Chapter Text
Louis Tomlinson hated Harry Styles.
Not in the casual, “ugh he’s so annoying” way. No, this was a full-body, knee-jerk, soul-deep irritation, you know, the kind that made his jaw clench every time Harry opened his stupid mouth. And open it he did. Like, constantly.
And Harry hated Louis right back. To him, Louis was a walking Red Bull can with legs, loud, chaotic, smug, and somehow always there. Always smirking and making Harry feel like he was two seconds away from losing his mind.
Their friends had given up trying to intervene years ago. “Jesus Christ,” Niall muttered as Louis and Harry started bickering in the middle of the school courtyard again. “Can’t you two just make out and get it over with?”
Both boys froze and snapped in unison: “Shut up, Niall!”
Which only made everyone else laugh. But the thing was, neither of them were entirely right about the other.
Harry wasn’t a pretentious good-boy teacher’s pet. He just actually tried. He studied, he cared about things, and he hated disappointing people. Louis knew that, somewhere deep down, but it was easier to pretend Harry was acting like he was superior on purpose.
And Louis wasn’t exactly the bad-boy tosspot Harry always thought he was. He was loud, for sure, and he gave off enough chaotic energy to power a small village, but he was also clever, loyal to a fault, and softer than he’d ever admit. Harry knew that, but it didn’t stop him from calling Louis an idiot most days.
And so they fought. All. The. Time.
It could be anything. Who took the last crisp, who ruined the group project, who looked at who “weird.” And today’s crisis?
A fucking pen.
Harry had reached for the last black biro at the same time Louis did. Their fingers brushed, they both paused, then glared. “Let go,” Harry said, voice clipped, curls bouncing as he tugged.
“No,” Louis shot back, yanking harder. “I need it. You write like you’re scared of the paper anyway.”
“At least I can write,” Harry fired back. “You scribble like a toddler who just discovered crayons.”
“Wow,” Louis snorted, “big words from Mr. Head Boy Hopeful. Bet you practise in the mirror.”
“Bet you don’t even own a mirror,” Harry snapped, “since you clearly haven’t looked at your hair since…”
“Lads!” Liam interrupted, smacking both of them upside the head. “Would you two just shut the fuck up? You’re giving me a headache.”
They glared at each other one more time before Louis huffed and dropped the pen. Harry caught it, triumphantly, until Louis flicked him in the forehead and strutted off.
“Absolute wanker,” Harry muttered, rubbing the spot.
Behind him, Zayn sighed. “Mate… you know you only get that worked up around him.”
Harry’s ears flamed. “Because he’s an idiot.”
“Sure,” Zayn said, tone knowing. “Nothing else to it.”
Harry ignored him, or at least he tried to.
Across the courtyard, Louis turned back. For half a heartbeat, they locked eyes and something flickered between them, irritation, sure, but something heavier underneath it. But Louis just rolled his eyes dramatically, flipping him off before disappearing inside.
Harry inhaled sharply, cheeks warm, “Frat boy fuckwit,” he muttered. But even he didn’t sound convinced.
Later that day in PE class, they all played football on what was basically just a mud pit masquerading as a field. Louis was sprinting across the grass like a gremlin with a death wish, too fast and too wild, and Harry, who was overly responsible and also annoyingly good at football, was right behind him.
Suddenly, Louis slipped and Harry, without even thinking for one second, grabbed him by the arm. It wasn’t even dramatic, just a quick, instinctive catch so Louis didn’t face-plant into the mud.
But they froze immediately as Louis’s sleeve clenched in Harry’s fist, then Louis snapped back, jerking his arm away like Harry had burned him. “Hands off, Styles.”
Harry scoffed, cheeks pink. “I was literally saving your face.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t fucking ask.”
And they were back at it. But something had shifted. Louis could feel it buzzing under his skin. Harry could feel it too, something tight, electric and obviously unsaid.
The rest of the lads noticed too. Liam nudged Niall as Harry stormed past, muttering under his breath. “They’re gonna snog by Christmas,” Niall whispered.
“Mm nah,” Zayn sighed, “they’re gonna punch on by Christmas.”
The locker room was loud, metal slamming, boys laughing, the wet slap of muddy boots being kicked off. Steam from the showers drifted lazily through the air, making everything feel humid and gross.
Louis ripped his PE shirt over his head, jaw set so tight his teeth ached. He could feel Harry across the room, he could hear him talking to Liam, hear the stupid huff in his voice every time he replayed the slip-and-catch in his head.
Louis didn’t even have to look; he always knew exactly where Harry was. Which only pissed him off more.
Niall suddenly grabbed his elbow and yanked him into the small space between the lockers, “The fuck is your problem?” Niall hissed.
“With what?” Louis snapped back, already bristling.
“Jesus, Lou, the lad stopped you from face-planting into the mud.”
Louis’s eyes flashed. “I didn’t need his help.”
“Would you have preferred to eat shit?” Niall raised his brows. “Because that’s exactly what was about to happen.”
Louis scowled, yanking his arm out of Niall’s grip. “I had it.”
“You absolutely did not have it,” Niall deadpanned. “You slipped like Bambi on ice.”
Louis glared. “Cheers, mate. Really helpful.”
Niall groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You could’ve just said thanks, you know.”
“For what?!” Louis threw his hands up, voice cracking slightly. “For him grabbing me like I’m some fucking damsel?”
“Yes!” Niall whisper-shouted. “Exactly that! Because you were about to face-plant in front of half the year and he saved you from eternal humiliation.”
Louis clenched his jaw, chest tight with something that definitely wasn’t embarrassment. “He just did it to show off.”
Niall blinked. “How? By catching you?”
Louis opened his mouth, then closed it. He tried again but failed miserably.
Across the room, Harry peeled his muddy shirt off, muscles in his back tensing, curls stuck to his neck. He laughed at something Liam said, the sound low and warm, and Louis’s stomach did something stupid.
Niall followed his line of sight and sighed dramatically. “Lou, mate. You’re being so weird.”
“I’m not being weird.”
“You are. You’re vibrating like a kettle about to scream.”
Louis scowled harder, grabbing his clean shirt and shoving his arms through it aggressively. “Just fucking leave it.”
Niall leaned against the locker, crossing his arms. “He helped you and you bit his head off for no reason.”
“Whatever,” Louis muttered, shoving past him. “He deserved it.”
“Oh yeah?” Niall called after him. “For what?”
Louis didn’t answer. Mostly because he didn’t even know.
Harry slammed his locker a little too hard, the metal echoing across the room. He tried to play it off like nothing, but Liam was already watching him with that annoying, knowing expression. “You good, mate?” Liam asked carefully.
Harry laughed, one of those brittle little laughs that’s basically just pain with a costume on. “Yeah, fine. Totally fine. Why?”
Liam didn’t blink. “Because you look like you’re seconds from either crying or committing a crime.”
Harry scoffed, running a hand through his curls. His fingers were trembling, which also pissed him off. “We just… I really fucking hate him.”
Liam frowned. “Do you, though?”
“Yes!” Harry snapped, voice cracking halfway through. “Yes, Liam, I absolutely fucking do. He hates me and I hate him. That’s… that’s literally our whole thing.” He gestured vaguely in the direction Louis had disappeared, like Louis was some mythical creature responsible for ruining his day.
Liam raised a brow. “So why’re you upset now?”
“I’m not…” Harry started, then stopped because he sounded ridiculous even to himself. He took a shaky breath. “He just… he looked at me like I’d done something awful.”
“You grabbed his arm so he didn’t break his face.”
“EXACTLY,” Harry nearly yelled. “And somehow that made him angry? Like I personally offended him by choosing to prevent a concussion?”
He dragged both hands down his face, muffling a frustrated groan. “It’s stupid. I don’t even care what he thinks. I don’t! I just…” He dropped his hands helplessly. “Fuck. It’s exhausting. Hating someone this much is exhausting.”
Liam nodded slowly. “Yeeeeah, must be terrible… hating someone that much.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “I can hear the sarcasm.”
“Good. I wasn’t hiding it.”
Harry let out another laugh, softer, more vulnerable this time. “He just… gets under my skin, all the time. Everything he does annoys me. Everything he says annoys me. The way he…” He cut himself off abruptly, jaw snapping shut.
Liam waited. Patiently… infuriatingly patiently.
Harry gave up and slumped onto the bench like a deflated balloon. “I just don’t understand him,” he muttered. “I don’t understand why every time he looks at me, I feel like my ribs are too tight.”
Liam tilted his head. “Mm, that is a pickle.”
Harry frowned, immediately suspicious. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking start this shit again.”
Liam held up both hands. “I’m just saying.”
“Liam,” Harry warned.
“H,” Liam tried again, lowering his voice, “come on. You trusted me, yeah? You trusted me when you told me about you being…” He leaned in and whispered, “gay.”
Harry’s eyes widened and he smacked Liam’s shoulder. “Don’t announce it!”
“I whispered,” Liam hissed back, rubbing his arm. “My point is… you trusted me then. Maybe trust me now when I say I think you’re in lo…”
“NO.” Harry nearly yelled it, scrambling upright like the bench was on fire. “Nope. Absolutely not. Shut up. Goodbye.”
Liam blinked as Harry bolted up, cheeks bright red, curls bouncing wildly. “Harry.”
Harry grabbed his bag with a violent flourish. “Nope! Conversation’s over! I’m not… that is not… no.”
“You’re in lo…”
“Liam, I swear to god,” Harry snapped, backing toward the exit like Liam was wielding holy water. “I am not in love with Louis fucking Tomlinson. I’d rather fuck a cactus.”
“Does the cactus also make your ribs tight when it looks at you?” Liam called after him, far too smug.
Harry flipped him off and fled, almost tripping on his own shoes but he kept running, because anything was better than standing still long enough to admit that maybe Liam had hit a nerve.
He shoved open the side door to the school grounds, cool air hitting his hot cheeks. He sucked in a breath, then another, gripping the strap of his bag so tightly his knuckles went pale.
He pushed it down, like he always did. Stuffed it into the same messy drawer in his brain where he kept every inconvenient feeling he’d ever had, fear, confusion, embarrassment, that weird thing that happened when Louis smiled (which didn’t count, obviously) and slammed the drawer shut and leaned his whole weight against it.
He clung to the hate, as exhausting as it was. The hate was easier, cleaner. It made sense.
Anything else meant vulnerability and risk. And admitting that the best and worst part of his day was always Louis and that made no logical sense, and Harry absolutely refused to live in a world where his feelings behaved in such a manner.
No.
He straightened his spine, lifted his chin, and repeated to himself like a mantra: “I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.”
His chest tightened but he ignored it and kept walking, long strides, until the pounding in his head steadied and his pulse stopped tripping over itself.
Louis yanked open the driver’s door of his shitty little hatchback so hard it bounced back and nearly smacked him in the face. He got in anyway, slamming it shut like it was personally responsible for Harry fucking Styles and his stupid green eyes and his stupid arm-grabbing reflexes.
The seatbelt caught on something, making Louis rip it free like a man unhinged. Zayn opened the passenger door with a sigh that suggested he’d lived this day six thousand times over. Niall slid into the back, arms full of textbooks and leftover chips.
They’d planned it earlier, homework at Louis’s house, then dinner, then maybe Mario Kart. And Louis regretted every part of it now.
He shoved the key in the ignition. The engine coughed like an elderly smoker. Perfect.
They drove in total silence, for about ten seconds before Niall leaned forward between the seats like an annoying little parrot of justice. “Okay. What’s the actual problem with Harry?”
Louis’s grip tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. “I told you to drop it.”
“No,” Niall said immediately. “Because he saved your ass from eating mud and you acted like he stabbed your family.”
Zayn snorted softly. “It was pretty dramatic, mate.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Louis snapped, glaring at the road. “I didn’t need his help. I was fine.”
“You were practically horizontal,” Niall said. “Your legs went whoop,” He waved his hands to demonstrate. “And Harry grabbed you before your face met the ground.”
Louis’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “I don’t care. He didn’t need to touch me.”
Zayn hummed. “Yeah, god forbid he stops you from fracturing your skull.”
Louis slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “I SAID DROP IT.”
Silence again.
Briefly.
Niall leaned forward, quieter this time, but not letting it go, he never let anything go. “Why do you hate him so much? Honestly, Harry’s always been so nice.”
Louis scoffed so loudly it echoed in the car. “Nice? Nice?” He waved one hand dramatically out the window. “He’s a pretentious, curly-headed fuck who thinks he’s better than everyone.”
Zayn frowned. “He literally apologises to plants he bumps into.”
“EXACTLY,” Louis said, as if that somehow proved his point.
Niall huffed. “It’s been years, mate. Actual years. What even happened between you two?”
Louis’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, but the answer was nothing. Absolutely nothing had happened.
He shrugged aggressively. “We’ve just… always hated each other. Right from the beginning.”
Niall blinked. “Like… kindergarten beginning?”
“Yup.”
Zayn turned in his seat, eyebrow raised. “So you’re telling us you’ve hated him since you were five.”
“Yep.”
“For no reason.”
“Correct.”
“For eleven consecutive years.”
“Yes.”
Zayn and Niall looked at each other. Then said, in unison, “You’re an idiot.”
Louis slammed his palm against the horn by accident, the car letting out one long, angry HONK as they rolled to a stop at the lights.
He glared straight ahead, “I just don’t fucking like him, okay?” he muttered. But even he didn’t sound convinced. And Zayn and Niall definitely didn’t.
They sprawled across Louis’s bedroom floor, textbooks open but not actually touched. Niall was half-lying on Louis’s bed, flicking through his phone, Zayn was doodling on Louis’s homework sheet and Louis was pretending to focus, tapping his pen so fast it might’ve melted.
He still felt off, twitchy and on edge, with a Harry-shaped annoyance wedged under his ribs, but being home with the boys usually helped. Usually.
But then the bedroom door creaked and the air immediately changed.
Glen, his dad, leaned against the doorframe. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, his shirt half-buttoned like he’d stopped caring halfway through getting dressed. He had that sway, that loose, sloppy, dangerous sway that meant he’d had too much to drink. “Evening, lads,” he slurred.
Zayn straightened immediately and Niall sat up, shoulders tight, but Louis didn’t move.
Glen scanned the room with a lazy smirk. “What’re you all up to? Homework? Or,” His eyes landed on Niall, then Zayn, drifting back to Louis. “Something else?”
Louis’s stomach dropped. “Just homework,” Louis said quickly, voice flat.
Glen’s smirk widened. “Homework, right. With three boys in one room.” He chuckled, low and ugly. “Not… experimenting, are ya?”
Niall’s face went utterly blank. Zayn’s jaw ticked.
“Dad,” Louis said sharply. “Don’t.”
Glen ignored him, stepping fully into the room, leaning against the wall like he owned the place. “Just asking, son. Never know these days. Boys kissing boys, men wearing dresses, whole world’s gone bloody soft.” He laughed again, meaner this time. “Wouldn’t want any of you turning into one of those poofs.”
Niall swallowed hard but Zayn looked ready to launch himself across the room.
Louis’s fingers dug into his own knee. “Go away,” Louis said quietly.
Glen raised an eyebrow, amused. “What was that?”
“Please go away,” Louis repeated, louder this time, voice shaking with fury he kept locked in his chest. “We’re doing homework, and you’re being a dick.”
Glen took a step closer to him, face twisting. “Don’t talk to me like that, boy.”
Louis didn’t flinch, not visibly, but his pulse roared in his ears.
Zayn stood up slowly. “We were just about to go downstairs, Mr Tomlinson,” he said, voice steady but eyes sharp, protective. “Pizza’s coming, yeah? We’ll wait in the living room.”
Glen looked at him, then at Niall, then back at Louis, something smug flickering across his face like he’d won some invisible game. “Good,” he muttered. “Keep the door open, too. Don’t want any… confusion.”
Louis’s hand tightened on the pen until it almost snapped as Glen finally left, footsteps uneven down the hall. The moment he was gone, Niall let out the breath he’d been holding. “Jesus Christ.”
Zayn looked at Louis. “You alright?”
Louis stared at the door, jaw clenched so tight he thought it might crack. “Yeah,” he lied. “Fine.”
But he wasn’t. He hated when his dad talked like that in front of his mates, hated the humiliation, the shame he refused to name, the mixture of anger and fear twisting inside him.
And he hated that the very first person who popped into his head when his dad said those things…
…was Harry.
Zayn nudged him gently. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs.”
Louis nodded, forced himself to stand, and followed them, shoulders stiff, throat tight, trying to pretend his hands weren’t still shaking.
Harry’s bedroom looked like a wardrobe had been tipped upside down and shaken violently. Shirts were scattered across the bed, jeans thrown over the desk chair and jumpers abandoned on the floor like fallen soldiers. A single pair of boots lay tragically in the corner after Harry had kicked them in a moment of irrational panic.
He stood in front of the mirror, curls fluffy and unruly from all the outfit changes, cheeks faintly pink from nerves. He tugged at the hem of the shirt he was currently wearing, then frowned and pulled it off in favour of something else.
He had a date.
A real date, like, with a boy. A boy who had actually asked him.
He hadn’t had one since realising he was into boys, and that had been… a journey. A long, messy, emotional journey that started with denial that moved into fear, and eventually ended with him crying into Liam’s hoodie and admitting the truth.
So the fact that someone, someone really nice, had asked him out? It felt surreal.
His name was Michael Clifford. He was a sweet boy, bright smile, eyes that crinkled when he laughed. Harry wasn’t entirely sure he liked him like that, but Mikey had been kind and nervous and genuine, and the idea of going on a date with someone who wasn’t going to make him feel like some embarrassing secret was really comforting.
Harry held up a dark green button-up. “Too formal,” he muttered.
He swapped it for a white tee. “Too boring.”
He grabbed a flannel. “Too… lumberjack? Cute lumberjack? Is that weird?”
He groaned and dropped it onto the bed. Why was this so hard? Why couldn’t he just magically know what to wear like normal people did?
He finally pulled on a soft grey tee, layered a navy flannel over it, then stepped back from the mirror. It wasn’t perfect, but it looked like him, and he didn’t feel like he was wearing a costume, which was half the battle.
He tied his shoes, hands shaking just enough to be noticeable. He was excited, fucking nervous, but definitely excited. And, annoyingly, thinking about the wrong person.
Specifically, how that person would sneer at the outfit and ask if he’d gotten dressed in the dark. Or roll those blue eyes and mutter something sarcastic about “date night with your little fan club.” Or worse, say nothing at all and look at him with that unreadable, sharp-edged expression that always made his ribs tighten for reasons he refused to acknowledge.
He shut that thought down immediately because he refused to let Louis live rent-free in his head tonight. Michael was sweet and genuine. And most importantly, Michael wasn’t Louis.
Harry grabbed his jacket and wallet, forcing a breath through his lungs as he headed for the stairs. He could do this. He wanted to do this. He deserved to go on a date with someone who actually really liked him.
At the bottom of the stairs, he paused, smoothing his shirt one last time.
He was going on a date.
The bistro was small and warm, all fairy lights and mismatched wooden chairs. Harry paused outside the door, took one steadying breath, then pushed it open. “Mikey?” he called softly.
Michael looked up from where he’d been fiddling with a napkin, and Harry felt something loosen in his chest. Mikey looked cute, genuinely cute. His hair was dyed a bright, soft red, freshly styled so it fell in neat pieces around his face. A silver hoop glinted from his nose, and another glimmered in his left eyebrow.
Mikey grinned wide, standing to greet him. “Harry! Hey!”
They hugged, quick but warm, and Mikey smelled faintly like vanilla. When they pulled back, Harry realised Mikey was just a bit shorter than him, freckles scattered across his cheeks, “Sorry if I’m late,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. “My clothes staged a bit of a rebellion.”
Mikey laughed softly. “You look great, don’t worry.”
Harry felt his cheeks go pink.
They found a small table in the corner, sliding into the booth opposite each other. It felt easy. Comfortable. A little awkward, sure, but in a normal first-date way, not the explosive, volatile kind Harry was used to dealing with every time Louis even breathed in his vicinity… but anyway.
“So, uh… how’s school been?” Mikey asked, fiddling with his straw.
“Not bad,” Harry said. “A bit stressful. PE was a disaster today.”
“Oh yeah?” Mikey leaned forward, genuinely interested. “What happened?”
Harry shook his head. “Just… stupid shit. I nearly fell.”
Mikey smiled gently. “Well, you don’t look injured, so that’s something I guess.”
Harry huffed a small laugh. “Yeah, saved myself at the last second.”
A lie. He pushed down the flash of memory, Louis slipping, Louis’s arm in his hand, the heat between them for half a second before everything soured again. He shoved it away.
Focus on the now, Harry, come on.
Mikey took a sip of water, watching him with those curious hazel eyes. “I’m really glad you said yes to this, by the way.”
Harry blinked. “Yeah?”
Mikey’s cheeks went pink. “Yeah. I mean… you didn’t have to. I know I probably came off like a total idiot when I asked, but…”
“No,” Harry cut in quickly, heart squeezing, “I’m glad you asked.”
Mikey gave him a small, shy smile. “Cool. That’s… really cool.”
Their menus sat forgotten between them as they talked, nothing heavy, nothing complicated. Just easy conversation about school, teachers they hated, music they liked. Mikey was funny in a quiet, surprising way. He talked with his hands, got excited over little things, and every time he laughed, his nose scrunched slightly.
Harry found himself smiling back more than he expected.
They’d ordered their food, and for a moment everything felt blissfully simple. Harry was mid-story about how he once fell asleep in maths and woke up with graph paper imprinted on his cheek when Mikey asked casually: “So… who do you usually hang out with at school?”
Harry didn’t even hesitate. “Oh, uh, Liam, Niall, Zayn… and Louis, I guess.”
He regretted it instantly, because the second he said Louis, something clicked inside him, like some internal switch got punched.
Mikey, sweet and unsuspecting, just smiled. “Louis Tomlinson? I didn’t know you guys were friends.”
Harry laughed. Too fast and too loud. And maybe a little unhinged. “NO. No. Absolutely not. We hate each other.”
“Oh.” Mikey blinked, confused. “Okay… why?”
And that was it, the floodgates opened. Harry didn’t even notice he was talking too fast until he was already halfway down the slide with no hope of stopping.
“I mean, he’s just, he’s ridiculous. He thinks he’s funny but he’s not. Like today? He nearly face-planted and somehow made it my fault for catching him. He just, he’s so… he’s so Louis all the time and it’s exhausting.”
Mikey nodded gently. “Mm.”
“And he argues with everything I say. Everything. I could say the sky is blue and he’d say actually it’s cerulean and then accuse me of being stupid for not knowing colours. Like, what? WHAT?”
Mikey sipped his drink, eyes soft, letting Harry spiral.
“And he’s always smirking like he knows something I don’t and it’s infuriating. And he won’t sit next to me at lunch but he’ll sit across from me which is so much worse because then he just stares at me all smug while eating crisps like he invented them.”
Mikey had the audacity to smile. “That sounds… complicated.”
“Oh, and THEN,” Harry continued, entirely unaware he’d been monologuing for at least ten minutes, “he pretends he’s stupid in English but he’s not, he’s actually really clever but he doesn’t want anyone to know because he’s got… like, issues or something, I don’t know, but he answers every essay question like he’s allergic to sincerity and then gets good marks anyway and I hate that. I hate him.”
Mikey hummed. “Right.”
“And his hair,” Harry went on helplessly, leaning forward, hands flailing, “is ridiculous. It sticks up on one side no matter what he does and it makes him look like he’s been struck by lightning but somehow he still manages to look…”
He stopped himself, throat tightening.
“So annoying.”
Mikey’s eyebrow lifted just slightly. “Mhm.”
“And sometimes,” Harry whispered like he was confessing a sin, “sometimes he’s actually… nice? Like annoyingly nice. Like he’ll help first-years find their classrooms or he’ll carry his mum’s shopping to her car without being asked or he’ll…”
Harry hesitated, throat tightening. He looked down at his hands, voice barely audible.
“he’ll nearly fall flat on his face in PE and I’ll… I’ll grab him without even thinking.”
His chest squeezed. “And then he gets furious at me for it, like I’ve done something wrong. Like I shouldn’t even care.” Harry blinked hard, jaw tightening. “but I didn’t fucking ask to care.”
There was a long, quiet beat, then Mikey rested his chin on his hand. “You know you’ve been talking about him for twenty minutes straight, right?”
Harry blinked. “Have I?”
“Yeah,” Mikey said kindly. “It was impressive, honestly.”
Harry stared down at the table, horrified. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to… I don’t even LIKE him, he just, god, he just annoys me and I… wow. Okay, I’m really sorry.”
Mikey smiled, soft and understanding. “It’s alright. Sometimes people get under your skin.”
Harry swallowed, cheeks burning. “Yeah. He’s definitely under something.”
Mikey laughed quietly. “I can tell.”
Harry forced a smile, trying desperately to steer the conversation elsewhere, but part of him couldn’t shake the look on Mikey’s face, knowing, gentle but almost amused.
And suddenly Harry realised something horrifying: Louis Tomlinson had just hijacked his date, and he wasn’t even here.
Shit.