. Proud of you. x
Louis, 14:47 — thx. stuff fr u on the bed btw. love u xx
Sliding his phone away, Louis doesn't bother tuning back in. He's mostly a figurehead for these meetings. Logistics like this aren't his forte; his role for events is to sit and look pretty and support the brand. He had hand-selected the models for the shoot as well as which articles would be featured, popping in and out of design talks throughout the entire process. As heavily involved as he is in the rest of it, he’s usually content to sit back and let the event things themselves play out. Everything this year has felt different, though.
One thing always remains true: talking to Harry in any capacity grounds Louis quicker than anything else. He pictures Harry finding the collection of clothes waiting for him on their bed, various articles from tomorrow’s drop Louis had specially selected for Harry and painstakingly organized on their bed this morning before he left. He knows his husband well enough to know which pieces he’ll gravitate toward, and he has an idea of what to expect when he gets home already.
“—and we’ll have her in the pink, of course.”
Louis jolts. “What?”
Oli tenses next to him. “Louis—”
“No, what was that?”
“Uh, for the event,” the woman speaking — Hannah or something, Louis hasn’t really bothered to learn her name, what with who she manages — explains. “We’re thinking since you’ll be in the blue knit vest, the pink one is perfect for Z—”
“Absolutely the fuck not,” Louis snaps. “What the fuck? We already sent the shit over for you, we’re not adding any fucking more.”
“But we were thinking it makes more sense to match—”
“I said fucking no, didn’t I? Am I speaking out loud, or?” Louis would wince at his own tone any other time, but he's really had it with this. His nerves are raw from the constant exposure. “Seriously, what is your fucking problem?”
“Louis,” Oli says quietly. “Chill out, mate. S’her job, innit?”
Louis rolls his eyes. “She’s wearing the fucking shirt and jacket. M’not giving out any other fucking clothes for free.”
Hannah-or-whatever frowns. “We’ve been told a rather large set of things were set aside—”
“For my fucking husband and family, you idiot,” Louis snaps, pushing back from the table. “Or did you forget about him? Don’t answer that, I don’t want to know. This has been lovely, really, but if we’re quite finished, I’d like to head home to my husband and avoid dealing with any of this shit until tomorrow evening.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Tomlinson,” Antony says from near the head of the table. “We’re just about finished here anyway. Tell the other Mr. Tomlinson we say hello, yeah?”
“Sure,” Louis says, voice tight. He has nothing against Antony; the man has been an asset to the team more than anything, but knowing he goes home to his own husband every night only ruffles Louis’ feathers. He claps Oli on the shoulder. “Later, mate.”
“Give H my love,” he says, patting the back of Louis’s hand.
He squeezes Oli’s shoulder and slips out of the room, letting the door slam behind him. Part of him feels bad — it's not Hannah-or-whatever’s fault, at least not entirely, that all of this is happening, and she certainly isn’t the mastermind behind the entire shitshow that's been 2025, so realistically there was no reason for her to be the recipient of Louis’s little meltdown. He’s just so fucking tired. He had thought to some extent it might have been easier to have such an obvious PR stunt, but that's proven not the case in the slightest.
Making his way to the parking lot and into the driver’s seat of his car, Louis slumps down and exhales sharply into the silence. The forty minute’s drive between himself and Harry feels impossible — as if Harry didn’t just get off a two hour flight. And fucking Antony gets to go home to his husband every night of the week, wanker.
Starting the car, Louis calls Harry as he pulls out of the garage.
“Now, I know you have at least one more meeting, because I did actually make Oli send me your schedule for the day,” Harry says in lieu of hello. Louis bites down on a grin.
“Remind me to fire him. He’s not supposed to be giving out confidential information to fans,” he replies.
Harry gasps, loud and over the top, and Louis just grins harder. “Inconveniently, I think I forgot the name of the man who sent me the schedule… Oscar? Oligarch? Oregano?”
Louis breaks out into a laugh, pulling into traffic. “Somehow, I don’t think I’ve employed anyone with any of those names, if I’m honest.”
“Hm, shame,” Harry says, then falls quiet. Louis lets it linger for a few moments, listening to the rustle of movement on Harry’s end of the line as he shifts around, likely unpacking. When he speaks again, Harry’s voice is softer. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Louis sighs. “Looking forward to seeing you, you know.”
“Mm, better be. I showered and everything.”
Louis laughs again. “Use the soap I like?”
“And the corresponding lotion, yes, you’re welcome,” Harry confirms coyly. Louis shakes his head, merging carefully into the turn lane. “I love the color palette for this drop, by the way. It’s really, really stunning, love.”
“Yeah?” Louis asks softly. “You think so?”
“I do, very much so. I like the androgyny of it, as well,” he says. “I mean, I always do, but it feels a bit like you’ve leaned into it a bit more this go-round.”
“One of the designers who took more of a hand in this one said she took inspiration from her wife’s closet,” Louis admits, laughing lightly. “Told her my wife would appreciate it.”
Harry hums. “She does.”
Louis sucks his lower lip into his mouth and bites down on it. “Yeah? She try anything on yet?”
“Perhaps.” He doesn’t elaborate.
“Tease,” Louis groans, dragging his vowels out.
“How much longer?”
“Twenty minutes.” Louis glances at the speedometer. “Fifteen, if you don’t throw a fit if I break a few speed limits.”
“I’ve never thrown a fit in my life,” Harry sniffs. “Maybe you should actually turn around and go to your meeting.”
“See you in twenty, baby,” Louis says with another soft laugh. Harry makes a disgruntled sound before the line goes dead, and Louis shakes his head. His phone buzzes in the cupholder and he glances at the screen.
H, 15:40 — Drive safe.
H, 15:40 — * photo attached*
Louis groans at the photo, just the hem of one of the pairs of shorts he had set aside for Harry and the endless expanse of his thigh stretching out from underneath. The top edge of his tiger tattoo barely peeks out from the bottom of the photo. He can’t wait to get his mouth on him the second he gets home.
Somehow the next seventeen minutes of driving are both the slowest-moving passing of time Louis has ever experienced as well as the fastest he has ever made it through the streets of greater London, and he is slamming their door closed behind himself in almost record time. He kicks off his trainers, prepared to leave them in a pile in the entryway when—
“You’d better be planning to pick those up,” Harry calls from somewhere else in the house.
“They’re already in my hand, sun,” Louis replies, rolling his eyes.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me! I know they’re on the floor still.”
Louis scoffs to himself, bending forward and picking them up, dropping them delicately into the shoe organizer Harry has carefully curated just past the entryway. He makes his way through the main floor, finding his husband in the living room, lounging on the couch.
Looking up when Louis crosses into the room, Harry’s face lights up. He’s still in the mushroom-colored shorts, hiked up high on his thighs, cutting sharply into the meat of them where he has one leg propped up. He also has on the pink vest. Louis’s stomach twists. With his hair recently trimmed and all freshly washed up, Harry is a walking wet dream. Louis crosses the room without a second thought, holding out his hands and tugging Harry to his feet.
“Let’s see it all, then,” he says softly, holding Harry at arm’s length. Harry’s cheeks flush, but he spins dutifully for Louis, ducking slightly under Louis’s arm and letting him get the full effect. “Stuning, baby.”
“Yeah?” Harry asks softly, biting at his lower lip. “You like it?”
“Well, I helped design the clothes, so.”
“Smartarse.” Harry rolls his eyes, dropping back to the couch. He keeps looking up at Louis, eyes dark, and leans back against the arm of the couch as he stretches his legs back out over the couch cushions.
Every day of his life, Louis thanks anyone listening that he and Harry shopped for furniture while keeping in mind that they would likely end up fucking on every possible surface in their home. He’s even more grateful today as he climbs between Harry’s thighs, more than enough room on their couch for the two of them, and runs his fingertips under the hem of the shorts. Harry’s lips part as he looks up at him, pink tongue darting over his bottom lip. The green of his eyes is almost entirely blown out by his pupils as he looks up at Louis from where he’s lounged back against the arm of the couch and Louis wants to take him apart until he cries. He almost wants to ruin the new clothes.
Digging his fingertips into the meat of Harry’s thighs, he finally ducks down to kiss him. His own mustache catches against Harry’s, soft and sharp all at once, and Harry whimpers into his mouth immediately. Harry’s hands come up to rove over his jaw and around the back of his head, nails scratching through the close-cropped hair behind his ears and then carding through the longer strands at the top of his head and tugging gently, as if grounding himself. Louis draws his fingers out from beneath the hem of the shorts and slides his hands up the sides of Harry’s waist beneath the vest as he drops his hips, pinning Harry’s hips to the couch.
He swallows the moan that tears itself from Harry’s throat at the sudden onslaught of sensation, smothering a self-satisfied grin in another biting kiss. He’s hard in his joggers, all from a little kissing and seeing Harry in the new drop.
“They wanted to put her in the vest,” he murmurs against Harry’s mouth, breaking the kiss but not pulling back and grinding his hips forward against Harry’s. His husband is hard against him, likely leaking in his shorts already.
“Hm? What vest?” Harry sounds slightly dazed, hips twitching, gaze flicking between Louis’ eyes and his lips.
“The one you’re wearing.” Louis kisses him again, hard. “This one.”
“What?” Harry draws his head back, frowning. “But you have the blue one, I saw it in the closet.”
“That’s why they wanted to.” Louis drops his head to Harry’s throat, nipping at the fragile skin behind the bolt of Harry’s jaw and dragging a whine from his throat. “Don’t worry, told them no. Well, not in those words. Might’ve used a few extra words.”
Harry tilts his head with a whining sigh, granting Louis easier access, hips bucking up into Louis’ own. “Kinda love it when you get mean,” he murmurs, words slurring slightly. “S’hot.”
Louis laughs, biting sharply behind his ear. “Yeah, baby? You like it when I’m mean to you?”
Whining, Harry shivers. “Yeah, sometimes.”
“There’s a girl,” he says, and Harry whines.
It’s always like this, with Harry. Fifteen years in, and it’s still always like this.
Harry writhes under Louis’ ministrations, wearing clothes Louis gave input on the designs for. Wearing clothes with Louis’s brand on the tag. And damn, if he doesn’t wear them better than anyone else ever could.
Sitting up, Louis tugs Harry up with him and pulls him bodily into his lap, splaying him open over his thighs. The shorts stretch obscenely over Harry’s spread legs, the bulge of his erection obvious, a small wet patch darkening the fabric at the head of his cock. Hardly ten minutes and he looks debauched, chest heaving, flushed from his cheeks down to his chest, disappearing beneath the vest — the vest that’s been knocked askew, one swallow on almost full display. Louis settles his hands on Harry’s hips and looks over him for a long few moments. Harry trails his hands up Louis’ shoulders to rest them on either side of his neck, pressing his thumbs into his collarbones.
The pink of the vest makes his flush more pronounced than usual, painting him in an almost-ethereal light — not that Harry is ever anything short of ethereal. Louis presses his thumbs into the warm skin of Harry’s hipbones, just above where the waistband of the shorts digs in, and Harry’s hips jerk minutely into the touch. Even like this, at thirty-one and broad-shouldered and masculine, Harry is still something so sweet for Louis it makes his teeth ache.
He leans against the back of the couch. “So pretty, baby,” he murmurs. “Look at you, wearing the clothes I picked out for you.”
Harry nods, saccharine thing that he is, gaze fixed on Louis. “Good taste, sweet.”
“What time is dinner coming?”
“Seven.” Harry shifts on Louis’s lap, weight pressing firmly against Louis’s cock. “Still got a few hours, you were supposed to have a meeting.”
Louis glances at the clock on the wall, noting it’s barely half-five. “We have an hour and a half.”
Harry makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Okay, sorry, I’ll be more specific next time.”
Rolling his eyes, Louis drags him forward by the hips, letting him fall forward. The shift in position presses their cocks together, startling a strangled sound out of Harry. “If we had a few hours, I’d have time to fuck you proper, wouldn’t I, sun? But we don’t.”
“Lou—” Harry whines, grinding forward. “An hour and a half is plenty of time.”
“Not if I wanna really take you apart.” Louis pets over Harry’s stomach, dipping his fingertips the tiniest bit beneath the waistband of the shorts and tugging it down. “Take my time with you. But I bet you could come twice by the time dinner gets here, d’you think?”
“Jesus Christ, Louis,” Harry chokes, hips bucking up into his touch. Louis smirks. Harry has always been easy to rile up, all the way from the time they first met. “Yeah, fuck, please.”
“Sweet thing,” Louis murmurs, stretching up to capture Harry’s mouth with his own once again. He slips his hand into the shorts, petting down Harry’s lower stomach, sucking in a breath when his fingers brush soft lace. He pulls back, shooting Harry a look.
“Didn’t tell you I only tried on the stuff you gave me,” Harry says coyly, a smug look crossing his face.
Louis shoves at Harry’s hips. “Stand up,” he rasps. “Up, up.” Harry goes, obedient as ever. “Show me.”
Harry pouts. “Say please.”
Rolling his eyes, Louis shifts forward to sit on the edge of the couch. “Please, baby.”
“Since you asked so nicely.” Harry tucks his thumbs beneath the waistband of the shorts, sliding them slowly down over the swell of his hips, revealing pink lace the exact shade of the vest he’s wearing. Louis’s breath catches in his throat, and he stops Harry’s hands by the wrists, pinning them in place.
He doesn’t know where to look first. The lace perfectly encompasses Harry’s cock, swollen and leaking and cradled beautifully between his legs. It stretches over his thighs, framing the muscles cut and defined from all the running he’s been doing. The very center of the panties' waistband meets in a perfect v-shape, centered directly down from Harry’s belly-button, interrupting the path of soft hair leading to his cock.
“Christ, H,” he breathes, taking him by the hips again. He pulls him back toward him, but Harry gets tangled in the shorts still around his thighs, stumbling slightly. Louis clicks his tongue. “My clumsy girl, hm?”
“Fuck off,” Harry mutters, cheeks flushing again.
Smirking, Louis gets off the couch and moves behind Harry, pressing him forward onto his knees, letting him lean his face against the back of the couch. “Look good enough to eat, y’know. Might just.”
Harry lets out another strangled sound, hips fucking forward into empty air. Louis rubs a soothing hand up and down his spine, beneath the vest, relishing in the smooth warmth of his skin. Settling his knees on either side of Harry’s, Louis blankets himself over Harry’s back and presses a kiss to his exposed shoulder, then another to the side of his throat, then his cheek, then finally to his mouth. Harry opens for him immediately, letting him lick into the slick warmth of his mouth with a soft whimper, pliable and easy under him. His back arches, his arse pressing into Louis’s crotch.
He slides one hand under Harry, rubbing his cock over the lace, and Harry sobs into his mouth. He jerks into Louis’s touch at the sensation, but Louis holds him in place with his own body. It’s incredible, how easy Harry is for him. How well Harry goes along with whatever Louis might want, especially after he’s had a long day and wants nothing more than to be able to lose himself in taking care of Harry — or in making Harry fall apart as many times as he possibly can. It’s mutually beneficial, he supposes; he gets to distract himself from the role he’ll play all day tomorrow, and his husband gets fucked within an inch of his life. Wins all around.
“Want you to come like this,” Louis murmurs into Harry’s ear. “And then m’gonna eat you out until you cry.”
“Fuck,” Harry sobs, turning his head and pressing his face into the back of the couch. His hips undulate into Louis’s hand, his rhythm already growing sloppy.
“So easy, Harry, honestly,” Louis murmurs, pressing his aching cock against Harry’s arse again. “Falling apart like this and all we’ve done is a little kissing. Such a fucking slut for it.”
He slips his hand beneath the lace finally, wrapping his fingers around Harry’s cock. His thumb brushes over the slit as he draws the foreskin back and Harry jolts like he’s been electrocuted, a half-cry getting cut off in his throat. Louis decides all at once he wants to be kissing Harry when he comes and he pulls Harry’s back to his own chest, straightening them both up with all the core strength he can muster. Harry turns his face toward him automatically, drawn to him like a magnet, and falls into kissing him.
It’s hardly another five strokes of Harry’s cock before he’s falling apart, soaking his pretty panties with come and sobbing into Louis’s mouth. Louis strokes him through it, Harry’s hips shifting into the touch even as the rest of his body tenses, nothing but soft gasps and whimpers escaping him as his orgasm takes him. Louis carefully bends him forward again in the aftershocks, tucking his cock back into the saturated lace.
“Pretty, pretty girl,” Louis murmurs. Harry makes a soft noise in acknowledgement, but makes no other sound.
From this angle, he is a sight. Pink lace stretched over his ass almost to the point of tearing, brown-grey shorts digging into the meat of his thighs acting as a binding, back bowed, cheek pressed to the back of the couch, Louis wants to take a photo and set it as his lockscreen. Better yet, he wants to take a photo and share it to all social media platforms he possibly can — perhaps even caption is something astronomical, another #WeLiveTogetherDealWithIt.
He would never, but if he could…
Resting his hands on Harry’s hips again, he presses the hem of the knit vest up a bit, exposing more of Harry’s lower back. Harry whimpers softly, canting his hips toward Louis.
“Pretty girl,” Louis murmurs again. He shifts backwards, again grateful for the sheer size of their couch. He presses Harry forward until he’s almost flush to the back of the couch, bent over the top of it, hinged at hips, trembling the barest bit. Even his back is flushed.
Louis presses a soft kiss to the base of his spine and Harry jolts, swallowing down his own moan, and Louis lands a solid open-handed swat to the side of his arse. “Let me hear you, princess. Don’t you get shy on me now.”
Harry whines. “Fuck, Louis, please.”
“Please what, sun, what do you need?” He presses the lace against Harry’s hole with his thumb while he waits for a reply, feeling the easy give of his husband’s body now that he’s already come once.
“Want your mouth, sweet, please,” Harry snaps, just shy of sarcasm, just shy of desperation, and Louis loves him.
Instead of dignifying him with a vocal response, Louis sinks his teeth into the same side of his arse he’d just smacked, biting harder at the guttural groan dragged from Harry’s throat. He presses the tip of his thumb just past the ring of muscle at Harry’s entrance, pressing his pretty lace panties into his body for just a moment before moving to replace his thumb with his mouth. The noise Harry lets out at this should be illegal, it’s so obscene. Louis throbs in his joggers, impossibly hard and impossibly turned on, aching to be inside his boy. He licks at him through the lace, surrounded entirely by the scent of lavender bodywash and sweat and Harry to the point he’s almost dizzy with it.
Using both hands, Louis spreads Harry open to grant himself easier access. The hem of the pink vest slips down Harry’s back with how heavily he’s panting, brushing Louis’s forehead, and it only serves to remind him that he’s wearing Louis’s brand while getting eaten out on their couch. That he flew home today to spend the night with Louis before his big drop tomorrow, like he always tries to — even knowing he won’t be able to attend in person. Perhaps because he won’t be able to attend in person. Louis groans.
He hooks a thumb into the lace and finally tugs it to the side, exposing Harry’s hole to the air of their living room. With the thumb of his free hand, he presses at it, tugging gently and watching the way it clenches around nothing, as if trying to suck even just his thumb in. Greedy little thing.
Louis doesn’t waste time. He buries his face back in Harry’s arse, keeping one thumb pressing at the rim to hold it slightly open for his tongue, easing the way in, losing himself to the onslaught of Harry. It’s so easy to do, utterly surrounded by the taste and feel of his husband, listening to the constant outpouring of babbling out of his mouth. One of Harry’s hands finds its way into his hair, burying itself in the longer strands on top of his head and tugging, pulling him even closer into his body, encouraging him to lick faster. He nips at Harry’s rim, alternating between licking and sucking at it and burying his tongue as deep as he can get it inside of Harry’s body.
Harry whines and whimpers above him and Louis relishes in every little noise. Every scratch of his beard against Harry’s arse reminds him that even tomorrow while he’s at the event, Harry will be here, reminded of him, remembering this exact moment.
With the hand not holding the panties aside, Louis slides his middle finger into Harry’s body. Harry keens from above him, loud and sharp, thrust back onto his face. He’s rocking into every motion, body like a live wire, and Louis knows it’s only a matter of moments until he falls apart for the second time tonight. He pets along Harry’s walls, well-familiar with the velvety feel of Harry’s body, and presses sharply on Harry’s prostate, and that’s all it takes for him to lock up and come apart for the second time, sobbing over the back of the couch. His grip on Louis’s hair tightens almost to the point of painful, his body tense, and Louis doesn’t let up for even a moment. He lets Harry ride it out, fucking back onto his finger and his tongue until he’s satisfied, body finally collapsing against the back of the couch.
Shifting, Louis tugs his joggers down just low enough to free his cock before he fists over himself, still holding Harry’s panties to the side. He’s careful to avoid the vest, but within six strokes, he’s painting Harry’s pink lace, hole, and the waistband of his new shorts in come. He lets himself collapse to the side, glancing up at the clock.
“And still just under twenty minutes til seven,” he says, rolling his head to look back at Harry, still slumped over the back of the couch.
“I know you’re going to clean me up,” Harry mutters, voice slightly muffled.
Laughing, Louis pushes himself up. He tucks his own cock away before surveying Harry. It’s a split second decision: he pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens the camera, snapping a photo of him splayed out and covered in Louis’s come, wearing his 28 Official Programme clothes. He won’t do anything with it, other than get off to it more than once, but he will cherish it forever.
“You’re a fucking creep,” Harry says, not turning around. His tone is smug.
“How do you even—”
“Fifteen years.”
Louis rolls his eyes. He adjusts Harry’s panties, even though they’re soaked through, and tugs his shorts up. Harry pushes himself up from the back of the couch, flopping onto his back and glaring up at Louis with his head on the armrest. Louis grins down at him. Harry, grumbling, shifts over, letting Louis situate himself between Harry and the back of the couch.
“You know these shorts are probably ruined,” he says quietly. “Which is a shame, they’re really lovely.”
“You have a blue pair as well, sun,” Louis murmurs, letting Harry curl himself up and press his head under his chin. “But I can get you another of this color, if you want.”
“I do want, yeah,” Harry says. “If that’s okay.”
Louis snorts. “‘Course it’s okay.”
Harry’s quiet for a long moment, fingers absently trailing up and down Louis’s side before he speaks again. “S’okay if they want her to wear it, you know. I’ll live.”
Frowning, Louis pulls his head back. He shifts, ducking to catch Harry’s eye. “It’s not okay. I set specific guidelines. This —” He pinches Harry’s vest and shakes it gently. “— is yours. Not hers. Never hers. It’s not okay to me.”
“Okay,” Harry says softly. Something gentles in his gaze. “I’m so proud of you, you know. I know this — hasn’t been easy.”
“Yeah. M’proud too. This is a good one.” Louis presses a kiss to Harry’s forehead, then to the top of his head. “Wish you could be there.”
“I can wear the blue vest while you fuck me and then it’ll basically be like I am, if you want,” Harry says through a yawn. Louis blinks, the doorbell ringing. “Oh, food’s here.” Harry pushes himself off the couch.
“Wait—” Louis calls.
“Food first, Louis Tomlinson!”
Shaking his head, Louis sits up, listening to Harry talk to the delivery driver through the intercom. He grins a bit to himself. So maybe he could have a little piece of Harry with him, so to speak.