Chapter Text
The night had unfolded with an ease that felt foreign at first. Foreign, but not unwelcome.
By the time the last of the dishes had been cleared and the wine bottle drained of its final drops, the living room of Liam and Zayn's flat was cast in the kind of cozy dimness that only came when the overhead lights were off and the floor lamps shone quietly in their corners, throwing golden pools across the floorboards. The five of them sat scattered across the furniture. Niall half-asleep with his legs draped over the arm of the chair, Liam and Zayn curled together on the couch, Basil snoring to their feet, soft and domestic in a way that made Louis ache with both fondness and envy.
And then there was Harry. Sitting opposite Louis in the oversized armchair, one leg tucked beneath him, a mug of tea cradled in his hands like it had been poured there just to give him something to do. His hair was a little messy, curls soft from the long day and Louis could see the slight flush in his cheeks from the wine, the warmth of it lingering like the quietest promise.
Louis watched him sometimes, in those unguarded moments when he thought no one was looking. Not in the way he used to.. well, not entirely, but in the way one watches something they can't quite believe is still here.
Because the truth was, Harry had never stopped trying and Louis, for all his running, for all the walls he'd built up and the silence he'd drowned himself in, was starting to realise he wasn't tired of Harry. He was tired of running. Tired of pretending he didn't want to know what had happened, what Harry had felt, what he'd meant to say back then when the world had cracked open and swallowed them whole.
It wasn't forgiveness yet, but it was something.
Maybe the beginning of it.
That accidental brush in the kitchen had stayed with him like an echo, replaying each time he reached for his drink or shifted in his seat. He could still feel the ghost of Harry's fingers against his skin, the look in his eyes like something had broken open in him too, quiet and aching and too careful to say aloud.
And still, the night had stayed easy, lighter than it had been in years.
They'd laughed, actually laughed. At one point, Harry had pulled a face at Liam's story about the hospital vending machine eating his last pound coin and Louis had laughed so hard he'd nearly dropped his drink. There had been teasing, Niall nearly falling off the armchair, Liam groaning dramatically when Zayn made him help tidy the cushions after someone sat. It had been normal.
The kind of normal that made Louis ache for all the years they'd missed, it was only when they'd all finally stood to grab their coats and say goodnight that the weight returned.. not heavy, but present. Like something was ready to change.
Harry had offered him a small, hesitant smile as they both moved to the hallway, Louis slipping on his shoes and Harry shrugging into that long beige coat Louis remembered from years ago, the one with the inside pocket where he used to hide his lip balm and phone and a scribbled list of Louis' favorite snacks.
Their shoulders brushed again in the narrow space and this time, it didn't feel accidental. It just felt like something that happened.
"Night, Lou," Harry said softly, voice like smoke and honey, the name just slipping out unintentionally.
Louis hesitated, just long enough for his chest to flutter. "Night, Harry."
He didn't sleep much that night, the sounds of the city filtered through the cracked window in his bedroom, the cold summer breeze lifting the curtain gently like a hand reaching in to touch his skin. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, that quiet moment in the kitchen playing in loops in his mind. The look in Harry's eyes when their hands touched. The gentle way he'd laughed again, the softness of being near him after so long.
It was no longer unbearable.. and that terrified him.
He rose late the next morning, hair a mess, the scent of sleep and clean sheets clinging to him as he padded barefoot into the kitchen. Sunlight filtered through the blinds and he stood for a moment in the middle of it all, just breathing.
He made coffee, fed the cat next door that had claimed his windowsill as its second home. Checked the messages on his phone (a gif from Niall, a string of emojis from Zayn, a photo of Liam's breakfast), and then settled at the table with his laptop.
The business plan was coming along.
He'd scheduled a follow-up consultation with the same advisor from earlier in the month and he was nearly finished with the draft for his projected budget and floor plan.
It felt good to build something and to think about a future that didn't rely on someone else to carry the weight.
But even as he typed out figures and rearranged calendar entries and reread the paragraphs he'd written about his approach to therapy, his mind wandered.
To Harry, to that night, to the brush of fingers and the way his name sounded on Harry's tongue again.
And by the time the afternoon had folded into late day, the thought had settled in his chest like an anchor.
He was ready.
Not for everything, not for whatever they might be again, he didn't know if they ever could be anything again after everything.. but he was ready to hear it, to listen and finally let Harry speak.
To let the truth land and live in the space between them without running from it.
He didn't know what it would do to him. Whether it would ruin him all over again or set him free. But he owed himself the chance to find out and he owed Harry the space to say it.
He closed his laptop slowly, the cursor blinking in the background of his open document. A long breath escaped him, soft and steady, and he let his head fall forward into his hands.
Then almost absentmindedly, he reached for his phone, he didn't write much, just one short message. Clear and simple.
If you still want to talk, I'll listen.
He stared at the words for a moment, then pressed send and sat back in the golden hush of his quiet flat, the stillness wrapped around him like a promise.
*
Harry had just wrapped up a consult with the vascular team, a case involving an aneurysm in a patient who'd survived two heart attacks and was now refusing surgery until someone explained it all to his cat.
It had been an exhausting day.
He'd been back in his office for no more than five minutes when Niall and Liam slipped in like they owned the place, each holding a suspiciously full coffee cup that didn't match the hospital cafeteria offerings. They didn't knock, of course. They never did. Niall flopped into one of the chairs across from Harry's desk with the grace of a particularly tired toddler, while Liam leaned against the doorframe, sipping his latte like it was a reward for being the only adult in a room full of children.
"Thought you might want the real stuff," Liam said, offering Harry a second cup.
"Jesus, are you two ever actually working?" Harry asked, even as he took the coffee and let it warm his cold fingers. His voice was light, tired in that way that felt almost good, like he was finally adjusting to a life that wasn't entirely run by ghosts and guilt.
"Emergency's slow today. Calm before the weekend chaos," Niall replied, stretching like a cat and yawning, the cup balanced on his stomach. "Figured we'd bless you with our presence."
Harry was halfway through an eye-roll when his phone buzzed once. A quiet vibration against the desk wood, nothing dramatic, just a small tremor in the surface of his otherwise normal day.
But the moment he saw the name on the screen his breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat and for a full second, he just stared at the message like it was in another language, like his eyes couldn't quite believe what they were seeing.
If you still want to talk, I'll listen.
The mug slipped slightly in his hand, hot liquid kissing the rim before he steadied it again. His heart did something ridiculous and painful inside his chest, like a bird flinging itself against the walls of a cage too small for it.
"Mate?" Liam's voice cut through the thick silence. "You alright?"
Harry blinked, swallowed, then turned the phone face-down like it might explode. "No," he said. "I mean—yes. I mean—I think—I just—fuck."
Niall sat up straighter. "What happened? What's wrong?"
Harry laughed. It was a sharp, breathless sound that startled even him. "Louis," he said. "Louis messaged me. He—he said he'll listen. That he's ready to talk. He's ready to talk, you guys."
The silence that followed was broken only by Niall's soft "no way," and Liam saying "finally," at the exact same time, but Harry wasn't looking at them anymore, he was holding his phone again, rereading the message like it might vanish if he blinked too hard.
It had only been eight words. Just eight. But they hit with the force of an earthquake, shaking something loose in him he hadn't dared hope for since the moment Louis had walked away from him two years ago and never looked back.
"What do I even say?" Harry muttered, more to himself than to the room. "What the hell am I supposed to say to that?"
"You say yes," Niall replied instantly. "You say thank God and yes, please and then you get your arse to wherever he wants to meet."
Liam stepped in closer now, placing a steady hand on Harry's shoulder, grounding him. "Hey," he said gently. "Breathe. It's good. This is good, Harry."
"I know," Harry whispered. "I just—I didn't think—I wasn't sure he ever would. And now that it's here, I'm terrified."
"That's fair," Liam said. "But you want this. You've always wanted this."
"Yeah," Harry exhaled, softer now, like the fear was starting to melt into something quieter. "Yeah, I do."
He stared down at the phone again and let himself feel it, the nervous flutter of anticipation, the trembling hope, the fear that this could still break him all over again. But also, the steady pulse of something right beneath it all: the feeling of a door opening.
He typed slowly.
Of course. When and where? I'll be there.
He sent it before he could talk himself out of it.
"Alright," Niall said, clapping his hands and standing up like something had just been decided for all of them. "I'm giving you three hours max before I come back in here and demand details."
Harry gave him a look that was mostly fond irritation. "You two are literally the worst doctors I know."
"Then you've clearly forgotten Zayn," Liam said and all three of them laughed, the tension easing for just a moment before Harry's phone buzzed again.
Louis
Tomorrow. Early evening? Walk in Hampstead Heath?
Harry let out a breath so deep it rattled in his chest. He nodded, though no one had asked him anything.
"Tomorrow," he said. "We're going to talk."
"Good," Liam replied, smiling as he patted Harry's shoulder again. "Let him see it, yeah? Let him see you."
And Harry did smile then, a small and quiet thing that barely made it past his lips, but it was real. Because for the first time in two years, the distance wasn't endless.
The door was open and Harry was walking through.
*
Harry was a mess. Not the charming, slightly frazzled, hair-too-curly, overworked surgeon kind of mess he normally was, this was something entirely different. This was full-body restlessness. This was pacing the full length of his flat for the sixth time, clutching his phone like it held the key to surviving the next twenty-four hours. This was irrational thoughts and dry throat and hands that wouldn't stop shaking no matter how many deep breaths Liam kept telling him to take.
He had only just woken up, though 'woken up' might have been an overstatement. He hadn't really slept at all. Instead, he'd tossed and turned, sheets tangled around his legs, pillowcase warm with stress and the phantom scent of something long gone.
The text from Louis had come just after midnight.
Hampstead Heath. Parliament Hill entrance. Tomorrow at five.
Simple, so simple and yet it had made Harry feel like he'd been launched into the sun.
By 10 am, Liam and Niall had showed up at his flat with coffee, Zayn trailing behind them like he wasn't entirely sure why he was there but understood, somehow, that this moment mattered.
"Okay, breathe," Liam said for the third time in as many minutes, standing in front of Harry with his palms raised like he was trying to calm a wild animal. "You've had a full-blown cardiac response since we got here. You're not doing brain surgery, Haz. You're going for a walk."
"A walk with Louis," Harry hissed, flopping onto the couch and dragging both hands down his face. "After two years. Two years of nothing. Two years of pretending I was fine. Two years of silence and heartbreak and—and Marcel. And now he wants to talk. What if he just wants closure? What if this is his way of saying goodbye again but nicer?"
Niall took a large bite of his croissant and spoke through crumbs. "Then you let him. But you still go. You can't not go."
"Exactly," Zayn added softly, a rare seriousness coating his voice. "You've waited too long to not show up now. If he's finally ready to listen... you owe it to yourself to be honest. All of it."
Harry looked down at his hands. "What if he hates me again after I tell him?"
Liam sighed, then walked over and sat beside him, gently squeezing his shoulder. "Then he hates you. But at least he'll hate the truth. Not the space between you."
Harry's throat tightened. "I don't think I'll survive him walking away again."
"You already did twice," Niall said, uncharacteristically serious, his eyes warm. "And you became this. Head of neurosurgery. Good friend. Good man. Still here."
And Harry, God, Harry wanted to cry, because they were right. Every damn one of them.
But he was still a mess.
He spent the next two hours changing his shirt four times, because each one made him look "too much" or "too not enough." Liam eventually took his wardrobe into his own hands, shoving a dark green jumper at him with a firm, "Wear this, you look like someone who sleeps and drinks water in this one."
Which was... fair.
Across town, in a much quieter flat warmed by morning sun and a half-drunk cup of chamomile tea, Louis sat cross-legged on his sofa, phone in hand, heart pounding just as loud.
He had stared at the contact name for five minutes before finally pressing Call Mum.
Jay answered on the second ring. "Hey, my love," she said, and Louis instantly felt the tightness in his chest loosen just a little. "You alright?"
He laughed, short and dry. "Not remotely."
"Oh, Louis," she sighed. "Talk to me."
He did, he told her everything. About the message, about how he'd said Harry could talk, about how he meant it, about how scared he was that hearing it all might break something fragile inside him that had only just started to stitch itself together again.
"I think I need to hear it," he confessed. "Even if it hurts. I can't move on, I can't be okay, until I hear it."
Jay was quiet for a beat. "You don't have to decide what you want from him before you go, you know," she said softly. "You don't owe him anything but the chance to speak, and you owe yourself peace, Louis. And maybe hearing the truth will help you find it."
Louis swallowed the lump in his throat. "What if it makes things worse?"
"Then at least you'll know. You've lived with questions for too long. You deserve answers and you deserve to let go—of anger, or grief, or guilt, whatever's still weighing you down. It's time."
He closed his eyes, let the words sink in. Let her voice wrap around him like a shield.
"Thanks, Mum."
"Always, sweetheart."
He sat for a long time after that, letting the city move beyond the windows, letting the truth of what he was about to do settle into his bones.
The truth was: he was scared.
But underneath it, softer, quieter, was something else: he was ready.
So he picked up his phone, opened the message thread, and stared at Harry's name until the anxiety eased into something steadier.
See you at five.
And somewhere in another corner of London, Harry's phone vibrated again and the whole world shifted.
*
The park was quiet. Summer hung heavy in the air, birds in the trees, distant laughter from children, the rhythmic hum of tires rolling across gravel paths.
Harry stood at the edge of the park, the message still burned into his skin like ink. And now that they were here, he was terrified. He saw Louis before Louis saw him, sitting on a bench beneath their favourite tree, the one that always turned orange first in the fall. His posture was closed, arms loosely crossed over his stomach, one leg bouncing with restrained nerves. Harry swallowed the lump in his throat and walked toward him, every step feeling like walking barefoot across shards of their shared history.
"Hey," Harry said, voice soft, as if a louder word might break whatever fragile balance they'd stepped into.
Louis looked up, eyes shadowed but soft, and nodded. "Hey."
They walked. Neither of them spoke at first. Their feet matched instinctively, the same way they always had, falling into sync like their bodies remembered what their minds had spent years trying to forget. It was both comforting and cruel.
Finally, Louis spoke, voice low. "You can talk. I'll listen."
It felt like Harry had been given permission to breathe for the first time in years. But he still struggled to find the air.
He rubbed a hand over his face, looked ahead, then down at his feet. "I—I don't even know where to start."
"Wherever it hurts," Louis said. His tone was even, but there was something trembling underneath it, something raw.
Harry stopped walking, so did Louis. They stood at the edge of a path that opened into a field, the sunlight casting long shadows at their feet.
"I never meant to lie," Harry began, his voice cracking before it steadied. "I need you to know that. When you woke up, when you didn't remember, I didn't plan on keeping it from you forever. I was just... waiting for the right moment I think. Waiting for you to be okay enough, to be strong enough to hear it. But then I kept waiting because I was scared. Because I'd already lost you once and I couldn't—" He broke off and pressed the heel of his hand to his eye.
"I was so scared to lose you again, I knew I couldn't survive it a second time, not after the way the first time destroyed me. I never hurt you on purpose and I never kept those things from you out of malice, I made a wrong decision and I know I have to live with that for the rest of my life."
Louis said nothing, he watched Harry, his expression unreadable, but his jaw had tensed.
"And the exam," Harry continued, now pushing through the words like they were a dam trying to break, "I swear to you, Louis, I didn't plan it, I told you that before. I didn't set out to let you fail. I panicked and I froze. I thought you had it, I thought you'll do it and pass and then when I realised you didn't, it was already too late to help. I know that doesn't make it okay. I know I should've done something.. but I didn't. And then I passed and you didn't and everything spiraled."
He looked up finally, eyes red. "You didn't even talk to me, after that day. After everything we were. Everything we'd been through. You just... vanished. And I deserved your anger, I know that. But I didn't deserve silence for a whole decade."
Louis took a breath like he was preparing for a dive. "You're right," he said quietly. "You didn't. But I was so fucking angry, Harry. Not just about the exam but about everything. You passed and I didn't. You got everything we worked for and I got left behind. I felt like I wasn't good enough, like I was only ever going to be the one you stepped over. And it broke something in me that I didn't know how to fix. And I was so ashamed, all the hard work for nothing."
"I didn't step over you," Harry whispered. "I wanted us both to pass, I wanted to do it all with you like we had planned."
Louis voice cracked a little and he looked down at his fingers. "I cut you out of my life like you were the problem. Like forgetting you could make me feel better. And it didn't. Not once. Not even for a second. Every single thing that made me who I was, everything good and bright and worth fighting for—I left that behind too. And I never let you explain. I didn't even give you a chance to be sorry."
Harry's breath was shaky now, but he didn't speak.
"I told myself it was self-respect," Louis continued, a bitter edge to the laugh he gave. "That I was protecting myself from someone who hurt me. But it was cowardice, really. I was hurt, and I wanted you to feel it too. So I punished you. And I did it again when I left for Germany without warning you, without telling you how much pain I still carried." He finally looked at Harry, eyes wet but honest. "I vanished on you twice, Harry. And I have to live with the fact that you still came back to me. That somehow, after all that, you're still here."
Harry blinked hard, throat bobbing as he swallowed.
Louis shifted on his feet, voice trembling but sure. "I'm sorry for every year I stole from us. I'm sorry for every morning you woke up not knowing why I hated you so much. I'm sorry for every time I could've reached out, and didn't. You didn't deserve that. You never did."
They stood in the middle of the path, the world moving on around them, joggers passing by, a dog barking in the distance, the breeze lifting the corners of Louis' shirt... but for them, time seemed to have slowed to a crawl.
"When I remembered," Louis said. "After I saw the pictures, it came back all at once. You. Us. The pain. The anger. The guilt. And I wanted to hate you again. I wanted it to be easy like that. But it wasn't. Because every time I remembered something, I remembered how much I loved you..."
Harry's breath hitched. "I still love you," he said, the words sounding both like a confession and a plea. "I never stopped."
Louis looked away, staring into the middle distance, like the weight of hearing it spoken aloud was something he hadn't quite prepared for. "I don't know what to do with all of it," he admitted.
"Let me try," Harry said and there was something so tender in his voice it broke Louis clean open. "Please. I know I can't undo what I did. But I can show you who I am now. Who I've become. And I'll never lie to you again. Even if the truth is hard."
Louis turned to him slowly, something fragile flickering behind his eyes. "You already started," he said.
They didn't hug, they didn't kiss, they just stood there, shoulders nearly touching, hearts open in the space between them. And it wasn't healing but it was the beginning of something. A new wound maybe or the slow stitching of an old one. Either way, it was movement. And for the first time in years, they were facing the same direction.
*
Harry left the park alone and yet for the first time in years, he didn't feel lonely.
The sunlight had softened into dusk by the time he reached his car and the city's hum was quieter now, as if even the streets knew something had shifted. The conversation with Louis looped in his mind like a whispered mantra, not word for word, or even entirely linear, but more the feeling of it, the weight of finally unburdening a part of himself he'd carried for too long. There hadn't been a promise, no grand declarations or hopeful futures painted in vivid colour.. but still, it felt like something sacred had happened.
He hadn't expected to feel lighter.
There was a strange kind of freedom in finally saying things aloud, even if they hadn't been received with open arms, even if Louis was still cautious, still torn, still riddled with doubt and hurt. It wasn't about a conclusion, Harry realised. It was about beginning. He'd never thought they would have that chance again.
By the time he pulled into his driveway and stepped into the quiet calm of his flat, he felt the exhaustion of the day roll over him in waves. He leaned against the inside of the door, let his eyes close, and exhaled a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding since Louis first said, "Let's talk."
Somewhere across the city, Louis stood in the kitchen of his flat, a glass of untouched water in his hand, the phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear.
"...And then he said he didn't mean for any of that to happen," Louis murmured, gaze distant as he stared out the window. The city was golden in the fading light, rooftops bathed in fire and amber and the faint flicker of early evening lights danced against the glass.
His mother's voice came through gently on the other end. "And do you believe him, love?"
Louis hesitated, the question hanging heavy in the air. "Yes," he said finally and it surprised even him how easily it came out. "I do. I think I always have, I just didn't want to."
"Why not?"
"I don't know," Louis admitted. "Because it was easier to be angry. Because I'd already made up my mind that he was the villain. And if I changed it, if I accepted that it had been a mistake instead of betrayal, I would've had to face everything I lost because of it. Everything I threw away because I was young and naive and just so hurt.."
There was a long pause, his mum never rushed him.
"I forgave everyone else," Louis said, barely more than a whisper. "All of you—" He paused, closed his eyes. "I managed to find a way to forgive all of you and so easily. But Harry—I couldn't. I wouldn't."
His voice cracked, and he sat down heavily on the edge of his couch, hand still curled tight around the water glass. "Because if I forgave him, then I'd have to admit how much time I wasted being angry and how stupid I was. I'd have to admit that I was the one who walked away. I was the one who refused to let him speak. I was the one who held the silence over his head like it was justice."
"You did what you had to do to survive, sweetheart," she said softly. "Back then, maybe that anger was what kept you standing."
Louis stared down at the floor, his heart thudding in his chest like it was counting regrets.
"But I'm tired of being angry now," he said. "It doesn't feel like protection anymore, it feels like... like I locked myself out of something beautiful. Like I've spent two years outside of my own life."
A silence stretched, comfortable and warm.
"I'm proud of you," she said. "For listening. For letting him speak. For starting to heal."
Louis rubbed at his chest, the place where everything felt so tight lately. "I don't know what happens next."
"You don't have to. Just take the next step. Whatever that is."
He nodded, then realised she couldn't see him and whispered, "Yeah."
After they said goodbye and the phone line clicked off, Louis sat there in the half-darkness of his flat. His fingers trembled slightly as he placed the glass down on the table and he leaned back, letting his head rest against the back of the couch, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as the weight of all that had gone unsaid finally settled around him.
He thought about the way Harry had looked at him during that conversation, not pleading, not demanding, but open. Honest. Scared. It had been the most vulnerable he'd ever seen him and part of Louis hated himself for how long he'd denied Harry that chance. For how many nights he'd sat curled up with Marcel on the couch, pretending he was content, all the while holding onto bitterness like it would save him from feeling anything else.
He thought about that day in the exam room, about how hard they'd studied together, about the pact they made to never let each other fall and about the pain that came with believing, even for a second, that Harry had broken it on purpose. But now, with time and distance and healing, he could see it for what it had probably been: a mistake. A failure of courage, maybe. A moment of human fear. Not malice.
He also thought about the day he remembered Harry, after his memory loss and again, he never gave him a chance to explain.. again, he assumed the worst and shut him out.
And the truth was, he had made his own mistakes too. He never gave Harry the chance to explain, he never asked; he ran. And when he came back, he hid behind a boyfriend, behind anger, behind logic and pride and everything that kept him just far enough away not to be hurt again.
But all it had done was hurt them both.
Now, finally, he was starting to see that, and that understating .. it was something.
*
The night was warm, thick with the kind of summer haze that lingered in the air like smoke, and the streets were alive with motion, full of people with nowhere in particular to go but a strong desire to be anywhere but home. It was Liam's idea, an impromptu night out to celebrate the end of a grueling week, a chance for everyone to breathe, to feel young again, even if only for a few hours. Zayn booked a table at a bar that turned into a club past eleven, tucked into the corner of a narrow street just off Soho. The boys arrived scattered and laughing, the kind of tipsy that made the air buzz a little louder, the lights blur into halos, the music sink deeper into their skin.
Harry came reluctantly, dressed in black from head to toe, sleeves rolled just once at the elbows, curls a little messy from running his hands through them too many times on the way there. He'd told himself he wouldn't drink much, wouldn't stay long, that he'd just show up, smile, and leave early. But the atmosphere was magnetic, low lights and the velvet of Zayn's laughter, the press of bodies, the pull of a baseline that vibrated up through the floor. And then there was Louis, already there when Harry arrived, sitting in the booth beside Niall, legs crossed and sleeves pushed up, a pint in one hand and an easy smile tugging at his lips as he talked, casually glowing in the low light like someone who didn't carry heartbreak in his chest.
They didn't speak much, just enough to be polite, their greetings quiet and cautious, as if neither wanted to risk tipping the balance that had just begun to settle. But the drinks were strong and the night wore on, dissolving boundaries like sugar in warm water. Harry found himself pulled into conversation after conversation, laughter softening the edges of his nerves, and Louis drifted somewhere on the opposite side of the room, always visible out of the corner of Harry's eye, always just close enough to ache.
And then the DJ shifting gears into something slower, something with a heavy, sultry beat that didn't demand but invited. Bodies swayed, half drunk and loose with the rhythm and Harry was pulled onto the floor by Niall and some girl he didn't know, all laughter and clumsy feet. He didn't stay with them long. The girl disappeared into the crowd and Niall vanished into the bar, and somehow, Harry kept dancing, letting the beat carry him as the lights blinked and blurred and time slowed into something soft.
At the same time, Louis was caught in the current too, dragged out by Zayn who had insisted he needed to loosen up, to just feel something, and Louis hadn't said no. He let himself move, let the bass thread through his limbs, eyes half-lidded, head light. And then, it happened.
They met in the middle of the dance floor, not even realising it at first, just two bodies moving in sync, pulled into each other like magnets drawn without knowing. The space between them narrowed and they didn't question it. Arms brushed, a hand found a shoulder, back to chest, fingers slipping briefly around a wrist. Neither of them spoke, neither of them opened their eyes.
It was Harry who froze first.
Because the cologne hit him, a familiar scent buried so deep in memory he'd forgotten he remembered. His fingers, resting gently against the other's forearm, felt something too specific to be chance: the softness of Louis' worn t-shirt, the edge of a bracelet he'd seen on him tonight.
And Louis looked down at the exact same moment.
Their eyes met, wide and stunned and suddenly too aware of how close they were, of how easily they'd moved toward one another, how naturally it had come to fall into step, to find each other like they always had. Louis' hand was still on Harry's hip, Harry's palm hovered at the base of Louis' spine. The music slowed, the lights shifted and the world shrank to just the two of them.
It was Louis who pulled back first, a sharp breath sucked through his teeth, eyes darting around as if caught in something forbidden. But Harry didn't move, not away at least. He let his hand fall, gently, slowly and stepped back just enough to give space, but not enough to sever the connection. His expression was unreadable, lips parted, chest heaving slightly from the dance, or maybe something more.
And Louis turned, vanished back into the crowd, muttering something about needing air.
Harry stood there for a long moment, heart pounding, hands trembling just enough to be noticed. He didn't follow, not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't quite trust his feet not to betray the mess brewing in his chest.
Elsewhere in the bar, Liam and Niall had seen it happen. Zayn had too. The silent exchange. The brief contact. The immediate retreat.
And all of them, without needing to say a word, knew: something had shifted again.
Something they couldn't stop.
*
The air outside was cooler than expected, a breeze lifting gently along the pavement, brushing past Louis' flushed cheeks and tangled hair. He exhaled slowly, dragging the breath deep into his lungs as if he could settle something inside of him with it. His pulse maybe, or the way his skin still tingled in places where Harry had touched him. It had been so brief, so light, barely anything at all. And yet, it had stolen the ground out from under his feet.
The door creaked open behind him, and he didn't need to look to know who it was.
Zayn stepped out quietly, a cigarette between his fingers, unlit. He rarely smoked anymore, but he always seemed to carry one just in case the ritual helped. He leaned against the brick wall beside Louis and didn't say anything for a moment, just looked out at the street where people passed in blurred pairs and shadows, the music inside pulsing faintly through the brick.
"Didn't realise we were doing dramatic exits again tonight," Zayn said eventually, voice soft and easy, laced with the kind of fond sarcasm only a best friend could get away with.
Louis huffed a laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Didn't realise I was dancing with Harry," he muttered, staring down at the street like it might hold answers.
"You didn't know?" Zayn asked, tilting his head to glance at him. "You really didn't feel it?"
Louis ran a hand through his hair, eyes fluttering shut. "No, maybe, I just... I didn't want to believe it. I think some part of me knew. I think—" he hesitated, fingers curling at his side, "I think some part of me liked the idea of it being him."
Zayn nodded slowly, taking that in without comment. A few beats of silence passed between them.
"You two," Zayn said eventually, lighting the cigarette now just to give his hands something to do. "You're fucking exhausting, you know that?"
Louis snorted, eyes finally flicking toward him. "Thanks for the sympathy."
"I mean it," Zayn said, eyes narrowing just a bit. "You've spent more than two years building walls just to stare through the cracks. And I know why, I get it. He broke something in you. But you're not angry anymore, not really. You're scared."
Louis tensed but didn't argue.
"And I know you," Zayn added, voice quieter now. "I know when something matters. That wasn't just some weird dance. That shook you, so maybe instead of running off into the bloody night like some heartbroken poet, you could think about what it actually means."
Louis didn't reply, jaw tight, throat thick with words he couldn't quite say yet.
Zayn nudged his arm lightly. "He's still inside. You want him to come after you, then you need to stop running long enough to be found."
With that, he dropped the cigarette to the ground, stepped on it even though it was barely burned and went back inside, leaving Louis alone in the quiet again, but not untouched.
This time, Louis didn't walk away. He stayed there, leaning into the wall, letting Zayn's words settle around him like fog, cool and creeping and oddly clarifying.
When Louis stepped back into the pub, the warmth hit him first, beer and laughter and the lingering scent of fried food thick in the air, pressing close like a familiar old jumper he hadn't worn in years. The music had changed since he left, something softer now, slower, the kind of tune that wrapped around the edges of the evening.
No one looked up immediately. They were all gathered at the table again, crammed into a booth too small, shoulders bumping and glasses half-full, caught in a conversation that seemed to revolve around some old story Niall was telling with far too much enthusiasm.
Louis hesitated only briefly before slipping back into the seat he'd left, sliding in beside Zayn again, whose eyes met his for a beat, nothing more than a silent acknowledgment. An understanding.
Across the table, Harry didn't say anything either, but Louis caught the slight shift in his posture, the way his fingers twitched nervously around the neck of his beer bottle, the way his gaze flicked toward him and then away again too quickly, like a reflex he hadn't learned how to tame.
And yet... the tension that had wrapped itself so tightly between them before, that buzzing coil of energy and breathless anticipation, it wasn't there anymore. Or maybe it was still there, but dulled somehow, softened into something less combustible and more manageable, like embers under ash. Not gone, just waiting.
"Alright, mate?" Niall asked, grinning across at him, still a bit flushed from laughing too hard at his own punchline.
Louis gave him a smile, real this time, even if a little weary, and nodded. "Yeah. Just needed some air."
"Same," Liam said, gesturing at the half-empty glass in front of him. "Only my version was beer-flavoured."
A few chuckles rolled around the table. Someone made a joke about Niall's ability to tell the same story six times in one night and still laugh at it each time. And just like that, the night found its rhythm again.
It wasn't the same as before, but the laughter was still easy, the warmth still real.
At one point, Harry got up to get another round and when he returned, he placed Louis' drink down in front of him without saying a word, fingers brushing his for just a second longer than necessary. Neither of them reacted, not outwardly, but Louis felt the weight of it anyway, a quiet hum beneath his skin, a reminder of the song their bodies had known before their minds caught up.
They didn't talk about what happened on the dance floor. Actually, they didn't talk at all. But they laughed.. at the same jokes, in the same room, with the same people who had watched them fall apart and now, maybe, were quietly hoping to see them fall back into something, whatever shape that might take.
Later, when the pub emptied and they all wandered out into the cool early summer air, Louis shoved his hands deep into his pockets and caught Harry's eye across the pavement. It was brief, a flicker, probably a question still unspoken.
And when they walked off in different directions, Louis found himself smiling.. small, tentative, but real.
Because for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel like he was walking away from something. He felt like he might just be heading toward it.
*
Louis had slept longer than usual, curled up sideways across his bed like he hadn't quite known how to rest. His head ached faintly from the drinks the night before, not enough to be painful but just enough to remind him he wasn't twenty anymore. The sunlight had already crept past his curtains by the time he stirred, warming the air with the kind of sleepy Sunday stillness that always felt slightly out of place in a city like London.
He rolled onto his back and blinked up at the ceiling, body heavy with that familiar weight that came the morning after nights that had meant more than they were allowed to.
His phone buzzed from the nightstand, but didn't rush to check it. But something in his chest had already pulled, like a string drawn back instinctively, heart skipping a beat before he even reached for it.
Harry:
About last night...
I hope I didn't make things weird. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry if I did.
Louis stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering just above the screen, unread reply box blinking up at him like it somehow held the answer to all the questions he'd been refusing to ask.
It wasn't a big deal, except it was... it was a huge deal.
Because it meant Harry had thought about it too.
Because it meant it hadn't been just Louis standing there in the middle of that pub, under the low amber lights, with Harry's hands on his waist and their laughter sliding into something quieter, something closer, something unspoken but tangible enough to make the air feel charged.
He didn't know how to reply, so instead he locked his phone and dropped it onto the duvet beside him, closed his eyes, and let the silence stretch.
But it didn't last... because his mind replayed it all, unspooling it scene by scene, like a film reel he'd watched a hundred times but had never understood until now.
He could still feel it, Harry's body pressed to his, that familiar frame that fit against his own like no time had passed at all. He could still feel the warmth of Harry's breath near his cheek when he turned, the way his fingers had settled on Louis' waist like muscle memory, not even needing to look, just knowing where to go. He could still hear the laughter, the way it had softened into something else, something almost tender, as if they'd forgotten for a moment that they were supposed to be pretending they weren't still tethered to each other in a thousand invisible ways.
And in the dim lights of that crowded pub, for just a moment, he'd felt safe again. No Marcel. No bitterness. No two-year-old silence wrapped around his chest like barbed wire.
Just Harry.
It terrified him, it devastated him and it lifted something inside of him too.
And for the first time since the hurt, since the truth, since he'd walked away from all of it, Louis allowed himself to feel the weight of what he'd been holding back.
It wasn't gone, not even close.. it never had been.. he still felt it, still wanted all the things he'd told himself he could live without.
... still loved him.
And now... he didn't know what to do with any of it.
*
The hours that followed were nothing short of agony.
It was just a text. Three short lines, nothing grand, nothing risky, a quiet apology for a night that had started harmless and ended in something that hadn't even been a kiss.
But it still was everything and Louis hadn't replied.
Not after ten minutes, not after an hour, not by the time Harry had made it through his rounds, signed off on a consult, spoken to a worried family and nearly snapped at a nurse who handed him the wrong chart.
Harry sat in his office, spine curled, elbow braced on the armrest of his chair as he chewed the side of his thumb, the skin already sore from the constant picking. His phone lay face-up in front of him, screen dim but still crackling with presence, as if the silence itself were heavy enough to press down on his lungs.
He kept unlocking it. Locking it again. Then unlocking it once more. Tapping into the message thread. Reading his own words like they belonged to someone else.
About last night...
I hope I didn't make things weird. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry if I did.
He cursed himself for sending it, then cursed himself a bit more for not saying what he really meant.
He should've told Louis what it meant to him, should've said something real, like I haven't felt like that in years or I forgot how easy it is with you or I didn't want to stop touching you. But he hadn't, because Harry was still Harry and even now, after everything, he was terrified of saying too much, of reaching too far and having the ground crumble beneath him.
Maybe it had been a mistake.
Maybe the dance, the touch, the laughter, they'd all been a slip in the script Louis had worked so hard to follow.
Maybe Harry had imagined the heat in his eyes, the way his body had turned instinctively toward him, the tremble of something familiar resurfacing between them.
Maybe I ruined it again, he thought, nausea coiling behind his ribs.
By six o'clock, he was pacing.
By seven, he was nearly convinced it had all been in his head.
By eight, he'd rewritten the night five different ways, each one ending with Louis pulling further away.
And then, at 8:16 pm, his phone vibrated. The sound wasn't loud. It was small, quiet, barely there but it thundered in Harry's chest.
He lunged for it with the kind of desperation that made his fingers tremble, blood rushing in his ears, and there it was, Louis' name lighting up the screen like a lifeline.
He opened the message and held his breath.
Louis:
You didn't make it weird.
It was... something. And I needed a minute to figure out what kind of something it was.
I'm still figuring it out.
But you didn't do anything wrong.
Harry let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, chest collapsing forward, hand dragging through his hair in a shaky arc. He read the message three times, each time slower than the last, letting the words seep into the cracks where the fear had been clawing at him all day.
He didn't know what it meant, not yet, but it wasn't rejection, it wasn't silence and it wasn't the end.
And across the city, in a flat that still didn't feel entirely like home, Louis was sitting cross-legged on his couch, phone clutched in both hands, eyes scanning the message he'd finally managed to send after what felt like hours of rewriting and erasing and starting again.
He hadn't lied, he was still figuring it out.
Because admitting to himself that he still felt everything was one thing. Acting on it was something else entirely, something terrifying and raw.
*
It started with a text the next morning, brief and soft around the edges, just a "morning" from Louis, no punctuation, no flourish, but it sat on Harry's screen like a revelation nonetheless, like a door left open rather than slammed shut and Harry had stared at it for a second longer than necessary before typing back a simple "morning, you okay?", because he didn't want to push, didn't want to scare him off, didn't want to swing too far and risk collapsing whatever fragile thing had begun to take shape between them.
And Louis responded, not right away, but later that morning, with a "why do hangovers last for days in your thirties?", and Harry found himself laughing, alone in the staff break room, tea half cold in his hand, heart just slightly too full for such a mundane moment.
The texts stayed steady after that, nothing wild or overthought. Just threads of normality weaving themselves between their days again, things like "missed the train again", or "You'd lose your mind if you saw the colour I picked for my waiting room wall", or "Niall stole my sandwich today. I hope he knows war is coming."
And Harry replied. Sometimes with too much thought, sometimes too quickly and sometimes not fast enough because he was mid-surgery or in conference calls or halfway through a paper he didn't want to be reading, but always with the kind of warmth that sat just beneath the surface, a gentle hum of something familiar, something tender.
He didn't say too much but he didn't need to.
Because something had changed and the weight between them had lifted. The tension no longer sat like a blade but like a thread, something that could be tied, drawn together instead of pulled taut.
And people noticed. At the hospital, Harry's steps had a different rhythm again, less burdened, less sharp-edged, like he was breathing through his bones instead of against them. The nurses saw it first, the way he lingered longer in the break room with a real coffee instead of his fourth double espresso, the way his laugh, quiet and rare, broke through once or twice a week now instead of once every few months. Liam gave him a knowing look more than once, and Niall outright called him out on it one afternoon, nudging him with his shoulder as they scrubbed in. "You're different," he said, not accusatory but curious, grinning like he already knew the answer. "Lighter. Like someone took the storm out of your chest."
Harry had only shrugged, but his ears had burned for hours.
Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Louis was still knee-deep in logistics and the whirlwind of starting something entirely his own. The private practice that had been a quiet dream once, one he hadn't let himself touch until recently, when the world didn't feel so sharp against his skin anymore.
He told Harry about it one night, after a particularly smooth round of paperwork and a landlord who hadn't been a nightmare for once. "So I'm doing it", the message had read. "Lease signed. It's happening. I'm terrified. You're not allowed to laugh at the colour scheme."
And Harry had sent back, "I'm proud of you. Truly. I know how much this means to you", followed by, "And if the colour's hideous, I'll pretend to like it anyway", which made Louis roll his eyes in his own living room and smile to himself so long his cheeks ached.
The texts woven into the days like thread in fabric, not dominating but present, and each one carried more ease than the last.
Louis found himself waiting for them, glancing at his phone without meaning to, catching himself smiling down at the screen in the middle of grocery shopping or in between two meetings with the new business consultant Zayn had bullied him into hiring.
And Harry... Harry kept every one of those texts like little lifelines. His phone never left his pocket, not during surgery, not during meetings and sure not at home when he curled on his couch in the early hours after a late shift, answering Louis' messages with bleary eyes and a heart that no longer clenched every time he thought about what he had lost.
Because something was being rebuilt, not from scratch, because even if they pretended, it had never really been destroyed, but from the ashes of something they'd both thought they'd buried too deep to reach.. but now, for the first time in years, they were both reaching at the same time.
*
Louis typed out the message three times and deleted twice before pressing send, eyes narrowed at the screen like he was trying to see into the future through the illuminated letters.
Louis
If you're free sometime next week... maybe you want to come see the practice?
Harry had stared at the message in the bright light of his office, heart tripping over itself the way it always did when Louis' name appeared on his phone. He read it three times, lips parting slightly in disbelief, before replying with something that felt light but sounded, even to him, like breathless relief.
Would love to. You pick the day.
And so they met, a quiet Wednesday afternoon when the city was hushed in the kind of warmth that stuck to your skin. The interior wasn't finished yet, but the bones of it stood tall and clean, white walls, faint scent of fresh paint, sunlight slanting in through wide windows that stretched nearly floor to ceiling. Louis walked Harry through each room with nervous pride, gesturing here and there, explaining how he imagined the reception to look, where the waiting area would be, the little office space he planned to convert into a private break room. He seemed calmer than Harry remembered him being during his hospital rotations all those years ago, more self-assured, like the years had put weight on his shoulders, yes, but had also shaped them into something steady.
Harry had stood in the middle of the future consultation room, eyes soft, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he looked around, then at Louis.
"You're really doing this," he said and there was something reverent in the way he said it. "It's incredible, Lou."
Louis ducked his head, a quiet smile playing around his mouth, voice low. "I'm trying."
That was how it began, a soft pull back into each other's gravity.
A few days later, Louis had a routine check-up scheduled, nothing major, just a neurological follow-up, one of the long-term assessments he'd agreed to after his injury. He hadn't thought twice about who'd be conducting it until he walked into the room and saw Harry standing there with his coat half off and his curls slightly windblown, like he'd rushed to make it on time.
"You again," Louis said, quirking a brow.
Harry smiled crookedly, already moving to the chart. "Fate, maybe."
The exam was standard; reflexes, pupil response, a few memory questions. Harry's hands, clinical and steady, lingered a second longer than necessary when he tilted Louis' chin upward, thumb just barely brushing his jaw and Louis watched him closely, eyes tracing every familiar flicker of focus in his face.
"Remember when you used to swap with the attending doctor just to be the one checking on me?" Louis said quietly, a hint of mischief in his voice.
Harry froze for a beat, then let out a sheepish chuckle. "You remember?"
"Of course."
Harry's eyes held his, warm and open. "Couldn't help it."
There was another brief meeting after that, Harry dropping by the practice again to leave behind a contact card for a colleague who specialized in clinic security systems and Louis walking him out, their arms brushing once or twice as they talked about how odd it still felt to be building something from scratch.
Then came the night.
Zayn and Liam hosted again, somehow to celebrate Liams birthday, somehow just because they wanted to. The flat buzzing with easy laughter coming from about 15 people and clinking glasses and something, that for once, didn't feel heavy between Harry and Louis. They sat next to each other, not by accident but not exactly planned either and talked about everything and nothing. About a patient Harry had saved against all odds. About a coffee place they both used to love, the one with the cracked ceramic cups and the vinyl player in the corner.
It was later, when the music was low and the kitchen was full of the scent of beer and crisps and the kind of closeness that only came with years of being tethered to someone, that Harry stood to get more drinks from the little bar cart by the balcony.
And that's when it happened. The man was tall, easy smile, confident shoulders. He stepped up to Harry with a joke that was clearly meant to flirt, something about the curls, something about doctors always knowing what to do with their hands. Harry smiled politely, but Louis didn't see the politeness.
He saw someone else staking a claim on something that had once been his and maybe still was, if only in the aching places no one could see.
He didn't think, he just moved. "Hey," Louis said, stepping between them so abruptly the guy took a half-step back. "Sorry, he's with someone."
Harry blinked, stunned. The man raised his brows and excused himself, bemused and a little offended and Louis didn't look back at him. He just stood there, breathing a little too fast, heart pounding.
Harry stared. "Louis—"
"I don't know what this is anymore," Louis said, voice cracking, raw with something that had been too long unspoken, "but I can't stand watching someone else try to figure it out with you."
And then, just like that, he left.
He left the glass he'd been holding half full on the table, left the heat of Harry's gaze burning into his back, left the room like the walls were closing in.
But this time, Harry didn't stay frozen. This time, he followed.
Outside London was quiet, that kind that only ever lasted a few seconds at a time, cars sighing past in the distance, someone laughing far off on a different corner of the city, the low thrum of life that didn't pause just because someone's world had shifted.
Harry found Louis half a block down, pacing near a streetlamp with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched like he was trying to fold in on himself.
"Louis," Harry said, breathless, his voice rough from the sprint down the stairs, from the aching panic in his chest that hadn't stopped since he'd seen Louis bolt.
Louis turned, eyes wide, still flushed from the moment back inside, from the words he hadn't meant to say, but absolutely meant.
"I shouldn't have said that," Louis started, even though he wasn't sure if it was true. "I didn't mean to—"
"No," Harry cut in gently, taking a few cautious steps closer. "Don't do that. Don't take it back."
Louis looked away, jaw tight, hands twitching slightly inside his coat. "I just—I don't know what this is. I don't. But it's been driving me fucking mad, Haz."
Harry's breath caught at the nickname, so small, so simple, but it cracked something open in him. He swallowed.
"It's been driving me mad too," he admitted quietly. "Every day."
They stood in silence for a moment, both of them vibrating with unsaid things. The air between them thickened, heavy with history and hesitation, and finally Harry stepped closer until they were standing just a foot apart beneath the yellow glow of the streetlamp.
"I wanted to tell you everything," Harry said, his voice trembling just slightly, just enough to betray how deep this went for him. "After your surgery. After everything. I wanted to. Every single day, I wrote it out in my head. But you were recovering, and then you were healing, and then we were perfect until we weren't anymore. And I thought—maybe I lost the right."
Louis stared at him, heart thudding like thunder. "You didn't lose the right, Harry. I just... I couldn't face it. Not after everything."
Harry nodded, slowly, like he understood. "I was terrified. Of messing it all up again. Of losing you again. I thought—if I said something, if I opened the door to that part of us, maybe I'd wreck it before we had a chance."
Louis didn't say anything for a moment, just looked at him, eyes searching, heart aching.
"I should've talked to you back then," Louis finally said, voice low. "I shouldn't have just disappeared. We both messed up."
Harry nodded again, but slower this time, heavier. "We did."
Louis looked down at his feet, then back up and his eyes were wet now, glistening with unshed tears that had been waiting years to fall. "It's just—I wasted so much time, Haz. Trying to hate you. Holding on to heartache like it was going to fix anything. And all it did was keep me from the person who... who mattered most."
Harry's eyes were glassy too now and his voice cracked when he spoke. "Do you know how many times I replayed it all in my head? Wondering how it would've gone if I'd just said something. If I'd run after you. If I hadn't let you walk away."
Louis gave a small, broken laugh. "We're a right mess, aren't we?"
"Yeah," Harry said, breath catching on a smile. "But maybe... maybe we don't have to be."
They stood there, quietly breathing the same air, sharing the same soft, sad smile, like two people who had finally reached the edge of the wreckage and found each other still standing.
"I don't want to lose any more time," Louis whispered.
Harry stepped closer again, just a small shift, but it felt like the start of something seismic. "Then let's not."
Louis looked up, eyes impossibly soft. "What does that even mean? What do we do now?"
Harry smiled, gentle and uncertain and real. "We start over. Slowly. I get to know this version of you. And you get to know the version of me that's been in love with you since we were teenagers."
Louis blinked hard, lips parting, and for a second all he could do was nod.
"Okay," he said, voice shaking. "Okay."
They didn't kiss. But Harry walked Louis home and when they reached the door, Louis lingered on the step for a moment longer than necessary.
"Let's go on a date," Louis said, out of nowhere, like he needed to hear it out loud before he chickened out.
Harry blinked, heart in his throat. "A date?"
Louis nodded, almost shy. "Dinner. A walk. Something quiet. Nothing complicated. Just us."
Harry exhaled like he'd been holding that breath for years. "I'd love that."
And so it began, not with fireworks or declarations under the stars, but with two hands brushing as they said goodnight, two hearts beating just a little lighter as they turned away from a past that no longer held them hostage.
The start of something.. not new, but reborn.
*
The day of their first date unfolded with a quiet kind of nervous energy, one that neither of them dared to name aloud, but both could feel pulsing beneath their skin like a second heartbeat. Harry arrived first, leaning against the wall of the small café Louis had picked, wearing a coat that caught the early autumn breeze like a memory. He looked calm, composed, the picture of someone who knew how to appear relaxed... except for the way his hands fiddled restlessly with the hem of his sleeves, betraying every inch of tension running through him.
And then Louis was there, in that quiet, disarming way of his; casual jeans, soft jumper, hair a little unruly from the wind and that smile, small but real, the one Harry had once memorized in different lighting, in crowded rooms and empty corridors. They greeted with an almost shy hello, the kind that came with eye contact too long to be accidental and a shared, breathless awareness of what they were doing. Lunch was light, chicken salad, sandwiches, laughter that loosened the nerves and when Louis suggested a walk through the park just up the road, Harry said yes before the sentence was finished.
They walked side by side without touching, as if their hands were magnets pulling close but not quite meeting and their words found a rhythm between the quiet. They talked about the practice Louis again, how the lease had gone through and how he'd started designing the space to feel less clinical, more safe, more human. Harry lit up at his ideas, asking questions like he couldn't help himself, like he wanted to know every shade of Louis' dream.
The sky deepened into the soft pink of late afternoon and before they knew it, they were both lingering near a quiet Italian place, one of Harry's favourites and Louis didn't hesitate when he suggested dinner. It felt like a second date within the first, like time was folding in on itself to make up for what they'd lost. Dinner flowed easily, a few glasses of wine, shared bites across the table, their legs brushing under it now and then and neither of them pulling back.
Afterward, Harry suggested a movie, almost sheepishly, like he expected Louis to say no. But Louis just smiled.. soft, open, and said, "Only if we can walk again afterward." Joking, obviously, or not?
They sat in the back row, not close enough to touch but close enough that their presence curled around each other like a promise. The movie was a blur, dialogue melting under the weight of sideways glances and the silent heat of proximity. By the time they stepped back out into the night, the city had slowed down and so had they, wandering down quiet streets with laughter still caught in their chests.
It wasn't electric. It was something warmer, slower. A glow instead of a spark and maybe that was what made it so damn beautiful.
When they reached Louis' door, everything paused. Neither moved nor reached for the handle. They stood there, just the two of them, under the dull glow of the porch light, silence drawing the air taut between them.
"Thank you," Louis said, voice soft. "For today."
Harry smiled, hesitant. "Thank you for letting me have it."
There was a hug then, one of those lingering ones, full-bodied and close and it felt like an apology and forgiveness and something brand new all at once. Louis pulled back slowly, but he didn't step away and when Harry's eyes lifted to meet his, time stopped. They just looked at each other and for a second it seemed like they might lean in... but they didn't.
Harry smiled again, heart racing. "Goodnight, Lou."
"Goodnight, Haz."
And then the door was closed. Just like that. Click. And Harry stood there, blinking at the wood, something hollow expanding in his chest. He turned slowly, took two steps down the path, then stopped. Just stopped.
What was he doing?
He spun back, yanked the door open without thinking, heart pounding in his throat—and froze.
Louis was still there.
Standing on the other side like he never left, like he couldn't walk away either.
Their eyes met, wide and stunned and something more. And then they both stepped forward at the same time, barely a breath passing between them before their lips met in a kiss that felt like it had waited lifetimes. It wasn't perfect. It was slightly off-center and tasted like wine and nerves, but it was theirs. It was the kind of kiss that made the earth tilt just enough to remind them it was real.
They kissed like they'd been holding their breath for years. Like they'd come home.
And when they finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, neither said a word. There was no need.
They were finally beginning again.