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Chapter Text

The train hummed beneath them, a soft vibration that pulsed up through the soles of Louis' shoes and into the pit of his stomach, a sensation that once might've felt like excitement, but now registered only as static. An anxious, muffled anticipation pressed between the pages of a chapter he wasn't sure he was ready to reopen. London passed outside the window in blurred streaks of grey and amber, the skyline rising like a memory too sharp to hold with bare hands, and beside him, Marcel was scrolling through his phone, his knuckles brushing softly against Louis' as if to anchor him there, to now, to the new life he'd spent the last two years piecing together brick by cautious brick.

Louis smiled at him, tired but grateful, the kind of expression that didn't quite reach his eyes and then leaned his forehead against the cool glass, watching the edges of the city sharpen and grow familiar in a way that made his chest ache more than he'd ever admit. It had been two years since he walked away, two years of silence, of pretending, of rebuilding from rubble, but nothing could erase the shape London carved in him. It had never just been a place. It had been Harry. And even now, even after everything, that name still echoed through him like the hiss of an old wound not fully healed, one that pulsed with every beat of his heart and reminded him that forgetting and forgiving were not the same.

Marcel leaned in a little, his voice low and gentle, warm with the softness Louis had learned to appreciate even if it didn't set him alight. "Nervous?"

Louis shrugged, barely a movement. "Something like that."

And Marcel kind as he was, didn't push or didn't question why Louis hadn't really talked about London in over a year since they're together, why his hands had started trembling slightly the moment they'd boarded the train, or why he hadn't spoken Zayn's name aloud without a flicker of guilt crossing his face. Marcel didn't ask about the ghosts that haunted Louis' silence, didn't name the one man whose memory Louis still couldn't entirely outrun. And that was exactly why Louis had stayed. Marcel didn't dig. He simply stayed.

*

Across the city, Harry stood in the middle of his flat, arms crossed, teeth sunk into the edge of his thumbnail, staring at the shirt options sprawled out across his bed like he was deciding which version of himself to wear. He hadn't been to a wedding since... well, since ever, really. And he wasn't ready, not for the ceremony, not for the weight of the day, not for the memories that clung to Zayn and Liam like ivy on old stone. He wasn't ready to stand in a garden full of people who knew the truth and watch two people say forever when the only person he'd ever imagined doing that with hadn't spoken to him in seven hundred and thirty-six days.

He'd counted. Still was.

Niall had called the night before, voice a little tight with nerves, like even he wasn't sure whether Harry should go at all. "He'll be there," he'd said carefully. "It's Zayn and Liam, after all."

Of course he had known Louis would be there. But some part of him still dreaded the thought and entertained the idea that he wouldn't.

He chose the dark navy suit. The one Louis once said made his eyes look like the sea during a storm. The irony wasn't lost on him.

*

The garden was sun-drenched and soft, draped in warm light and bursts of summer flowers, the air buzzing with champagne and joy and the kind of love that made people believe in forever. Zayn looked happier than Louis had ever seen him, lighter somehow, unburdened and when he pulled Louis into a tight hug, whispering, "Thank you for coming," there was a quiet ache in it, like they both knew this wasn't just about celebrating, but about coming home.

Marcel had wandered off to find drinks, and Louis stood near the edge of the crowd scanning faces, until his heart nearly dropped through the soles of his shoes.

Harry.

Standing just across the garden, stiff and stunning in that navy suit, hair swept back like time had only made him sharper, more achingly beautiful, and yet somehow softer around the edges. He looked... older, in the way that grief ages a person; eyes heavier, smile slower, posture careful like he was bracing for an earthquake.

And then those green eyes landed on him.

It was instantaneous, the breath hitch in Harry's chest, the stunned silence that slammed into him like a train, and Louis saw it, saw the way his presence hit Harry like a blow, saw the heartbreak crawl across his face the moment his gaze flicked over and saw Marcel return to Louis' side, brushing a kiss to Louis' cheek with a laugh that didn't belong in this kind of war zone.

And then Harry looked away because now he knew...

Now he knew that no one had dared tell him.

Louis had someone and Harry was alone.

Niall found him at the bar, eyes still stuck to the floor. "You alright, mate?"

Harry didn't answer, just stared at the half-empty glass in his hand like it could tell him how to breathe again.

"You saw them?" Niall asked quietly cautious.

"Of course Niall, and no one told me," Harry said, voice thin and sharp like paper. "None of you."

"Would you have come if we did?"

Harry didn't answer that either but the damage was done. And the pain, God, the pain was so loud it might as well have been written all over his face.

*

And Louis? Louis laughed at Marcel's jokes, hugged friends he hadn't seen in years, clinked champagne glasses and made his speech like a practiced performer. But every time he caught Harry's eyes, flickering and distant across the garden, something inside him broke all over again.

Because he hadn't forgotten.

Not the pain.

Not the love.

Not the way Harry had looked at him like he was the entire world, before it all shattered.

And despite the suit and the new city and the man at his side... Louis didn't feel whole. Not really.

But he pretended.

Because that's what they both did now.

They pretended.

Chapter Text

Louis had always been good at wearing a mask, had spent years perfecting the art of laughter that didn't quite reach the centre of him and smiles that crinkled the edges of his eyes just enough to convince the world he was fine, that he was healed, that there was nothing left under the surface but the man he'd rebuilt himself into.

Tonight, under strings of golden lights and unusual warm spring air, with the garden echoing with clinks of glasses and bursts of laughter, he wore that mask so tightly it might've become skin.

Marcel's hand was warm against his back, guiding him gently across the dance floor as they swayed to the soft lilt of whatever romantic classic Liam had picked for the first round of post-speech dancing. Marcel leaned in every few minutes, brushing kisses to his temple, whispering things that made Louis laugh—real laughs, light ones, maybe even genuine in the moment, because Marcel was good, Marcel was kind, and Louis did love him. He really did.

Just... not like that.

Not in the way that rearranged the architecture of your bones. Not in the way that left you ruined when it ended. But he'll get there, he was sure of that. One day he'll love him like that.

But tonight wasn't about that.

Tonight was about Zayn and Liam. About the two of them glowing like sunbeams, tangled up in each other's arms in the middle of the crowd as if they were the only people in the universe. It was impossible not to feel that kind of love radiating from them, unapologetic, all-encompassing, the kind of devotion that didn't ask questions, didn't need anything but yes.

Louis smiled as he watched them. God, if anyone deserved this, it was them.

"I can't believe it finally happened," Niall said from behind him, a glass of something fizzy in one hand, his cheeks a little pink with alcohol and emotion. "Took them long enough."

Louis snorted, stepping back from the dance floor for a moment, Marcel still close beside him. "Truly."

"They're disgustingly perfect," Niall said with mock disdain, then added softer, "But it's good to see them this happy, yeah?"

Louis nodded, looking out across the garden. "Yeah. It really is."

He didn't say what he was thinking, that he used to imagine a day like this for himself and someone else. That he had once pictured himself in a certain someone's arms under fairy lights and the night sky, promising forever.

"Glad you came," Niall added after a beat, nudging his arm. "We missed you."

Louis smiled at him, warm and grateful. "I missed you too."

He caught Zayn's eyes then, across the garden where he stood wrapped in Liam's arms, and something unspoken passed between them, a thousand unsent letters and long phone calls and quiet nights of missing each other, before Zayn tugged Liam over, laughing as they approached.

"Oi," Zayn said, sweeping Louis into a hug that almost knocked the air out of him. "You've barely danced with me."

"I'm pretty sure the groom's spoken for," Louis teased, squeezing him tightly. "But I'll allow one dance."

"Don't let Liam hear that," Zayn grinned, though he didn't let go just yet. "You alright, Lou?"

It was the kind of question that didn't need an answer. Zayn had always known how to read him too well. Louis nodded anyway. "Yeah. I'm okay."

And he was.. mostly. Enough to survive a few hours of pretending.

Marcel was chatting with Liam now, talking about books or music or something equally adorable, and Louis watched them for a moment before turning back to Zayn, voice lower.

"He didn't know, did he?"

Zayn's gaze flicked instinctively across the garden, and Louis didn't need to follow it to know who it landed on. "No," Zayn said, shaking his head. "Didn't think it was our place. And he never asked."

Louis exhaled through his nose. "Right."

*

It was inevitable later, when they were back inside for cake and toasts and a second round of drinks. Louis had just returned from the bathroom when he caught Harry by surprise near the bar, both of them freezing mid-step like they'd walked into the past by accident.

It took them both a second.

Then Harry gave a small nod; tense, polite probably even too polite, and Louis responded with the same, feeling every bone in his body lock into place.

"Louis," Harry said, voice carefully even.

"Harry."

There was a pause, heavy and strange. The air around them felt suspended, like the universe was holding its breath.

"You look... well," Harry said and it was clear how hard he was trying to make his voice steady, how much effort it took to be civil when every molecule in his body screamed something else entirely.

Louis gave a small tight smile. "You too."

Harry's eyes flicked behind him then, to where Marcel was laughing with someone over by the cake table, and something inside him shifted, cracked slightly, but he held it.

"I didn't know," Harry said quietly. "About him."

"I figured," Louis said. "Wasn't exactly news to tell you."

"Right," Harry said, voice brittle.

Another beat passed, too much unsaid, too much unravelled. "Well," Louis said, stepping back, "congrats to Zayn and Liam, yeah?"

Harry nodded, but didn't say anything.

And just like that, Louis walked away, back to Marcel, to the present, to the life he'd chosen to build far away from all this. But he didn't miss the look Harry wore as he left, like someone watching the last page of his favourite story burn.

They danced again later, Marcel spinning him with a grin, his arms around Louis' waist as the music played on and Louis smiled, laughed, leaned into it, because for a little while it was easier to be part of the joy than sit on the outside looking in.

But when he looked across the room again, Harry was already gone. And Louis didn't know why that made it harder to breathe.

*

Harry hadn't meant to look, he hadn't gone to the wedding to suffer, hadn't arrived in the hopes of twisting every old wound wide open. In fact, for weeks, he'd debated not coming at all.

But Liam had asked, softly and without pressure, and Harry had known there was never a universe in which he could deny showing up for someone he considered family, even when everything else in his life had shattered and reformed into something unrecognizable.

Still, he hadn't expected to see him like this.

He was standing by the archway that led from the garden back into the reception hall when his world tilted off its axis, his hand wrapped loosely around a glass of champagne he'd barely sipped, eyes tired from smiling through conversations that felt like chores. The laughter reached him first, that laugh, the one he used to chase across crowded rooms, the one that used to be his.

And then there he was. Louis.

Just... Louis. Standing beneath the garden lights like nothing had ever broken between them. Like he hadn't once shattered Harry's life with a single sentence and then disappeared, cutting him out like he was something rotten that had to be scraped clean.

But it wasn't just Louis, it was Louis and someone else.

A man. His boyfriend, Harry realised a second too late, because the smile was too familiar and the fingers curled around Louis' waist too possessive, too practiced. And Louis didn't flinch or step away instead he leaned in and laughed at whatever he was being told, warm and bright and so heartbreakingly okay.

Harry blinked, the sound around him dulling to nothing but a low hum, like someone had pressed his head underwater.

No one had warned him.

Not Niall, not Liam, none of his friends. Not one of them had thought to say, "By the way, Louis has someone now." Not even a half-hearted text.

And Harry had been trying, not constantly, not relentlessly, not in the obsessive way he had at the beginning, but enough.

A message, a birthday card, an occasional call that always went to voicemail. He'd tried to show up, to be present in the only way Louis would allow, which, admittedly, had been no way at all.

But still. He never stopped loving him.

He never stopped checking, never stopped asking the others how he was and never stopped quietly hoping that one day, he'd walk into a room and Louis would look at him like he used to, with something whole and safe and bright in his eyes.

Instead, Louis had walked away and stayed gone. He'd moved out of London only a few months after the break up, so quickly it felt like an escape plan. Changed his number. Left the job. Disappeared into a new life that didn't include Harry in any capacity. And now here he was, back just long enough to twist the knife with a smile that wasn't for him.

Harry's jaw clenched and he swallowed hard against the heat creeping up his throat, heart pounding so loud he was surprised no one could hear it.

It wasn't that he didn't want Louis to be happy, God, he did. He wanted that more than anything. But the way Louis had shut him out, cut him out, left no room for grace or conversation or even closure... that had never stopped hurting. It had settled into his bones, into the marrow of him, something that echoed every time he stood in an empty apartment after a long shift and stared at the quiet. He hadn't dated, not after the failed attempt with Isla, not after the way even touching someone else had felt wrong.

Because Louis was it, had always been it, and always will be.

Harry let out a breath, slow and careful, his eyes still fixed on the man who used to be his whole world. It should've felt like seeing an old friend. It should've been easier after all this time.

Instead, it felt like watching the final thread snap between them.

He couldn't remember how long he stood there, unable to look away, unable to move. Just... stuck in that moment, haunted by something that used to belong to him. The others passed by, laughing, full of life, immersed in the joy of the day, but Harry couldn't join. He couldn't be that person anymore.

*

Harry barely remembered how he got home, the car ride from the venue was a blur, the city lights streaking past like soft, silent reminders of everything that used to mean something. He hadn't said goodbye to anyone. Hadn't waited for dessert, hadn't offered his congratulations again, hadn't clinked a glass or made a speech or even managed to pretend for a second longer. He simply left, quiet and ghost-like, a shadow slipping out into the night.

The moment he got through the door of his apartment, the breath he'd been holding finally broke loose, and he leaned against the wall like his legs couldn't carry the weight of his own body anymore. His tie hung loose around his neck, the jacket crumpled in his fist, but he didn't move to take anything off. Didn't even bother to turn on the lights.

The silence that greeted him was familiar. Heavy and punishing.

It had been two years. Two full years since Louis had slammed the last door shut between them and still it hurt like it had just happened. Still, it knocked the air from his lungs whenever he let himself think about what could have been, about what they might have salvaged if only he had done it differently. If only he had told the truth sooner. If only he had been braver, or better, or more selfless. If only.

But there were no more chances now. No more letters unsent, no more texts unsent, no more hope hiding in the soft corners of his chest. Not after tonight.

Seeing Louis again had broken something in him that was already cracked far beyond repair. Not because Louis had looked happy, but because he hadn't needed him. Because the life Harry had once imagined them building together had clearly been built already, with someone else. Someone who got to hold Louis in the quiet between songs, who got to laugh with him beneath fairy lights, who got to exist in a world Harry was no longer invited into.

And the worst part, the absolute worst part, was that no one had told him. Not a single one of the people he called his best friends had thought to warn him. Not Niall, who had held him while he sobbed through nights he couldn't remember. Not Liam, who always tried to soothe him with reason and calm. Not Zayn, whose wedding Harry had come to celebrate with every ounce of joy he could muster.

They'd all let him walk in blind.

He pulled out his phone with shaking fingers, his vision blurry, the screen bright against the dark. His thumbs hovered for a moment before he started typing, each word feeling heavier than the last.

I'm sorry I left. I didn't want to make a scene but I couldn't stay. I tried.. I swear I tried. But I just... I couldn't pretend. Not when no one thought to tell me he wouldn't be alone.

I don't blame you. I don't. But I thought maybe one of you would warn me. I thought you knew what this would do to me.

I'm just... I'm so tired. So fucking tired of missing someone who acts like I never existed.

He didn't wait for replies, not even sure if he wanted them.

He turned the screen off and let the phone fall to the floor, then sank down beside it, back against the wall, knees pulled up tight to his chest like he could shrink down to nothing and finally disappear into the silence he'd been living in for far too long. It was always like this after seeing Louis—in pictures, in dreams, in the dark halls of his mind, but tonight had been different. Tonight had made it real.

Louis had a whole life now. And Harry wasn't part of it.

He buried his face in his arms and exhaled a sob that sounded more like a wound than a breath, the kind of sound that hurt coming out, the kind that made him shake from the inside.

He still worked, still operated, held scalpels with steady hands and wore a calm mask because people's lives depended on it. But every moment in between, every second he wasn't playing God beneath surgical lights, he was drowning.. quietly and slowly. In heartbreak and regret and the echo of a voice he hadn't heard in two years. A voice he would probably never hear again.

And that was the worst part, not the silence, nor the absence.

But the finality.

Because Harry had made a mistake. A mistake so big, so deep, so unforgivable, that he would carry it forever like a scar inside his chest.

And Louis, he had chosen not to look back.

*

The last of the music had faded, the fairy lights twinkled like tired stars above the garden, and most of the guests had already trickled out into the cool London night, full of laughter and champagne and love. Zayn's jacket was off, his tie forgotten somewhere between the speeches and the dancing, and he was sitting on the stone ledge that bordered the flowerbeds, a cigarette burning lazily between two fingers, even though he'd promised he'd quit for the wedding.

Liam was beside him, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, looking just as emotionally spent as Zayn felt. Across from them, Niall sat cross-legged on the grass, shoes abandoned and socks slightly damp with dew, sipping from a half-finished glass of wine, eyes watching the lights in the trees like they might offer answers to questions none of them could voice yet.

They didn't speak for a long time.

Not because there was nothing to say, but because there was too much. It hung in the air like fog, thick and full and unspoken, until finally, Zayn broke the silence, his voice low and hoarse, more of a thought spoken aloud than a sentence meant for the others.

"He really looks like him, doesn't he?"

Liam let out a long breath, scrubbing a hand down his face. "It was the first thing I thought when I saw him walk in. I mean, I'd seen the pictures Louis sent, the ones he let us see, but... seeing him in person was something else. It's, yeah. It's weird."

Niall snorted quietly, shaking his head with a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Weird's one word for it. I'd say borderline creepy. Like, if you took Harry, put him in glasses and a sweater vest, gave him slightly too much gel and made him a bit more awkward, you'd get Marcel. It's uncanny."

Zayn exhaled smoke and nodded. "Makes you wonder if Louis even noticed. Or if he did it on purpose."

There was a beat of quiet again, heavy and thoughtful. A shared pause that was more knowing than anything they could put into words.

"I think he did," Liam said after a moment, voice softer. "Not consciously maybe, but... somewhere deep down. He's not over Harry. You don't replace someone like that. You just try to fill the space they left with someone who feels familiar."

"He hates him," Niall said, frowning into his glass. "Or he pretends to do. And I get it somehow. But... it's been two years, and I still don't think Louis has breathed properly since he walked away."

"No one has," Zayn added quietly, tapping ash off the end of his cigarette. "Above all Harry."

The silence that followed was heavier this time, full of the same tired sadness they all shared. The same helplessness that had sat with them through every attempt to fix what had been broken, through every conversation that ended in frustration or heartbreak, through every time they'd stood between two people who were too stubborn and too hurt to reach for each other.

"It's like they're orbiting each other still," Niall murmured, eyes still fixed on the lights. "Just.. just circling and circling and refusing to touch."

"Or afraid to," Liam said. "Because touching means burning."

Zayn nodded once, slow and tired, watching the last of the smoke curl into the night air. "They were supposed to be endgame. You know? For all the shit they've been through... I thought at least, that they'd find their way back."

"Maybe they still will," Niall said, but his voice lacked conviction. It was more of a hope than a belief. More of a whisper to the stars than a truth he could hold onto.

Liam reached for Zayn's hand and laced their fingers together, grounding them both. "We have to let them figure it out. Even if it fucking kills us to watch it."

Zayn didn't reply, just leaned into the touch and let the quiet wrap around them like a blanket, warm and aching and full of things they couldn't say. Around them, the world moved on. Lights flickered. The last staff member cleared the tables. Somewhere, a taxi pulled up to take another guest home.

And in the echo of a night that had been meant to celebrate love, three friends sat with the ache of the love that was supposed to last.

*

The taxi ride back to the hotel was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Marcel had taken off his bowtie somewhere between the last round of drinks and the toast Zayn made that had everyone in tears, and now it was tucked into his jacket pocket, forgotten and wrinkled, just like the edges of the smile still clinging to his lips. Louis sat beside him, cheek resting against the cool window, eyes half-lidded as he watched the London streets rush past, soft pools of light smeared across the glass, casting his face in gold and shadow.

They hadn't said much since the wedding ended. Louis had leaned into Marcel's side on the way out, fingers laced with his, polite smiles offered to the stragglers they passed in the garden, casual waves and half-laughed goodbyes to the people they wouldn't see again until the next round of life's big milestones. It had been fine. He had been fine. Or at least, convincing enough.

Marcel had been perfect all night. He always was, charming in his own awkward way, thoughtful and sweet with Zayn and Liam, never overstepping, never trying too hard to impress. He'd smiled when he met the others, joked with Niall about the wine selection, laughed in all the right places, and had kept an arm around Louis whenever he felt him drift a little too far out of the moment. He never said a word about the way Louis' eyes followed someone else across the garden or how his grip on the champagne flute tightened every time a familiar voice echoed too close to where they stood...

The hotel was warm when they stepped inside, the gentle hush of the lobby a welcome contrast to the hum of the wedding, and Marcel was already talking about the next few days, how they could go to Louis' parents for lunch, or maybe spend a day out in Camden, or meet Niall for drinks if he wasn't too hungover from the reception. Louis nodded, smiling where he could, reaching for Marcel's hand again as they stepped into the elevator.

Their room was nice. Not extravagant, but clean and quiet, with a view overlooking the city that made Marcel sigh contentedly as he dropped his jacket onto the armchair and started unbuttoning his shirt. Louis wandered to the window, fingers toying with the curtains, his reflection ghosting over the glass. He could see the city stretch for miles, lights and rooftops and the faint shimmer of the river, the hum of life that never really stopped here. It was home once. It still was, in some strange way. Even though he'd left it behind.

"Hey," Marcel said softly from behind, arms circling his waist as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. "You okay?"

Louis hummed, a sound that wasn't quite an answer but not quite a lie either. "Just tired," he said, turning to face him with a small smile that felt stiff around the edges. "It was a lot."

"It was," Marcel agreed, nodding, brushing a hand through Louis' hair. "But it was beautiful. You did great, by the way. Zayn looked like he was gonna cry when you gave your speech."

Louis chuckled, even if it felt like it echoed hollow in his chest. "Yeah. It was a good day."

Marcel kissed him again, this time on the mouth, soft at first then a little deeper, a little more insistent as his hands found Louis' hips and pulled them close. Louis let it happen for a moment. Let himself sink into the familiar rhythm of Marcel's mouth, the way he always kissed like he was careful not to break anything, like Louis was something fragile and worth preserving.

But then Louis pulled back with a small sigh. "Marcel," he said gently, hands resting against his chest, not pushing, just... steadying. "Not tonight."

Marcel blinked confused but not upset. "No?"

Louis shook his head. "Just... not feeling it."

A pause stretched between them, not tense, but charged with something unspoken. Marcel searched his face, brows creased in that quiet way of his, like he wasn't angry, just trying to understand. He always wanted to understand, that was what made him different.

"You've been off," he said eventually. "All day."

Louis looked down, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of Marcel's shirt. "It's just... a lot, being back here. Seeing everyone."

Marcel nodded, but didn't drop it. "Is it about him?" The question was so soft, it barely felt like a ripple in the room.

Louis closed his eyes for a moment. "I don't want to talk about him."

"But maybe you should," Marcel said, still calm, still patient. "You've never really told me the whole story. Just bits and pieces. Enough to know it hurt you. But not enough to understand why you still... look for him in a crowd."

Louis opened his eyes again, met Marcel's gaze, and there was something tired in the curve of his mouth. "Because it still hurts."

That was the first time he'd admitted it out loud in months, maybe longer.

Marcel's expression softened even more, and he reached up to touch Louis' cheek. "Then maybe don't carry it alone."

Louis leaned into the touch, just for a second, before pulling away and stepping back. "I need a shower," he said quietly. "Can we just... call it a night?"

Marcel nodded, though his eyes lingered, worried and wanting. "Yeah, of course."

Louis disappeared into the bathroom without another word, the door closing with a soft click behind him. And for a moment, he just stood there, leaning against the sink, palms braced against the cold porcelain, breathing shallow and quiet in the hush of the tiled room.

He turned on the water, waited for the steam to rise, and tried to scrub away the past.

But some things didn't wash off so easily.

*

The morning light filtered in through the sheer curtains, soft and hazy and golden, spilling across the rumpled bedsheets and casting long stripes over the hotel floor like brushstrokes across a canvas. Louis stirred slowly beneath the duvet, the weight of Marcel's arm still draped lazily over his waist, the familiar scent of hotel linen and Marcel's cologne mingling in the quiet air. For a moment he just laid there, eyes half-open, blinking slowly against the light, allowing the peace to settle over him like a second skin, warm and slow and not entirely unwelcome.

It was better this morning, he felt lighter somehow. Not free, not completely unburdened, but better. The ache that had clawed at his chest the night before, sharp and bitter and quietly suffocating, had dulled into something more manageable, something distant and blurred around the edges. It wasn't gone, not really. It never was. But today, he decided, he didn't want to let it win.

He shifted gently, careful not to wake Marcel and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He could hear the faint hum of the city outside, cars moving, people walking, life happening all around them. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed this particular kind of noise. London's distinct pulse, its restless rhythm, the way it buzzed with a kind of life that no other place quite managed to replicate. But it wasn't his city anymore.

Not since he'd left for Munich.

He hadn't even meant to stay there, not at first at least. It had started as an offer, one he hadn't expected to take, but something about it had felt like fate, or maybe just a chance to breathe. A new hospital, a new position, a new city to disappear into. Somewhere no one knew his name or his past or the man whose absence still lived in the hollow space between his ribs. And now, two years later, he had a life there. A career that was thriving. A title that still felt strange in his mouth Oberarzt der Forensischen Psychiatrie, but one that earned him respect and a quiet sort of admiration from his peers.

He'd built something solid in Germany, something he could be proud of. He worked with some of the best in his field, had his own office with wide windows that looked out over the gardens, mentored young doctors and was regularly invited to speak at conferences across Europe. He had Marcel now too. Kind, patient, grounding Marcel who never pushed too hard but always held space for him to be exactly as he was. He didn't deserve him, not really, but he clung to him anyway, because he wanted to be happy. He was happy, he needed to be.

Louis stretched, bones cracking slightly, and sat up, the sheets slipping off his torso as he scrubbed a hand through his hair. Marcel shifted behind him, mumbling something incoherent before blindly reaching out toward the empty space beside him.

"Mmh... Lou?"

"I'm here," Louis said, smiling faintly as he turned, brushing Marcel's curls back from his forehead. "Just needed a minute."

Marcel blinked blearily up at him, eyes still heavy with sleep, voice rough and quiet. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Louis said, and this time, it didn't feel like a lie. "I actually feel... alright."

Marcel grinned, still half-asleep, and reached for him again. "Good. I was worried about you last night."

"I know," Louis murmured, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "But today's a new day."

They took their time that morning, showering lazily, sipping coffee in bed while planning their day. They'd visit his family first, Jay had texted twice already, asking what time to expect them and if Marcel still didn't like eggs. And then maybe stop by Lottie's or meet the boys in Camden if the timing worked out. Louis was looking forward to it, genuinely. It felt good to be home, even if he didn't call it that anymore.

He got dressed in a soft jumper and jeans, something casual but put-together, and watched as Marcel fussed with his curls in the mirror, muttering in German under his breath as he tried to tame them. It made Louis smile, the familiarity of it, the domesticity. The way Marcel always cared about the little things.

When they stepped outside, the city greeted them with a cool breeze and the promise of a sunny afternoon, and Louis tucked his hand into Marcel's as they walked toward the station. There was a quiet kind of peace in the moment, a gentle hum of normalcy that settled over him like a second skin.

Today, he told himself again, he wouldn't let the past define him. He had made choices. Hard ones. Painful ones. But he'd survived. He'd rebuilt. And he'd come back, not for what he'd left behind, but for what still remained.

Even if there were ghosts in the shadows and echoes in the corners of every street he once knew by heart.

Chapter Text

The sunlight was already streaming through the half-open blinds when Harry stirred, blinking blearily into the soft glow that pooled across the wooden floor of his flat like spilled gold, warm and indifferent and far too bright for how fucking hollow everything inside him felt. His head was pounding with the familiar thrum of too little sleep and too many thoughts left unraveled and for a long while, he simply lay there, flat on his back, staring up at the white ceiling as though it might somehow offer an answer, some kind of clarity or divine undoing that might let him rewrite the night before and strip away the image of Louis, smiling beside someone who wasn't him.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Once, twice and again, a longer string of vibration but not constant enough for a call, so that meant messages, probably from the others.

Harry reached for it with slow, heavy fingers, already dreading what he might find, already feeling the dull weight pressing tighter into his chest as if his ribs were too soft to keep the world out.

Niall [08:17]
You okay?
I'm sorry about last night. I should've warned you. I really should have. I just... I didn't know how.

Liam [08:29]
We didn't mean for it to go that way, mate. He didn't tell any of us he was bringing him until the day before.
I think we were scared to hurt you, but that backfired, I know.  We should've known better after everything.

Zayn [08:34]
He's staying in London for a few days.
Figured you'd wanna know. Or maybe not. Just... yeah. He's here. Take care of yourself, H.

And that was the thing, those words, that offhand fact casually dropped between apologies and half-baked explanations, that was what made the crack in his chest grow deeper, wider, rawer. He's staying. Not just a single night or a fleeting visit, not just a quick appearance to say the right words and be done with it... but days. Days in the same city. Days of maybe seeing him on the street or running into him at a café or catching a glimpse of that familiar figure at the crosswalk, close enough to touch and still galaxies away.

Harry swallowed hard, the messages blurring slightly on his screen as he let the phone fall beside him again, chest rising and falling in slow, uneven waves. His mouth felt dry like ash and his heart was a strange, shriveled thing inside him, still beating but no longer belonging to him in any real way. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to will it all away, the image of Louis laughing under the fairy lights, the way his hand had found Marcel's waist like it had belonged there, the curve of his smile when he leaned in close, completely unaware or maybe entirely indifferent to the devastation he'd left in his wake.

If he can move on, Harry thought bitterly, dragging himself out of bed and into the sterile silence of his flat, then maybe I can too.

But even as he thought it, even as he pulled on his clothes and splashed cold water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror with something like defiance burning in his eyes, he knew it wasn't true. It never had been. Because Louis hadn't just been some fleeting love or warm body or passing storm. Louis had been the marrow in his bones, the compass in his blood, the only thing in his life that had ever made sense in a way that felt eternal. And watching him with someone else had felt like being hollowed out by a blunt knife; painful, slow and almost insultingly final.

Still, he had surgeries lined up, a schedule full of patients and rounds and protocols that didn't care how much his heart was aching and so he did what he always did, what he'd trained himself to do, he compartmentalized, he shoved it all into that dark little drawer at the back of his mind and locked it shut. He walked into General with his shoulders straight and his chin lifted, the perfect picture of poise and control and no one dared ask about the bruises under his eyes or the way his smile didn't quite reach anymore. Because he was still Dr. Harry Styles, head of neurosurgery, the youngest in the hospital's history, the surgeon with hands steadier than time—and not a single soul knew how much effort it took just to keep breathing.

He thought of Louis every time his hands were idle, when he scrubbed in, when he stood before a scan, when he walked the quiet halls between surgeries and heard someone laugh in a way that echoed too close to memory. He tried not to think about how Louis had left so easily back then, packing up and vanishing into another life, not once looking back, not once picking up the phone to call or text or demand closure. He'd disappeared and now he was back, with a new life, a new love, a new version of himself that no longer included Harry in any form.

So Harry told himself, fine. If Louis had rebuilt, then maybe he could too.

Maybe he'd go on that date Isla still kept hinting at, maybe he'd let someone touch him in a way that didn't feel like sacrilege, maybe he'd laugh at a joke without feeling like he was betraying something sacred inside him.

But even then, even in the privacy of his mind, he couldn't lie well enough to believe it.

Because there had only ever been one.

And he feared there only ever will be.

*

It was the kind of surgery that should've left him feeling invincible, twelve hours on his feet, fingers navigating a cerebral maze so complex that even the attending neurosurgeons who'd observed from the gallery held their breath each time he made an incision or clipped a vessel or adjusted the pressure around the swelling that threatened to steal a young girl's life before she'd even begun living it. It was the kind of save that made headlines, the kind interns whispered about in reverence and awe, the kind that cemented legends.

But as Harry scrubbed out, his hands trembling ever so slightly under the warm water, the skin around his knuckles red and raw and scalded from too much sanitiser, he didn't feel like a miracle worker. He felt like a man unraveling quietly at the seams, too tired to stitch himself back together again.

His chest was tight. Not from exhaustion, though that sat heavy in every limb, but from something deeper, something heavier, something rooted in the centre of him like a weight he'd grown used to carrying even though it had never once grown lighter. And today, of all days, it had pressed in just a little too far, like a hand wrapping around his throat, invisible and unrelenting.

He made it back to his office before the first crack showed.

He shut the door with trembling fingers, leaned his back against it, and slid to the floor like gravity had finally decided to take all of him down at once. His scrubs were soaked in sweat, his hair was clinging to his forehead, and his eyes burned, not from focus or concentration, but from the sheer, desperate need to cry without anyone seeing him.

He didn't cry, though.

Instead, he reached for his phone with fingers that barely obeyed him and scrolled past the names of people who loved him but didn't understand him, past the colleagues who respected him but didn't know him, past the endless texts from Niall and Liam and Zayn trying to check in, trying to ease the pain of what had happened, what they had failed to prevent.

And then he found her.

Mum.

It had always been her or Gemma in the end. The people who saw the boy inside the man, who knew how soft he really was under all that polish and power and praise. The people who remembered how deeply he felt everything, how he'd never been good at letting go of love, how he clung too tight and broke too hard and always blamed himself, even when the world said otherwise.

The phone rang a couple of times and then Anne's voice filled the speaker, soft and warm and so heartbreakingly familiar that Harry bit down on his knuckle to keep from sobbing.

"Harry, darling," she said like she knew, like she felt it in her bones even before he could speak. "What's happened?"

He couldn't answer at first. He just breathed, ragged, shallow, unsteady... and pressed the heel of his hand against his chest like he might be able to stop it from hurting so much.

"I... I lost him, Mum," he whispered finally, his voice thick and low and trembling. "I lost him, and I think—I think I'm never going to get him back."

There was a pause on the other end. Not of shock or confusion, but of pain. Deep and quiet and maternal.

"Tell me," she said gently.

Harry laughed, broken and small. "He's back in London. Just for a few days. With someone else. And I.. I thought I could handle it. I thought I was strong enough."

"But you're not," she said softly, not unkindly.

"No," he whispered, tipping his head back against the wall. "I'm really not."

And then the tears came, slow and silent and relentless, carving tracks down his cheeks as he closed his eyes and let the grief have him finally. He cried like he hadn't let himself cry in months, like all the pain he'd bottled up was breaking free, like every shattered moment from the past two years was crashing down all at once.

Anne didn't tell him to stop.

She didn't tell him to move on or let go or believe that time would fix it. She just stayed on the line, a quiet presence through the wire, the only anchor he had left that didn't demand he be something other than exactly what he was in that moment; heartbroken and hollow and human.

Eventually when his sobs dulled into soft, broken exhales, she spoke again. "You don't have to be strong all the time, Harry. Not for me. Not for your job. Not for anyone."

"I miss him so much," he said, almost childlike now, his voice threadbare.

"I know," she said gently. "And maybe someday he'll see that. Maybe he won't. But either way, you're allowed to fall apart, sweetheart. You're allowed to feel every bit of this to come out of it alive."

Harry wiped at his eyes, nodded even though she couldn't see it and let out a shuddering breath that sounded too close to defeat.

"I'm tired, Mum. I'm just so tired."

"Then rest, darling. Just for a little while. You've carried too much for too long."

And for the first time in a very long time, Harry allowed himself to listen.

*

The car ride felt longer than it was, not in distance but in weight, in thought, in the strange way silence could stretch between two people who didn't usually need to speak to feel connected. Marcel was humming softly along to the playlist Louis had thrown on without thinking, some pop mix they'd always kept for drives back in Germany, and Louis kept one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers twitching in a quiet rhythm that betrayed the nerves he couldn't quite shake.

He wasn't exactly dreading the breakfast, but there was something about returning home, about seeing everyone again in the daylight of something ordinary, something familial, something domestic, that made his stomach tighten just a little too much. It had been years since he'd brought someone new to meet his family, and it wasn't just anyone. It was Marcel. It was... someone he was genuinely trying with. Someone who made him laugh and remembered how he liked his coffee and held his hand without needing permission. Someone who treated him kindly. Who didn't ask for more than Louis could give. Who never pried too deep into the scars he still refused to uncover.

They pulled into the familiar driveway just past nine, the garden blooming in soft spring greens, the front door already half open with Lottie's head poking out, shouting something about being late and tea already going cold. Marcel grinned and squeezed Louis' knee before hopping out, bag over his shoulder and heart on his sleeve, ever eager and effortlessly charming in that way Louis wished he didn't find so endearing.

Inside, it was loud in the way only big families could be, too many voices overlapping, Fizzy shouting from the kitchen that she needed help with the juice glasses, Doris on the floor playing with the cat and Jay, radiant and calm in the middle of it all, welcoming Marcel with the kind of warmth that made Louis want to cry and crawl into her arms all at once.

He didn't, of course. He smiled and followed Marcel through the greetings and handshakes and introductions, watched him be everything he was; polite, funny, respectful, visibly thrilled to be included. And when they all sat down at the long kitchen table, plates full of croissants and fresh fruit and far too many mugs of tea, Louis let himself exhale just enough to pretend everything was fine.

And for the most part, it was.

The conversation flowed easily, Jay asking Marcel about his work, Lottie teasing Louis for forgetting his niece's birthday, Fizzy chiming in with her usual sarcastic quips earning soft scolds from her partner. Marcel answered every question with honesty and warmth, always managing to slip his hand back into Louis' under the table, always smiling like he genuinely felt lucky to be there.

Louis smiled too. He laughed when he was supposed to, nodded along, chimed in with the right memories and the right jokes and the right reactions, because he wanted it to be easy. He wanted to give Marcel that, a version of himself that wasn't haunted by ghosts, a life that didn't always trace back to the same pair of green eyes and a past he still couldn't name out loud.

It was around the second pot of tea, when Jay was pouring more milk into Marcel's cup, that someone muttered something almost absentmindedly.

"He does look familiar, doesn't he?"

It was casual, tucked beneath layers of noise and conversation, so quiet that it barely registered above the clink of cutlery and the rustle of napkins. But for a moment, the air shifted.

Louis didn't catch it, neither did Marcel, who was in the middle of explaining something about his university time in Berlin and how different the psychology systems were.

But the rest of them Jay and Mark, Fizzy, Lottie, the twins, they glanced at one another with that unspoken knowing that only family could share, the kind that didn't need to be said aloud to be understood.

Because, of course, he did.

Of course Marcel looked familiar.

They all saw it, not just the dark curls and the lean frame and the dimples that showed up when he smiled. It was in the way he tilted his head when he listened, the way he spoke with his hands, the way he looked at Louis like he held something sacred. It was uncanny, eerie even and maybe it was coincidence, maybe it was just Louis' type or maybe it was something else.

But no one said a word.

And when breakfast was over and they all helped clean up, when Marcel offered to do the dishes and Jay said she'd never let a guest do that, Louis watched him from the doorway and wondered, not for the first time, if he was doing the right thing.

Marcel had loved every second of it. His eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed, his voice giddy when he turned to Louis in the hallway later and said, "They're amazing. I get why you missed them."

Louis had nodded, smiled, pressed a kiss to his temple and murmured, "Yeah. They are."

But somewhere beneath the warmth and the gratitude and the easy happiness of it all, a voice whispered, quiet but persistent; You're not really here, Louis. Not all of you.

And the hardest part was... he knew it was true.

He was trying, really was. He was happy, or at least close enough, had a life he'd built far away, a partner who adored him, a career he excelled at, a version of himself he could live with. But sometimes, when no one was looking, when Marcel wasn't touching him or laughing with his sisters or thanking Jay for her hospitality, Louis would catch his reflection in the mirror and see someone else entirely.

Someone who still missed what he swore he didn't.

Someone who still loved what he claimed he'd buried.

Someone who, despite everything, couldn't stop thinking about a boy with green eyes and steady hands and a heart that had once belonged to him completely.

Someone who still wasn't sure if letting go had ever been the same as healing.

*

The rest of the morning passed in that gentle, humming kind of way, full of small laughter and the kind of conversations that didn't need to mean much to feel good or familiar. After breakfast, they'd all migrated into the back garden, the sun finally stretching its way through the thin clouds, wrapping the patio in warmth that made Louis pull off his jumper and settle into one of the old wooden chairs with a sigh that felt heavier than it should've.

Marcel had fit in seamlessly, which in hindsight didn't surprise him, he was good like that, always had a way of finding the rhythm of a room and slipping into it without forcing anything. He was crouched down beside Lucky and Doris, head tilted as he tried to braid a daisy chain with trembling fingers, muttering about how his hands were "absolutely not made for this kind of fine motor detail" and "how the fuck are you so good at this, Doris?" and Louis had watched it all with a fondness that pressed warm against his ribs.

He wanted this to be enough.

He wanted to hold onto this version of happiness, soft, domestic, woven into garden chairs and pots of tea and his sisters' laughter echoing off the fence. He wanted to look at Marcel and see only what was here now, not what had been, not what might still linger in the quiet parts of himself he couldn't share. He wanted to be present and for a while he almost was.

They didn't leave until early afternoon, saying their goodbyes on the doorstep with promises to see each other again before the end of the week, Phoebe pressing another container of homemade cookies into Marcel's hands and Lottie reminding Louis that he still owed her coffee and a proper catch-up. Jay hugged them both like she already missed them and for a second, when Louis leaned into her shoulder, breathing in the scent of home and warmth and safety, he almost said something. Almost.

But he didn't.

Instead, he smiled, thanked her again, promised to call, and took Marcel's hand as they made their way back to the city.

*

It was late afternoon by the time they reached their hotel again, a charming little place in Shoreditch, full of exposed brick and mismatched furniture and the kind of vintage art Marcel loved to make fun of but secretly adored. Louis threw his bag on the chair and kicked off his shoes before collapsing onto the edge of the bed with a groan, rubbing a hand down his face.

"You alright?" Marcel asked as he shut the door behind them, setting his things down more carefully.

"Yeah," Louis murmured, eyes closed for a beat too long. "Just tired. Too much sugar, too much talking."

Marcel grinned and leaned down to press a kiss to his hair. "You were brilliant. I hope they love me."

Louis chuckled. "They do."

"I'm just saying." Marcel dropped down beside him. "That was one of the best mornings I've ever had. You've got a good family, Louis."

Louis nodded. "Yeah. I do."

"And now," Marcel continued, pulling out his phone and flopping backwards onto the mattress, "we've got five more days in London, and I fully expect the ultimate tour. You promised me Camden. And Borough Market. And that bookstore you said was haunted."

"It's not haunted," Louis said with a smile, "it just has creaky floorboards and weird lighting. But yeah, it's on the list."

"I want everything. I want the full London experience. I want overpriced oat lattes and novelty tote bags and to be emotionally manipulated by a street performer."

Louis laughed again, louder this time, and shifted closer so that their shoulders touched. "Alright. We'll start tomorrow. First stop: Camden. You'll love it. It's chaotic and loud and smells like a dozen different spices and burnt sugar and cheap incense."

"Perfect," Marcel said, already typing notes into his phone. "Camden Market, then that bakery you used to love, what was it called again? With the weird little scones?"

"Little Bread Pedlar."

"Right. That one. And then... wasn't there some place you said had the best bao buns in the city?"

"Bao Borough, Borough Market. We'll go Thursday or so. I'll take you through South Bank after. There's this spot by the river with the best view of the skyline. Not the touristy bit, it's tucked away. No one really knows it's there."

"God, you're such a local," Marcel teased. "I feel like I'm dating a city guide."

Louis smirked, then let himself fall backward too, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment. "I lived here my entire life. I know every shortcut. Every café that stays open past midnight. Every bench you can cry on without getting too many stares."

Marcel was quiet at that, but not in a bad way, more thoughtful, gentle. He reached over and laced their fingers together. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

Louis turned his head, looked at him, tried to see only what was there, the boy who loved him, the boy who tried. The boy who didn't know the full story, not yet, but who would stay anyway.

"I'm glad you're here," Louis said softly, and meant it.

*

They spent the rest of the afternoon sprawled across the bed with their laptops open, planning each day like it was a puzzle to solve. Fitzrovia, with coffee at Kaffeine and a stroll through the quirky boutiques Marcel would undoubtedly overspend in. Camden, Borough Market, maybe a night at the theatre if they could still snag tickets for something decent. Louis pointed out the places that mattered, not the ones in the guidebooks, but the ones with memories stitched into them, good and bad.

He didn't say it, but every place he picked had once meant something else, someone else. He didn't say it, but Marcel didn't ask. He was just excited, so unashamedly thrilled to be exploring a place Louis had called home for so long.

And Louis, he tried to hold onto that. To let it be enough and believe, if only for now, that happiness didn't always have to be simple or pure or complete to still be real.

Because he did love Marcel.

Maybe not with the reckless, soul-burning intensity he'd once known.

But with something steadier, gentler. Something that felt a lot like peace.

Even if, in the quiet corners of his mind, he still caught himself wondering what it would've been like to walk these same streets with someone else.

Someone whose name he still couldn't quite say without feeling like he was breaking all over again.

*

Monday had passed quietly but contentedly, the warmth of family still lingering in the seams of Louis' coat as he helped Marcel zip up his own jacket the next morning, their shoes echoing softly in the hallway of the hotel they'd chosen for their stay. It was Tuesday now, and with the city already stretching beneath the heavy clouds of spring, soft rain barely misting the windows, the promise of the day still lay fresh between them like a page waiting to be filled.

Camden was Marcel's pick. He'd read about it, had seen a few videos on TikTok, fascinated by the vibrant chaos of the market, the thrift stalls and record stores, the tangled side streets dripping with color and the strange but comforting sense that everything there existed outside of time. Louis, having lived in London for most of his life, knew the good places, the shortcuts, the corners where the best coffee was hidden, the stalls with the best food or the weird little pop-ups that sold customised keychains and cute little merchandise for everyone. He let Marcel hold the phone with maps open though, let him lead them into the heart of it, because he liked seeing him wide-eyed and excited, asking about things with that soft lilt in his voice, pausing every few minutes to snap a picture or tug at Louis' sleeve and point something out.

They started with the vintage vinyls, Marcel carefully flipping through stacks of sleeves with the same reverence he gave to books in a library, brushing dust off old Nirvana and Radiohead covers while Louis leaned against the far wall, watching. There was a familiarity in the way Marcel moved that tugged at him sometimes, like a whisper behind his ribs, but Louis swallowed it down with the bitterness of a too-strong espresso he bought from the stall across the street. He was happy. He was. He kept telling himself that. Marcel made him smile, made him feel soft and safe and chosen, and wasn't that enough? Wasn't that what he wanted?

They bought matching bracelets from a stall manned by an old woman in fingerless gloves, Marcel choosing the leather band with the silver clasp and convincing Louis to wear the one with the tiny anchor charm "because you're the calm in the storm," he'd said with a crooked smile, and Louis had laughed, slipping it on despite the heaviness pressing against his chest.

By the time they wandered into the food market, the smells of sizzling meat and spices and fried dough clung to their clothes. Marcel insisted on trying everything. "We're on holiday," he reminded Louis, as he handed him a bite of a crispy Korean corn dog that dripped sauce onto his fingers. They shared a box of dumplings, fought over the last fried Oreo, bought a little bottle of cola and drank it on the steps near the canal, laughing as a pigeon tried to steal what was left of their noodles. Marcel leaned against Louis then, arm looped around his, eyes closed for just a moment as the world moved around them.

"Thank you for this," he murmured, voice low enough that only Louis could hear. "I've never done something like this before. You make it all feel easy."

And Louis smiled, turning his face into the wind to hide the way his eyes stung, because he didn't know how to say that he felt like a fraud sometimes, that as much as he loved this, loved him, there were pieces of himself still missing, still buried beneath the ruins of something he never fully learned how to let go of. He kissed Marcel instead, slow and soft and careful, right there in the middle of the crowd, as if to reassure them both that this was real.

They spent the afternoon drifting from one stall to the next, Marcel buying a ridiculously oversized jumper that Louis swore he'd steal for himself, and Louis finding an old book of poetry in a secondhand shop that smelled like tobacco and nostalgia. As the sky began to dim and the fairy lights strung between the awnings blinked to life, casting golden hues over the crowd, Marcel pulled Louis into a slow dance to a busker's rendition of "Can't Help Falling In Love." People passed them, some smiling, some oblivious, but Louis let himself stay there, held close, swaying in a rhythm he remembered all too well but hadn't danced to in years.

But he wanted this, he made his decision and he was happy with it.

*

By the time Wednesday rolled around, the sun had finally made a shy appearance above the London skyline, peeking through gauzy clouds like it was trying to remember what warmth felt like. Louis and Marcel rose late, lulled into a slow morning by thick hotel duvets and the lazy comfort of sleeping in without obligations. Marcel made coffee in the little French press by the window while Louis took a long shower, letting the water run hotter than usual, as if it might scrub away the edges of everything he didn't quite want to name.

Their plan for the day was Borough Market, one of Marcel's bucket list stops. He'd been reading about it since Louis first mentioned it, eager to explore the maze of gourmet stalls and artisan vendors, and Louis had promised it was as magical as it looked in the videos. And it was. The moment they stepped off the tube and walked the short distance to the covered market, the air changed. It was heavier, richer somehow, thick with the scent of fresh bread and truffle oil, smoked meats and sweet strawberries drenched in balsamic or chocolate.

Marcel was wide-eyed again, asking questions, darting from one vendor to the next like a kid in a candy shop, and Louis let himself fall into step behind him, smiling, laughing even, because it was fun, it was good and for the most part, it even felt real. They tried a thousand different things; bite-sized empanadas, melting cubes of raclette cheese scraped onto sourdough, saffron-soaked paella scooped straight from a cast iron pan the size of a tire. Marcel fed him a spoonful of pistachio gelato and kissed the corner of Louis' mouth when it left a smear of green there. Louis let him. He kissed him back because what else was there to do, when the world was watching?

They wandered past the Shard, let Marcel marvel at the glass slicing through sky like a blade, then walked the Thames, past the Globe and down to the Tate just long enough for Marcel to gawk at the building and declare he had to come back when there was more time. Louis agreed, said all the right things, slipped his hand into Marcel's and held it tight, not because he needed the comfort, but because he knew Marcel did.

They returned to the hotel in the late afternoon, just enough time to freshen up before their plans that evening. Drinks with Liam and Zayn at a cozy little bar tucked between Soho and Covent Garden—a place Zayn picked, quiet enough for proper conversation, dark enough to feel private. Marcel was excited. He'd met Liam and Zayn at the wedding, but hadn't spent any proper time with them, and Louis could tell he was trying. Trying to make a good impression, to be part of something he didn't quite understand the weight of.

Louis meanwhile had been preparing himself for this all day, he'd never brought someone 'home' before, not like this.

The pub was warm, its candlelit brick walls casting shadows as they slid into a booth near the back. Zayn greeted Marcel with a kind smile and an easy handshake, Liam a little more enthusiastic as always, already a few sips into his drink. They ordered beers, shared a plate of something fried and salty, and the conversation flowed, stilted at first, but then gradually smoothing out as the alcohol began to blur the edges.

Marcel talked about Munich. About the hospital Louis worked at now, about the food scene, about how hard it was to find proper bacon for Louis. Louis played along, leaned into the stories with soft smiles and affirming nods, letting the others believe every part of it. Because wasn't that what they all wanted? For him to have moved on? To be happy, safe, loved?

Zayn raised a brow once when Marcel excused himself to the toilet, and Liam's eyes followed suit, both of them exchanging a glance that didn't quite say anything aloud, but Louis caught it anyway.

"What?" he asked, sipping his lager, one brow raised in return.

"Nothing," Zayn replied too quickly. "He's nice."

"He's great," Louis said, maybe a little too sharp, but he softened it with a laugh. "He is. He's...it."

And it was said so easily, like he'd rehearsed it, like it wasn't breaking something inside him every time he tried to believe it. The words sat heavy in the air for a moment before Liam nodded slowly and changed the subject, something about Niall wanting to host a barbecue over the weekend and that they should consider staying for longer.

When Marcel came back, Louis kissed his cheek in front of them all and wrapped an arm around his waist, because he needed it to be true, needed them to see it. He laughed more than he meant to. Told stories from university that didn't hurt as much as they used to. He didn't flinch when Zayn mentioned the wedding again and he didn't ask whether Harry had said anything or nothing at all.

By the end of the night, Marcel looked elated, like he belonged, like he'd been accepted, and Louis let him believe it. Let himself believe it too, if only for the length of a cab ride back to the hotel, if only long enough to convince himself that this version of his life was real.

That it was enough.

Chapter Text

It had been one of those days at the hospital, the kind where the hours stretched thin and taut like overused rubber bands, snapping back with the weight of too many patients, too many emergencies, too many decisions that teetered on the line between life and loss. Liam had just stepped out of theatre, still in his scrubs, the collar of his surgical gown pulled loose and hanging around his neck, the blue fabric smudged with something looking suspiciously like blood. Niall was leaning against the nurses' station, tapping something out on his tablet, half in and half out of a conversation with the night staff, when Liam appeared beside him with that particular tension to his shoulders, the kind that only showed up after twelve hours of keeping people alive.

"Need five minutes," Liam muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the break room.

Niall didn't argue. They settled on opposite sides of the small staff table, each with a lukewarm coffee in hand and the kind of exhaustion that made everything feel too big or too quiet. It was Niall who broke the silence first. "How was it then? The little pub meet-up with Louis and the doppelgänger?"

Liam huffed a laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Weird at first. I dunno, mate... we've seen the pictures, yah, but seeing him in person, it's still wild. He doesn't just look like Harry, you know? There's something in the way he talks and he held himself too. It's not exact, just... scarily familiar."

Niall's brow furrowed as he sipped his coffee. "That's mad. Still weird to think Louis actually found someone. I always thought if it ever happened, it'd be... well. You know."

"I know," Liam said quietly, looking down at the rim of his cup like it might offer him answers. "I thought the same. I thought he was done. Like, done done. After what happened, he left like his whole life was on fire. Never looked back. Wouldn't even say Harry's name for a year, not even in their calls Zayn said."

"And now he's here, with Marcel." Niall's tone was less judgmental and more curious, like he was still trying to piece it together. "And what? Are they happy?"

Liam paused and thought about the way Louis had smiled when Marcel told some ridiculous story about a failed attempt at baking bread. Thought about the hand Louis kept on his boyfriend's knee all night, the kiss on the cheek, the way his laughter sounded almost too smooth, too well-practiced.

"I think... yeah," Liam said at last, slowly, like he wasn't fully convinced of it yet. "I think he's trying. I think he wants to be. Marcel seems good for him.. kind, settled and Louis looked... calm. Not faking it, I think.."

"But?"

"But it's Louis," Liam said with a small shrug. "And I know how he looks when he's really in love. I've seen it."

"Yeah," Niall said, nodding quietly. "We all have."

They sat in silence for a beat, letting that truth settle between them like something sacred. It wasn't bitterness or wasn't judgment, just memory... shared and sharp and permanent.

"I never thought it'd be anyone but Harry," Liam added quietly, like a confession.

Niall gave a hollow smile. "None of us did."

And neither of them noticed the figure just around the corner, still as stone, back pressed flat to the wall, hands curled into fists at his sides. Harry had stopped on the way to his office, had just stepped out of recovery after a successful, gruelling procedure, his body bone-weary and buzzing with leftover adrenaline. He'd only paused because he'd heard Louis' name.

And now he couldn't move.

He waited until the conversation died down, until Niall and Liam got up to head back to their shifts, and then he slipped into the nearest supply closet, shut the door, and let himself feel every inch of what he never got the chance to say.

He should have kept walking, Harry knew it the second he heard Louis' name fall from Liam's lips, the way it curled around the vowels and hung in the air like the ghost of something that still hurt too much to say out loud. He should've kept walking, should've gone straight to his office, thrown himself into the next patient chart or dictated a note into the recorder with his surgeon's voice—sharp, precise, impersonal—but instead he paused. One foot forward, the other planted in place, body half-turned as if he could still make himself disappear.

But the silence held him captive, the ache in his ribs always there, always lingering just behind the bone, dug deeper when he heard the name Marcel. That was all it took, a name that tasted like him, like Louis, like the version of Louis Harry had memorized so painfully well that even the echo of it could shatter him.

So he stayed, hidden just around the corner, like a child not brave enough to ask for the truth directly, and listened to the two people he trusted most in the world talk about his Louis as he was someone else's now.

It shouldn't have hurt this much, it had been two years and had no right to feel like this anymore, like the sky was falling again, like the walls were closing in. He'd done everything he could to move on, hadn't he? Buried himself in surgeries that stretched into the night, taken every emergency shift, every complicated case, every patient that needed saving, because if he could cut open a skull and put someone back together, maybe he could do the same for himself.

But you can't perform surgery on the soul.

You can't stitch up the kind of wound that's been bleeding for years without ever scabbing over. And Harry had bled... quietly.. every damn day.

Louis had left like London was fire and Harry was the match. He hadn't said goodbye, hadn't asked for closure. He had vanished and no matter how many times Harry had reached out; texts, calls, emails, Louis never answered. Not once.

So Harry stopped trying, he had to, because the rejection wasn't just cold, it was annihilating. And still... he had loved him. God, he still loved him. Not in the soft, fleeting way you love someone from the outside. But in the way you love someone even after they've crushed you. Even after they've become a memory too painful to name.

And now Louis was here, in their city, laughing in pubs, kissing someone who looked enough like Harry to make his stomach churn. And everyone knew, but no one thought to tell him. Not Niall. Not Liam. Not anyone.

The betrayal wasn't loud. It was quiet.. muted. The kind of betrayal that felt like someone letting go of your hand without telling you they were ever holding it.

He waited until the hallway was empty then walked on autopilot until he found the supply closet.. small, sterile, cold. He stepped inside, shut the door, and leaned back against it like his body didn't know how to stand on its own anymore. The silence pressed in, thick and loud and all-consuming.

And that's when the dam broke.

His hands trembled first, then his knees, then his chest caved inward like it was collapsing under the weight of two years of love that had nowhere left to go. He didn't make a sound, he couldn't. There was no space for noise in the kind of grief that comes from losing someone who is still walking the same earth as you.

He wanted to scream, to rip something apart, to run until the pain caught up and flattened him.

Instead, he pulled out his phone and found the group chat he was looking for.

Idiots With Medical Degrees
I should've expected it. It's been two years. But it still hit like hell. I'm not angry. I just... I wish someone had told me.

I know I messed up. I know he hates me. But it's like... I lost him and to some extent all of you at the same time. And I don't know how to come back from that.

He hovered his thumb over the send button, chest tight, vision blurred with unshed tears that he refused to blink away, then he pressed send.

He stayed in that closet for twenty minutes, letting the quiet cradle him like it had always done, too tightly, too harshly.

And when he finally stepped back into the world, he did what he always did, he put on his mask, he scrubbed in for surgery, tried to forget that the love of his life had brought someone else home and he told himself, one more time, "You're fine. You're fine. Just keep going."

Even though he wasn't, even though he hadn't been since the moment Louis walked away.

*

The air over Notting Hill was golden with the kind of early spring sun that made the old houses glow like a memory, warm and dreamlike, every pastel-painted door and flowering window box a frame in a film Louis didn't quite feel part of. Marcel was in his element, holding a paper coffee cup in one hand and a tourist map in the other, talking with ease and animated excitement about the next stop, some indie bookshop he'd read about online, followed by a quick detour to the famous blue door from Notting Hill before they'd head toward the market again. His glasses kept slipping down his nose, his hair was windswept from the light breeze, and he was smiling, smiling like he meant it, like he was exactly where he wanted to be, and Louis tried, genuinely tried, to match that energy.

He did all the right things, he smiled when he was supposed to, laughed in all the right places, looped his fingers through Marcel's when they crossed a quieter street, asked questions about the next place Marcel wanted to see. From the outside, he must have looked like a man entirely at ease, content in love and immersed in the pulse of a city that never truly left his bones. But inside, beneath the practiced steadiness of his voice and the careful placement of his affections, something was tightening... a slow, relentless twist of unease that he couldn't quite name.

They wandered through Portobello Market, weaving between the crowds, past vintage stalls with gleaming pocket watches and worn leather satchels, the scent of spiced tea and fresh pastries thick in the air. Marcel was drawn to everything, pointing out antiques, rummaging through old vinyls, asking vendors about the stories behind their collections. And Louis followed, watched, responded, and still... that ache in his chest hadn't eased since breakfast.

He thought that maybe it was just the heaviness of being back here, of walking streets that had once belonged to a version of him that was younger, more reckless, more hopeful. He hadn't set foot in Notting Hill since before it all fell apart. Since before Harry. And he hadn't expected it to feel like this.

He was just lifting the small paper teacup as a flicker of movement caught the edge of his vision, a flash of deep navy scrubs beneath a black coat, the familiar head of curls slightly shorter than he remembered.

And God.

Louis felt his heart lurch so violently that he thought for a moment he might drop the cup in his hand. It slipped slightly in his grasp, hands shaking. He blinked hard, and looked again.

Harry.

No doubt, no mistaking it, no air left in his lungs to pretend it wasn't.

He was across the narrow street, emerging from a small corner bookstore, his hand raised in a casual wave to the owner behind the window. His face was soft in the sunlight, pale from exhaustion or just the season, but he looked... real. Right there.

He didn't breathe, didn't move because Harry hadn't seen him yet.

He allowed himself to get a proper look. He looked older, but only slightly, just enough to carry the edges of grief in the hollows of his cheeks, a subtle tiredness behind the eyes. His hair was significantly shorter than it used to be when they somewhat lived together in that tiny flat of Harry's, worn in soft curls, unruly from the wind.. his steps were unhurried, unaware... he looked peaceful.

Louis wanted to vomit.

And just then, before he could make a choice, before he could turn or wave or disappear or do anything, Marcel turned around with a cheerful, "Babe, look at this stall? come here," and grabbed his hand. Tugged him slightly toward a rack of vintage scarves, completely unaware.

Louis stumbled, his eyes shot back across the street, but Harry was gone.

Like a ghost or a hallucination, as if he'd only ever existed in that half-second where Louis stopped breathing.

He didn't say anything to Marcel. Because something in him was already cracking, already splintering open in that old familiar way, the way it used to when he'd lie awake in a strange bed in Germany, wondering if Harry was also awake somewhere, wondering if he ever thought about what they'd lost.

He made it through the rest of the day. Marcel never noticed something, not when Louis flinched slightly when Marcel pointed out he'd zoned out again, not when he went silent in the taxi back to their hotel, not when he forgot to respond to the third "I love you" he'd whispered against Louis' temple that evening.

Louis lay awake that night in their hotel room, the soft sounds of the city filtering through the slightly cracked window, Marcel asleep beside him, one arm draped loosely over his waist.

He didn't move, didn't blink, he just stared at the ceiling and he thought, what if I had crossed the street? What if he had seen me first? What if there's still something there, buried in the wreckage?

But he didn't and Harry hadn't and so the question stayed unanswered.

*

Outside London hummed in its soft, silvery night rhythm; car horns in the distance, laughter spilling from a nearby pub, the faint creak of old plumbing and windows settling in their frames.

And for a moment, just one fragile, borrowed hour, it all felt almost normal.

Marcel had insisted they take the night slowly, that they stay in, just the two of them, away from the rush and crowd of the streets, away from the boys, from plans, from wandering. They'd ordered room service, sprawled out across the bed in hotel bathrobes like they used to in the first months in Germany, laughing about how terribly overpriced the wine was but drinking it anyway, watching whatever silly reality show happened to be playing, curled into each other like they had the first time Louis had let himself believe that this could be something real.

And it was, in many ways. It is.

Marcel was good, Marcel was kind. He made Louis laugh in quiet, genuine ways; he always listened when Louis spoke, always noticed when he needed space, when the world felt too heavy on his shoulders. He cooked on weekends and bought tulips in spring because he remembered Louis had once mentioned they are his mum's favorite. He read aloud from the books he annotated for fun, shared old photographs from childhood like puzzle pieces, as if slowly building a map of who he was just so Louis could follow it, step by step, to somewhere safe.

It wasn't perfect, but it was comfortable, warm, right in all the ways that counted.

And yet.. Louis was staring at the ceiling again.

Marcel was asleep beside him, one hand resting over Louis' chest, fingers light and warm through the thin cotton of his sleep shirt. His breath was steady and soft. His features relaxed in sleep. He should look like home.

But Louis didn't sleep, he couldn't, because in the quiet lull of the room, memory crept in uninvited, he hadn't told anyone.. not Niall, not Liam, not even Zayn, that the first time he met Marcel, his heart had stopped.

It was at the clinic in Munich. And he'd been late, hair wind-tousled, frustrated already when he stepped into the staff lounge for a quick breath before his first session of the day.

And Marcel had turned around smiling and Louis had frozen, it wasn't exact, not really. Marcel's curls were looser, his eyes framed by glasses instead of long lashes. His smile was gentler, a little more hesitant, his build slimmer, his posture a bit stiffer. But the resemblance, God, the resemblance. It had sliced through Louis like a scalpel to the ribs. For a full second, the world had tilted and he'd felt something in him recoil, like grief or like longing, like he'd looked up and seen a ghost.

He didn't remember what he'd said in that moment just that Marcel had looked at him curiously, offered him coffee. And Louis, because he was tired, and lonely and had spent the past year pretending he wasn't bleeding, had said yes.

And maybe he shouldn't have, maybe it had always been cruel, because now Marcel was here, in London, with him, after all this time, meeting the people who had known Louis before everything burned to ash, and Louis was trying, he really was, to believe that this could still be right.

Tonight, he played his part well, he kissed Marcel softly when they brushed teeth together at the sink, hands brushing as they reached for the same towel. He smiled as they climbed under the covers, he let himself be held.

They talked in whispers, about future trips, about Marcel's idea to spend a summer in Copenhagen, about maybe getting a dog. Marcel had drifted off mid-sentence, murmuring something about needing to finish his paper when they got back to Germany.

And Louis stayed still, let his fingers trail over the dip of Marcel's spine, let the ache settle quietly at the base of his throat, because he loved him.

He did. Not in the thunderstorm way he had loved Harry, wild and fast and devastating, but in a way that was softer, easier to carry. And he wanted, more than anything, to believe that was enough.

But when he closed his eyes, it wasn't Marcel's face that lingered behind his lids, it was different curls and green eyes and the way Harry used to whisper his name like it was a promise.

And Louis.. he didn't know what to do with that.

*

Louis didn't know, Harry didn't either.
And maybe that was the mistake.

The pub was one of those tucked-away places on the edge of Shoreditch, all warm brick and mismatched furniture and flickering candles on the tables, the kind of place that made memories feel easier to bear. Zayn had chosen it, of course, Zayn with his impeccable taste, Zayn who always knew the best quiet spots in the city.

It was meant to be casual, a final evening before goodbyes. Nothing big. A table in the back room, just the five of them, calm and comfortable.
That's what everyone thought, that's what they hoped.

Louis had curled his fingers around Marcel's hand as they arrived, a little late, the dusk fading into a cold lavender outside. Marcel had been talking about something, some new paper being published, or maybe the local art exhibit they wanted to see tomorrow, but Louis hadn't been listening.

Inside, the pub was warm and low-lit, laughter humming like static. Louis scanned for the boys, spotted Zayn waving from the back corner. He exhaled and pressed a quick kiss to Marcel's cheek, smiling.

But then he saw him, curled in the corner of the booth, one leg draped over the other, pint half-finished in front of him, head tilted slightly as he looked up...

Harry.

And everything in Louis stilled, he didn't even know if he was breathing, it was like being hit. Like the world went too quiet and too loud at once. Two years. Two years, and still, one glance and the ground slipped sideways beneath him.

Harry hadn't seen him yet, he was laughing at something Liam had said and Louis could hear it, the sound he used to love most in the world, the one that had once meant home and safety and something so soft it hurt to hold.

Louis's fingers slipped from Marcel's before he could think and then Harry turned and it was instant, like gravity pulling two broken pieces back together just to see if they still fit.

Green eyes met blue across the pub floor and neither of them moved.

The noise dropped away, the room fell away and all Louis could feel was his own pulse, wild and choking in his throat.

Harry's smile faltered then vanished. He blinked once, slow and sat forward, as if his body was trying to shield something tender and raw.

"Fuck," Louis whispered, just under his breath.

Marcel glanced sideways, confused. "What's wrong?"

But Louis couldn't answer because Zayn was already standing, already trying to cover the mess with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Hey, you made it! Come sit."

Too late to run now, too late to lie.

Harry hadn't looked away, but then he did, he dropped his eyes, took a sip of his beer and nodded once, almost imperceptibly and Louis felt like the world had split open.

They sat down when Liam shuffled to make room. Zayn ordered more drinks like nothing had happened. Niall cracked a joke. Marcel laughed. Louis answered when spoken to, he smiled, he nodded, he reached for his glass with a steady hand.

But he couldn't feel anything... and Harry didn't speak, he sat quietly at the edge of the booth, posture too stiff, gaze fixed somewhere just over Marcel's shoulder.

Once, he met Louis's eyes, only once, and it was like bleeding.

There was a moment when Zayn leaned over to whisper something into Harry's ear, something no one else could hear, and Harry shook his head, just once, like he didn't want to hear it, like he couldn't.

Louis watched the muscles in his jaw flex, watched him blink too often, watched the way his fingers trembled slightly when he lifted his glass.

Across the table, Marcel was telling Liam about the food tour he and Louis had planned. He was sweet, open, charming as always... too much so maybe, because every time Louis caught a glimpse of Harry's expression, it looked like he was being stabbed in slow motion.

And Louis couldn't bear it, because he hadn't known. He would've never come if he'd known.
Not like this, not with Marcel, not when he was still so painfully tied to the boy across the table, the one who had broken his heart, and the one whose heart he had shattered in return.

The silence between them was louder than the music. Louder than the pub. Louder than anything.

At one point, Marcel excused himself to the loo. Louis didn't know what to say, didn't know if he should say anything, the words clawed up his throat, raw and desperate.

But Harry didn't look at him, didn't speak, he just stared down at the condensation on his glass like it held every answer he never got.

And Louis... Louis broke, just a little, just enough.

Because this, this was the worst part.
Not the shouting.
Not the pain.
But the emptiness.. the hollow space between them, once filled with laughter and secrets and promises whispered in the a.m., now stretched so wide that neither of them knew how to cross it.

Marcel returned and the moment snapped.
Harry stood not long after, claimed an early shift in the morning. Hugged Zayn, clapped Liam on the back, said something to Niall that Louis didn't hear.

And then he left.

No goodbye, not to Louis, not even a glance.

And Louis watched the door until it closed.

*

Soft light poured in through the half-drawn curtains from the street lamps below. The hum of the city outside was gentle now, not loud like it had been hours earlier when it was still pulsing and spilling laughter into the night. Now it was just London breathing,slow and aching, like it knew something had been fractured inside one of the windows.

Louis peeled off his jacket in silence, his limbs were heavy and slow. The kind of tired that didn't come from walking too much or drinking too little. It came from carrying something all day, all week... all year. Something sharp, pressed too tight to his ribs.

Marcel sat at the edge of the bed, still dressed, one shoe dangling from his hand not yet removed. His glasses were slightly askew from where he'd run his hand through his curls and he looked up as Louis passed by him toward the bathroom, voice quiet but no longer as soft as it used to be. There was something different in it now, something unsure and searching.

"Louis."

He didn't stop walking, just paused in the doorway, fingers resting on the frame. "I didn't know he was going to be there," he said flatly, before Marcel could ask.

"I know," Marcel said. "I believe you."

Louis nodded but relief didn't come.

Marcel spoke very gently: "But something happened. Didn't it?"

Louis exhaled through his nose, shut his eyes.
"It was nothing."

Marcel stood slowly. "It wasn't nothing, Louis. You barely looked at me all night."

"I was just surprised. That's all."

"You were shaking."

Louis turned then, not sharply or defensively, just.. tiredly. His features were etched in that dull, too-blank expression Marcel had only seen once before, the night Louis found out an old patient had died by suicide. That same look of something far too deep for words, a depth Marcel wasn't sure he was meant to touch.

"I didn't expect to see him again. Especially not like that." Louis shrugged. "It threw me off. I handled it, didn't I?"

"I'm not asking if you handled it," Marcel said, quieter now. "I'm asking what it was."

Louis hesitated and Marcel, ever so kind, ever so patient, took a step closer. "Is he the reason you left London?"

Louis flinched, not that visibly but apparently enough that Marcel saw it and that's what hurt most of all.

There was a long pause, a moment thick with weight and choice. Louis could've lied and brushed it away with another soft answer. Could've smiled and kissed Marcel and promised it was just old wounds that didn't bleed anymore.

But Louis didn't lie and he didn't speak either, instead he sat down on the small couch by the window and pressed his fingers against his temple, as if trying to rub away a memory.

Marcel didn't move at first, then came to kneel in front of him, gently placing his hand on Louis's knee. Still so gentle and so loving, so Marcel. "You don't have to tell me everything. Just tell me something. Enough to understand what I saw tonight."

Louis stared past him, at the streetlight beyond the glass, glowing like an apology. "I used to love him," he said finally, quiet and hollow. "I don't even know if I ever stopped."

Marcel blinked, but he didn't move, his fingers remained steady.

"It's not what you think," Louis added quickly, something frantic in the way his voice cracked as he realised what he just said. "You and I, what we have, I chose it. I chose you. I still do. I love you."

Marcel swallowed. "But he was first." Louis nodded.

They sat like that for a while, neither of them speaking. The silence was gentler than expected even though it was still strained, still taut. Marcel eventually rose, walked toward the bed and sat down again, facing away from Louis, not angry or cold, but different.

Louis joined him after a few minutes, carefully he sat down beside him, their knees touching. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," Louis said. "I didn't know how and I didn't think it mattered anymore."

Marcel looked at him then, really looked. "Do you think it still doesn't?"

Louis didn't answer.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, letting his hands fall between them. The truth sat heavy on his shoulders, and this time, he didn't try to carry it alone.

"I need to talk to someone," he said eventually. "Someone who knows everything. Who was there."

Marcel nodded. "Zayn."

Louis met his eyes. "Yeah."

"I think that's a good idea."

There was no kiss goodnight, no warmth under the covers as they lay beside each other but separate. And maybe that was okay because sometimes love had to stretch and sting and be quiet before it could come back stronger.

But Louis didn't sleep—again, like he hadn't slept a single night since back in London.

Instead he watched the shadows on the ceiling and thought of a boy with green eyes and surgeon's hands and all the words they never got to say.

He would call Zayn in the morning, he needed to talk.. because pretending had never been harder.

*

The café was in a quiet corner of Primrose Hill, half-forgotten by the rest of London, the kind of place that still served cappuccinos in thick porcelain mugs and played old Sam Cooke records softly through the overhead speakers. It smelled like espresso and croissants and cinnamon and the windows were slightly fogged from the morning chill, even though the sun had finally pushed through the low-hanging clouds.

Zayn was already there when Louis arrived, seated at a small table in the back near the window, black hoodie pulled over his head, sunglasses resting on the table beside his phone, a half-drunk flat white in front of him and a second mug waiting across from it, still steaming.

Louis slipped into the chair across from him with a quiet "hey" and pulled his coat tighter around himself, fingers trembling slightly as they reached for the coffee.

Zayn didn't say anything at first, only looked at him in that way only best friends could, like he was seeing everything Louis didn't say, everything he'd buried, everything he was still trying not to feel. He let the silence sit between them, let it breathe, let it stretch like a warm blanket instead of a wall.

"You look like shit," Zayn said finally, lips quirking up at one corner.

Louis laughed, grateful. "Thanks. Appreciate it."

Zayn shrugged, reaching for his cigarette pack. "Just saying. Haven't seen you like this since..."

Louis sipped his coffee but said nothing.

"So. You gonna tell me what's going on, or do we need to play twenty questions first?"

Louis leaned back in his chair and stared out at the quiet street, where a few early risers were walking dogs or jogging with headphones in. The city felt slower here, like it was giving him permission to stop pretending for a moment.

"It's not fair," he said quietly.

Zayn raised an eyebrow. "What isn't?"

"That I finally built something. Something steady. Something that doesn't hurt and then I come back here and everything inside me cracks open like it's been waiting for the right moment to fall apart again."

Zayn didn't respond immediately, just took a long drag from the cigarette he illicitly lit inside the cafe and blew the smoke out slowly, eyes never leaving Louis's face. "You're talking about Harry," he said softly, not as a question but a knowing.

Louis looked down at his hands. "When I saw him Zayn," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "In the pub, it was like no time had passed at all. Like we were eighteen again and everything was still possible. But we're not. We're not teenagers. And I'm not free anymore. I'm not..."

He trailed off, unsure of the ending.

"You're not over him," Zayn finished gently.

Louis didn't deny it. Zayn leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I knew you weren't. I think maybe you did too. You just didn't want to say it out loud."

Louis swallowed hard, throat burning. "I love Marcel. I do. He's kind and brilliant and he makes me feel safe."

"But?"

Louis closed his eyes. "But he's not Harry. And I hate myself for even thinking that."

Zayn was quiet for a while, watching the way Louis' fingers trembled around the mug, the way his shoulders curled inward like he was trying to make himself smaller, like maybe the truth would hurt less if he kept it pressed tight against his ribs.

"I've never judged you, Louis," Zayn said softly. "Not once. You left because you had to. Because what happened between you and Harry, it wasn't something you could've healed from by staying. And Marcel... he came at the right time. He gave you peace when all you'd known was chaos."

Louis looked up, eyes red-rimmed but dry. "Then why does it feel like I'm suffocating now?"

Zayn shrugged. "Because sometimes peace isn't enough. Sometimes you don't want quiet. You want truth. Even if it's messy. Even if it hurts like hell."

Louis nodded slowly, heart pounding.

"I keep thinking about the time I saw Harry," he whispered. "Not now. I mean really saw him, after the coma, after he saved my life. I was so groggy, can't remember much, but I remember him. I remember the way he looked at me like I was a ghost. Like he'd just been to hell and back to keep me breathing. And I didn't know why, back then."

Zayn's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt.

"I never let him talk," Louis continued. "I never gave him the chance, I was too angry and too scared. And now... two years later, I still don't know if I made the right choice. If cutting him out was protecting myself or just punishing him."

Zayn's voice was low, steady. "You needed to survive, Lou. You made the only choice you could."

"I know." Louis blinked hard. "But I can't stop wondering what would've happened if I'd stayed. If I'd listened. If I'd just... let us try. It's, I'm a psychiatrist for fucks sake.. I should've known that it wasn't right but I was so blinded by hurt."

Zayn took another slow drag, exhaling through his nose. "What do you want now?"

Louis hesitated, he looked out the window again, watching the city unfold like a memory, familiar and strange all at once.

"I don't know," he said. "But I think I need to find out."

Zayn nodded once. "Then do. Just make sure whatever you decide... it's because of what you want. Not because you feel guilty. Not because you're scared. Do it for the truth. For the love. For the part of you that still feels."

Louis nodded, his fingers tightening around the warm ceramic of his cup, he didn't say it out loud, but something had shifted. A decision had settled into his bones, quiet and sure, like a truth finally returning home.

*

The curtains had been drawn open to let the last streaks of afternoon sun wash over the hotel bed, golden light settling onto the white duvet like warmth trying to find a home. The city buzzed distantly outside, the sound London traffic weaving through the glass like a lullaby of a place Louis once knew by heart.

Marcel was sitting on the window ledge, flipping through a tourist brochure he'd found in the lobby downstairs, his glasses perched low on his nose and a hopeful little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He looked up when Louis stepped in, eyes bright like they always were, full of tenderness and quiet joy.

"There you are," he said, closing the pamphlet and placing it on the table. "I was about to come looking for you."

Louis smiled, soft and practiced. "You know how we get. Couldn't shut up."

Marcel stood, walked toward him and wrapped his arms loosely around Louis' waist, resting his chin on his shoulder. "That's good, you seemed off last night, I was worried."

"I know," Louis murmured, fingers brushing the back of Marcel's neck. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel that way."

"It's okay. I just... I want to understand you, that's all. I want to be what you need."

Louis pulled back slightly, looked into his eyes. He felt like he was standing at the edge of a cliff, and the wind was warm instead of cold, like maybe it wouldn't hurt to fall if someone was waiting to catch him at the bottom.

"I chose you, Marcel," he said gently but firmly, the words rolling off his tongue as if rehearsed. "I love you. I'm happy with you. And I don't want to waste the time we have left here worrying about things that don't matter anymore. Let's just... have a beautiful last day. Okay?"

Marcel's face lit up with relief. "Okay," he whispered, pressing a kiss to Louis' temple.

They spent the afternoon walking hand in hand through Notting Hill again, weaving through antique stores and flower stalls, pausing for overpriced gelato from a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop that claimed to be the oldest in London. Marcel took photos of them under the blooming cherry trees, laughing when Louis tried to dodge the camera, catching him mid-laugh with his cheeks flushed and his eyes half-closed.

It was easy to pretend for a little while, to let the sun blur the edges of the truth and let the closeness soothe the ache he hadn't quite named yet. Marcel held his hand tightly, talked about plans for the summer, about new cases he'd be working on back in Germany, about maybe visiting Italy instead of Copenhagen together in July.

Louis nodded, smiled, kissed him and tried not to think about what the silence in his chest really meant.

They were walking back through Soho, taking a shortcut Marcel had found on a map, when it happened.

"Louis?" It was an Irish accent.

Louis turned.. and Harry stood across the street, bag slung over his shoulder, coat unbuttoned, curls slightly wind-swept. Niall was beside him, holding two takeaway coffees, clearly mid-sentence when he'd seen them and now all four of them stood frozen, tangled in a moment that shouldn't have existed.

Marcel's hand tightened around Louis' just slightly.

"Niall, hey." Louis tried to sound excited.

And Harry looked... broken. Not visibly, not dramatically. But in the way he blinked too slowly, the way his lips parted but nothing came out. In the way his eyes flickered down to their joined hands and then back up again like it physically hurt to see.

"Hi," he said, and it sounded like the first word of a goodbye.

Niall cleared his throat. "We were just, uh, heading back to the hospital. Quick break. Didn't expect to run into you two."

"Same," Louis said quickly, trying to keep his voice even, like his heart hadn't just dropped to his stomach.

Marcel offered a polite smile, the one he gave to strangers who might become friends. "Nice to see you again."

Harry looked at him and Louis saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes, like something old and painful had just crawled back to the surface. His jaw clenched, but he nodded. "Yeah. You too."

A silence stretched between them, awkward and suffocating. The city moved around them, oblivious, cars passing, horns honking, people brushing past on their way to somewhere else. But inside that tiny pocket of time, it was like the rest of the world didn't exist.

"We should get going," Louis said, already stepping back.

Niall nodded once. "Yeah. Sure."

Louis looked at Harry for half a second longer, just long enough to see the tremble in his hands, the way he still held his breath when they locked eyes, like he wasn't sure if it would be the last time.

"See ya, mate. Don't be a stranger and have a safe flight tomorrow yeah?" Niall stepped forward and pulled Louis into a hug before stepping back and reaching his hand out to Marcel, who took it gladly. "Nice meeting you, Marcel."

"Pleasure was mine, I enjoyed it. Was a big step for us, meeting the family and friends and all." Marcel beamed and pulled Louis into his side.

And Louis' smile faltered as he watched the moment the words hit Harry. But there was nothing he could do, so they turned around after another round of goodbyes.

And then they were walking away, hand in hand once more, as if the moment hadn't just shattered something fragile beneath their feet.

Marcel didn't speak for a few blocks. Neither did Louis and when Marcel finally said, "He looked... sad," Louis only nodded.

"Yeah," he whispered. "He did."

And when Marcel added, "He'll find someone," Louis didn't answer.

Because what do you say, when you've chosen a path that's safe, while your heart still lives somewhere else entirely?

Chapter Text

They walked the next few blocks in silence, not the kind that's comfortable or companionable, the kind that fills your lungs with smoke and makes your chest feel too tight to breathe. The kind that doesn't sit between two people, but inside one of them, clawing at their ribs from the inside out. Harry didn't even realize his hands were shaking until Niall gently reached out and took the coffee cup from him, the cardboard pressing too hard into his palm.

"You alright?" Niall asked, careful and quiet.

Harry didn't answer because no, he wasn't, he felt like something had been split down the middle inside him, and there was no one around with steady enough hands to stitch it back together. Not this time. Not after seeing Louis like that, not just with someone else, but happy with someone else. Laughing. Smiling. Glowing like the sun hadn't gone out in his chest two years ago when everything between them fell apart.

He blinked once and again. The street blurred slightly, his breath caught.

Niall cleared his throat, obviously trying to ease the tension. "Well. That was a bit of a rom-com disaster moment, wasn't it? Only thing missing was the rain and some sad indie track playing in the background."

Harry didn't laugh, Niall tried again. "He really does look like you, though. Marcel. That was... a little creepy actually. You ever seen those videos where people date their own doppelgängers? Like, psychological self-soothing or something?"

Harry stopped walking, his jaw clenched and for a second he thought he might throw up right there on the pavement.

"Don't," he said, voice low.

Niall froze. "Sorry. That was.. shit. That was stupid. I was trying to make it lighter, I wasn't—"

"No, I know." Harry waved him off, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. "It's not you. I just..."

He took a breath but it didn't help. "He picked someone who looks like me.. and I still lost him."

That was what did it, the crack in his voice, the way his throat burned when the words left his mouth like they'd been sitting there for years, buried deep beneath anger and silence and everything he'd built just to survive the absence.

Niall exhaled slowly. "Harry..."

"I waited," Harry whispered. "I waited and waited, and I kept hoping, I kept thinking he'd show up one day, or call, or text, or... I don't know. I just thought if I gave him space, he'd come back. And now he's here. In London. With someone else. And he looks... he looks okay. He looks like he moved on."

"You don't know what he's feeling," Niall said gently.

"But I saw it," Harry breathed. "You saw it. The way he looked at him, he never looked at me like that, not even when it was good."

"That's not true." Niall frowned, because had Harry really not seen the difference?

"It is. And maybe I deserve it. I probably do."

Niall's voice sharpened. "You don't."

Harry rubbed a hand across his face, feeling the scratch of stubble and the hot sting of unshed tears pressing against his eyes. "I can't do this again, Niall. I can't keep pretending I don't care. I see him and it's like.. like my body remembers everything at once. Every fucking second of him and I can't breathe through it."

They were standing by a small park now, empty except for a few pigeons pecking at crumbs. Niall gently steered him toward a bench and made him sit, pressing the still-warm coffee into his hands again.

"Just hold it," he said softly. "Don't drink it. Just something to ground you."

Harry stared at the cup like it might turn into something else, into Louis maybe. Into time, if he wished hard enough, into a version of the world where he hadn't made the mistake that ruined everything.

"I know," he whispered after a long silence. "I know how deeply I hurt him, how I betrayed him
Not only once but twice. But I thought... I thought we could still fix it. That love would be enough. That time would be kind."

"But it hasn't been."

Harry laughed, bitter and quiet. "Time's been a bastard."

Niall sighed, leaning forward elbows on his knees. "Listen, I don't know what's going on in Louis' head. None of us do, and yeah, Marcel seems nice, and yeah, Louis looked... okay. But you can't know what he's carrying. You can't know what he's hiding."

"I don't want to hope again," Harry said. "That's what I'm trying to say. Hope hurts more than the truth."

Niall was quiet for a long time. "Then don't hope. Just... survive today. We'll figure out tomorrow when we get there."

Harry didn't answer, he looked out over the park, watching the way the wind moved through the branches, the way the sun stretched shadows long and thin across the ground like they were trying to touch something just out of reach.

"Do you think I'll ever stop loving him?" he asked quietly, more to the air than to Niall.

And when Niall didn't answer, Harry already knew the truth.

*

The terminal was alive with the sound of movement, the distant call of boarding announcements echoing overhead, wheels dragging across polished floors, suitcases rattling and tumbling forward as people hurried along in the determined way only airports could conjure. Louis was standing still in the middle of it all, shoulders drawn but relaxed enough to keep Marcel unsuspecting. Their bags were packed, flight confirmed, the boarding pass already tucked in Marcel's jacket pocket. It was the end of their week in London, the end of something that had been gently cracking since it began, even if neither of them dared to admit it out loud.

They had Liam and Zayn driving them, all smiles and easy conversation, kind words exchanged like souvenirs of a trip gone right. Marcel was polite and warm, sincerely thanking them for their kindness and hospitality, expressing how much it meant to him to meet Louis' friends, how it felt like being welcomed into a world he'd never quite imagined he'd become part of. Liam gave him a friendly hug, murmured something about staying in touch, while Zayn, ever the calm, observant one, watched Louis with eyes that saw far too much. The hug between Zayn and Louis lasted a little longer, a hand clapped on the shoulder, a quiet exchange of energy rather than words and when Louis pulled away, Zayn saw it. The hesitation. The flicker.

But Louis smiled. He turned, reaching instinctively for Marcel's hand, walking with him toward the security checkpoint like nothing had changed, like his mind wasn't unraveling at the seams. Marcel spoke softly beside him, something about making sure they found the café near their gate, but Louis didn't respond.

He stopped walking, Marcel noticed first by the way Louis' fingers slipped from his grip.

"What's wrong?" Marcel asked, eyes narrowing in confusion, stepping in front of him gently, not yet panicked.

Louis stared ahead blankly, his jaw twitching, chest rising and falling like he couldn't find enough air in the room even though it was all around him. "I can't do it," he whispered, but the words didn't seem to land.

"What?" Marcel asked again, a step closer, searching his face. "What can't you do?"

"I can't go back to Germany."

Zayn, who had stood off to the side to make sure they got through security alright, straightened where he was leaning against a wall next to Liam, every muscle in his body tensing.

"Louis," Marcel said, soft but shaken now, "what are you talking about?"

Louis shook his head, blinking rapidly. "I can't leave, Marcel. I thought I could. I wanted to. I've tried—" His voice cracked and he looked up, eyes glassy, fighting not to fall apart right there in front of the checkpoint. "But I'd be lying to you. I'd be lying to myself."

Zayn didn't move, he just stood there, jaw clenched, watching the scene unfold like something sacred and violent all at once. Liam next to him slowly grabbed his hand.

Marcel stepped forward. "Are you saying you're staying? Louis, we have a life back there. We have—"

"I know," Louis cut in quickly, breathless, apologetic in every syllable. "I know. And I'm so sorry. For everything. But I can't walk through that gate and pretend like the rest of my life isn't already here. I don't even know what comes next, I just—" He turned around, eyes scanning past Marcel to Zayn. "I just know I can't leave again."

There was a beat of silence.

Marcel didn't yell, didn't beg... only nodded slowly, the weight of reality settling in his chest like stones in a river. And in the next second, Louis stepped back from him, one step, two.. his hand raised in a soft wave that felt far too final.

He turned to Zayn without a word and Zayn opened his arms immediately, catching Louis like someone who already knew, who had known long before Louis had and held him as tightly as he needed to be held.

Behind them, Marcel stood in the middle of the security lane, eyes wet, hands trembling, watching Louis walk away, without him.

And London, for the first time in a long time, felt like home.

*

The airport vanished behind them in the mirror, its towering glass facade reduced to a memory far too quickly for Louis to make peace with what he'd left behind there, too quickly to fully grasp the irrevocable shift he had just made, the life he'd willingly stepped out of, the man whose heart he'd gently but entirely broken in a place filled with strangers and farewells. The car was quiet, too quiet for how fast his heart was still pounding and the longer they drove, the more suffocating the silence became, not because it was awkward or strained, but because it was filled with too much knowing, too much pain and much unspoken grief for something that had once felt solid and sure.

Zayn didn't say much, his fingers gripping the wheel as he navigated the streets with practiced ease, his gaze forward and steady, as though he knew that if he so much as glanced toward Louis in the backseat, he might unravel alongside him. Liam, in the passenger seat, was already wondering what all of that would mean for Harry.

Louis sat curled toward the door, forehead gently resting against the cool glass of the window, tears still staining his cheeks in drying streaks, though he no longer sobbed. It was that quiet kind of crying now, the one that felt like it didn't even belong to the body anymore, like it had become part of the atmosphere, soaked into the leather seats and the hum of the engine and the occasional blinker ticking through the silence.

He wasn't sure what he felt or maybe he felt everything all at once. His heart was splintered down the center, torn between the boy he had walked away from and the boy he had walked toward, even if that other boy didn't know yet, even if he himself didn't know yet. What had he done? Had he made the right decision? Had he thrown away something beautiful just to chase a ghost that may never open its arms for him again? Does he himself even want to go there again?

He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenched tight to keep the sob from spilling out again, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek.

"I need to go to my mum's," Louis finally said, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper, so cracked it was barely recognizable. "Just for a bit. Until I have a plan."

Zayn nodded once, no questions asked, no comments offered, just a quiet shift in the steering wheel as he changed lanes and took the exit like he'd known from the beginning that this is where they would end up.

The car filled again with that weighted silence, a kind of suspended air that made Louis feel like they were driving through molasses, like every second stretched out longer than it should, like the world had slowed down to give him time to breathe, but breathing was still hard. He kept seeing Marcel's face when he said it; I can't go back to Germany. That brief flicker of shock in his eyes, the heartbreak settling in when he realized that Louis meant it. That he wasn't changing his mind this time.

He had loved Marcel. Still did. There had been laughter and comfort and quiet nights spent reading side by side on the couch, rainy mornings in their flat in Germany that had felt like safety. Marcel had been good and kind. Marcel had seen him at his worst and had offered him nothing but gentleness in return. Marcel had kissed his forehead every morning before work and made him tea the way he liked it and left handwritten notes on the fridge with smiley faces and silly jokes. He had been good.

Louis pressed his fingers to his lips, like maybe he could still feel Marcel there, soft and certain and loving.. but he had left him.

He had to call him once he landed, he owed him more than just that, of course, but he would explain, apologise,  tell him the truth... not all of it.. or maybe.. because he didn't even know all of it himself yet. But he knew enough to show that it hadn't been meaningless. That Marcel had mattered and still mattered, even if he couldn't go with him.

The streets changed as they approached the outskirts of his hometown, the buildings getting smaller, older, the air thick with memory. He hadn't been back in a year before their trip and now it felt like the only place in the world where he could fall apart without consequence, where he could be the boy who didn't have it all figured out yet, who could curl into his mother's arms and not be expected to have answers, or plans, or anything other than his broken heart held in trembling hands.

Zayn slowed as they turned onto a familiar street, the one with the crooked lamppost at the end, the one that always flickered just before it went out.

"Want us to come in with you?" he asked, finally breaking the silence, voice low but careful.

Louis shook his head, wiping his sleeve under his eyes. "No," he whispered. "Thanks, though. Just... thank you."

Zayn nodded once, eyes soft and Louis didn't wait for more. He grabbed his bag and suitcase from the backseat, stepped out into the cool evening air and took a deep breath before walking up the garden path toward the door he had known all his life. As he reached the top step, he turned back, just for a second, meeting Zayn's gaze through the windshield.

He offered him a small smile—exhausted, watery, but real.

Zayn raised a hand in a gentle wave, Liam did the same and then they were gone. Louis turned to the door, lifted his hand, and knocked.

The door opened with a familiar creak, warm light spilling out into the soft dusk as the scent of something gently sweet and comforting, bergamot and freshly laundered cotton, wrapped itself around Louis like a memory he hadn't known he needed until he was standing in it again. His mother's face appeared in the doorway, open and gentle, her expression shifting from surprised to confused to concerned in the span of a breath.

"Louis?" she asked, already stepping forward, one hand reaching for him, her voice caught somewhere between relief and alarm. "What on earth... weren't you supposed to be flying back tonight?"

And that was it, that one simple, reasonable question was all it took for something inside of him to collapse. His lips trembled before he could hold them steady and the tears slipping free and cutting trails down his cheeks like rain carving through dry stone. He dropped his bag without grace or thinking and stepped into her arms before she had the chance to ask another question, burying his face into the crook of her neck like he hadn't done in years. Not like this, not like he needed her to hold him together.

"Oh, baby," she whispered, pulling him in tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head, her voice suddenly thick. "What happened?"

Louis couldn't answer, he just shook his head, clinging to her like if he let go, he'd dissolve completely. She held him through it, rocking him gently on the porch for a moment before guiding him inside, closing the door softly behind them and leading him to the couch with the quiet ease of a mother who knew how to help her child fall apart without fear of being judged.

They sat for a long while, Louis curled against her, his fingers twisting into the fabric of her cardigan like he was trying to ground himself in the texture of something real. Eventually, the sobs settled into hiccups, and the hiccups into silence, and the silence into that aching kind of stillness that only came after a storm had passed, leaving everything wet and tender.

"I didn't get on the plane," Louis finally said, his voice barely audible.

Jay blinked down at him, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "I figured that much, love," she said softly. "Why not?"

He stared at the wall across from them, as though the wallpaper might have the answer for him, something hidden in the faded blue floral print that had been there since before he left for university. "I don't know," he whispered. "I.. I mean, I do. I just... I don't know how to explain it."

"Try," she urged gently, her hand still resting at the nape of his neck, fingers stroking lightly through the soft strands there.

Louis let out a shaky breath, wiping at his face with the sleeve of his jumper. "I told Marcel I wanted to stay. At the airport. Right before we went through security. I just... I said I couldn't go back. And I left him there. I left everything there."

Jay was quiet for a moment, digesting the weight of it all. "And why do you think that is?"

Louis closed his eyes, his throat tight. "Because I came back here, and everything just.. shifted. It's like I forgot what this place meant to me. What he meant to me."

Jay's hand stilled.

Louis swallowed. "I saw Harry. More than once. And I didn't plan it. I didn't even want to see him. But every time I looked at him it was like my brain and my heart couldn't agree on anything. I don't even want to be near him, but I feel everything anyway. Every fucking thing I buried for the past two years just cracked open like it never healed at all."

His voice wavered, broken and bitter and Jay watched him carefully, lovingly, without interrupting.

"I loved Marcel," Louis went on, softer now. "I still do. He's everything someone should want. He was good to me. He was gentle and supportive and he.. he never made me feel like I had to feel a certain way. And I still walked away. Not because he wasn't enough or because I wanted something better.. but because... I couldn't lie to him anymore. And I couldn't lie to myself."

He looked down at his hands in his lap, picking at the edge of his fingernail, unable to meet her gaze. "I think I stayed because of Harry. I know I did. And I hate that. Because it doesn't make any sense. He lied to me. After everything that happened. After the attack, the surgery, the recovery, I trusted him, and he just... he made me feel like I was lost.."

Jay finally spoke, her voice measured and soft. "You were never lost, Louis."

"I felt like I was!" he snapped, tears welling again, eyes burning with frustration. "And he could've fixed it. He could've told me the truth at any point, could've been honest when I was fragile and scared and trying to remember who I even was. But he didn't, he waited until I was already too far gone, until I loved him again without even knowing I'd done it before. And then when I found out, when everything came back, he .. I.. and .. I don't even know."

The room was still, his breath catching in his throat as he shook his head. "I don't forgive him for that. I don't know if I can but I also don't know how to stop... loving him."

Jay's expression didn't change, though her heart ached for her son. She reached out, brushing her thumb over his cheek. "Sometimes love is the most confusing thing in the world, darling. And sometimes it's the only thing that makes any sense at all."

Louis blinked at her, more tears slipping down, quiet and clean.

"I think you need time," she said gently. "To think and rest and figure out what you want, not just what you're feeling right now."

Louis nodded, pressing his lips together to keep from crying again. "I'm so scared I made the wrong choice."

"You made a choice," she replied. "And that's something. You'll figure out the rest."

And so they sat there, in the soft golden lamplight of the living room he had grown up in, Louis tucked close to his mother, his mind a tangled web of memories, grief, guilt, and something still burning deep in his chest that hadn't gone out even after all this time.

He didn't know what would happen next but for now, he was here and that had to be enough.

*

It was quiet in the car, one of those silences that settled like dust, thick and heavy but not unwelcome. Zayn had both hands on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road, though every so often he glanced toward the passenger seat where Liam sat slouched, one hand over his mouth, the other drumming rhythmically against his thigh. The sun had begun to dip lower behind the London skyline, casting long shadows across the motorway, the kind that made everything feel a little softer, a little sadder.

They hadn't really spoken, not when Louis cried in the backseat and not when Zayn offered to walk him to the door of his mum's house. There hadn't been anything to say in that moment anyway. Now, with just the two of them again, the weight of it all began to sink in.

"I mean... we knew," Liam finally said, breaking the silence, his voice low and scratchy, like it had been scraped against something rough. "Didn't we?"

Zayn exhaled slowly, fingers tightening just slightly around the wheel. "Yeah."

"Not just today," Liam added, shifting in his seat, facing Zayn a little more. "From the beginning, the day of our wedding."

Zayn nodded once. "When he looked at Harry like that."

"Yeah," Liam murmured. "Like no time had passed at all."

They let the memory hang between them, heavy and undeniable, the way Louis's expression had faltered, softened, as soon as he saw Harry. That breathless, stunned look like he'd been hit square in the chest and didn't even realise he was bleeding. They both saw it. Hell, everyone probably did.

"And Harry..." Liam trailed off, then huffed a dry laugh, one without humor. "He looked wrecked the second he saw Marcel."

Zayn winced a little at that, though he didn't disagree. "I hate it," he muttered.

Liam looked at him sharply. "What Louis did?"

"No." Zayn's voice was firm now, steady despite the storm he clearly felt brewing in his chest. "That it still hurts them both this much."

They sat with that a while, letting it echo around the car like a song on low volume, mournful and strange and familiar. Outside, the streets were slowly filling again, people heading out for the evening or returning home, lives moving forward, unbothered by the quiet tragedies playing out behind closed doors and taxi windows.

"Do you think Louis knows what he's doing?" Liam asked eventually.

Zayn hesitated. "I think he's lost."

Liam nodded slowly, rubbing his hand over his face. "And Marcel? I mean... he seemed like a good guy."

"He is a good guy," Zayn said, and the conviction in his tone left no room for argument. "That's the worst part. Louis loved him. I could tell. But not the way he loves Harry. And that's just... something he can't fake."

They fell silent again, the truth sitting between them like a third person in the car.

After a few minutes, Liam reached for his phone. "I'm gonna call Niall," he said quietly. "He needs to know."

Zayn nodded, flipping on the indicator as they turned off the main road.

Liam tapped through to Niall's name and put it on speaker, and the phone rang three times before it connected with a loud, cheerful, "Oi, what's up, lads? You on your way back?"

There was a beat of hesitation before Liam spoke, his tone soft but heavy. "Louis didn't get on the plane."

There was only the sound of an ongoing call for a moment until. "...Wait, what?"

"He told Marcel at the airport, said he couldn't go back to Germany. Stayed behind, we drove him to his mum's."

"Holy shit," Niall breathed, the mood on the line shifting instantly, his usual lightness dimming. "Is he okay?"

"No," Zayn said simply.

There was another pause, then a low sigh from Niall. "Christ. Poor Marcel."

Liam nodded, though the gesture wasn't seen. "Yeah. Louis was gutted about it, he cried in the car. Didn't say much, but... it was clear he didn't make the choice lightly."

"I don't think he could go back," Zayn added quietly, his eyes still on the road, his hands still steady. "Whatever he had with Marcel, it didn't survive seeing Harry again."

"I mean, can you blame him?" Niall asked softly. "It's always been Harry, even when he convinced himself he hated him."

None of them said anything for a moment, then Niall asked the inevitable: "Are we telling him?"

"No," Liam and Zayn answered in unison.

"Not yet," Zayn clarified. "He's barely holding it together. He's been trying to convince himself he already lost Louis. If we tell him now, he'll unravel."

"Besides," Liam added, "we don't even know what Louis wants yet. He's confused as hell. Let him breathe."

Niall sighed, the sound crackling faintly through the speaker. "Alright. We keep it quiet. For now."

"Yeah," Zayn agreed, turning down another street, headlights cutting through the gathering dark. "But not forever."

And as the car continued down the narrow roads toward home, the three of them sat with the weight of the secret now shared between them, knowing it would only be a matter of time before it tipped everything out into the open.

*

His flat was quiet in a way that felt unnatural.. not peaceful, not still.. just hollow. The kind of quiet that echoed through bones and settled deep into the chest. Harry sat on the floor with his back against the wall, knees pulled up toward his chest, the weight of the dim evening light crawling in through the half-closed blinds, casting soft golden bars across the hardwood that felt like a mockery of warmth. The flat wasn't quite his anymore, he hadn't lived there properly in years, but he still kept it. Kept paying the rent, kept it just as it had been during those few fleeting months when Louis used to fall asleep on the sofa wrapped in one of Harry's sweaters, when Sunday mornings smelled like burnt toast and laughter and their shoes were always left by the door in a messy pile of comfort.

It was the last place he could go where it still felt like Louis had been his.

And now he was sat on the living room floor with that worn shoebox of old photographs, the lid long since discarded, pictures strewn around him like fragments of something sacred and ruined at once. There were Polaroids from their university days, crisp and smiling and wide-eyed, some from just after graduation, arms slung around each other outside the hospital's front steps, then others, more recent, more tender, captured during those short months they tried to piece something back together after Louis woke up.

A few shots had been taken here, in this very flat. Louis curled up in the corner of the couch, one socked foot pressed under his thigh, a mug cupped between his hands, hair sleep-mussed and eyes soft with something that Harry used to believe might have been love. He looked fragile in those photos, still recovering, still learning how to live again, but there was light in him. And Harry had loved him so fiercely in that quiet, desperate way that couldn't be named out loud without it shattering.

He should've told him the truth. He should've told him the very second he opened his eyes in that hospital bed, should've confessed everything, the exam, the guilt, the years of silence, the grief of missing him even when he was still alive. But he didn't. And this, this hollow flat, this cracked heart, this gut-punch ache in the center of his chest, this was the price.

Harry exhaled shakily, letting his head fall back against the wall. The pain wasn't sharp anymore, hadn't been in a long time. It was dull now.. heavy and persistent. It sat beneath his ribs like a second heartbeat, never quite fading, never letting go.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table. A message from Niall. He didn't open it, didn't want to talk. He already knew what it would say, some check-in, something light to disguise the worry in it. Maybe a comment about how the pub night wasn't that bad. Harry didn't respond.

Instead, he opened Instagram.

He didn't do this often, at least not anymore. But tonight, in his flat, where Louis once laughed and slept and kissed him in the kitchen at midnight when they thought the world was quiet, he was weak. And so he searched Louis' account, fingers trembling just enough to make it harder than it should've been. The profile picture hadn't changed in over a year, but the posts were newer. Bright snapshots of a life rebuilt. Of Germany. Of smiling faces. Of cobbled streets and warm cafes and bookstores and sunlit balconies. Of Marcel.

He tapped the tagged photos. There were dozens. Louis and Marcel at Christmas markets, at lakesides, in cozy corners of bookstores with their heads tilted together over some novel. Louis in sweaters too big for his frame, clearly being Marcel's, arm slung casually around his shoulder, looking... content.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood, then he made the stupidest decision he could've made and searched Marcel's account.

It was public and it was worse.

There were videos—short, grainy clips of Marcel panning across snowy streets, his voice soft and cheerful behind the camera, calling Louis over. Pictures of their flat, of the little balcony with its string lights and succulents. Captions that said things like home is wherever he is and one year today with my favourite person in the world. And even a fucking picture of them kissing, tongue out, hands gripping hair, borderline inappropriate for social media.

Harry felt like he was drowning or suffocating or throwing up, or everything at once.

They looked happy, so goddamn happy and Harry was a ghost. A ghost that lived in another country and another time, who watched the love of his life live the life they were supposed to have, only now it was with someone else. Someone who hadn't ruined everything.

He closed the app with trembling hands and shoved the phone away, knocking over the shoebox in the process, sending the photographs fluttering across the floor in a silent, graceless scatter. He pressed his palms to his eyes, breathed through the tightness in his chest, felt his lungs contract like they might give out. He thought of Louis, standing in airport queues, boarding a flight back to Germany right now, maybe sleeping on Marcel's shoulder thirty thousand feet above the earth. He thought of them landing, getting into a taxi, Louis unlocking the door to their flat, maybe unpacking together, brushing shoulders, laughing, cooking dinner in silence that was easy, not loaded with all the unsaid things like it had always been between him and Harry.

Harry had never given Louis peace, not really, and he would never get to try again.. and that thought broke him.

He curled in on himself on the floor, amongst the photographs, pressing his forehead to his knees. He didn't cry, he was too tired, too wrung out. But the ache was still there, clawing its way down his spine, burning behind his eyes. All he wanted was to forget the sound of Louis' voice, the shape of his body, the way he laughed at his own jokes, the way he always cut strawberries the wrong way but said it tasted the same.

But he couldn't.

Because even after everything, even after Germany and Marcel and all the years between them, it was still Louis.

It had always been and it always will be Louis.

Chapter Text

Morning came slowly, as if the sun itself was reluctant to rise on the mess Louis had made of everything. He woke on the sofa in his parents living room, the heavy blanket his mum must've tucked around him tangled between his legs, his mouth dry from too much wine and the taste of regret coating the back of his throat like something poisonous. The house was quiet, only the soft clink of dishes in the kitchen giving away that Jay was already up. Louis didn't move for a long time, just stared at the low ceiling and listened to the muffled sounds of a life that had once been so safe, so familiar, and now felt like a shell he'd climbed back into because he had nowhere else to go.

He knew he had to call. It had to be this morning, he couldn't let Marcel land in Germany without any explanation. That was a cruelty Louis couldn't bear to add on top of everything else. He owed him more than that, owed him a goodbye.

So after washing his face in the bathroom and staring at his reflection for a full minute, just long enough to feel like he might shatter if he looked any longer, he went outside with his phone clutched tightly in his hand and the morning air cold against the back of his neck. He sat down on the steps that led into the back garden, pulled his knees up, and pressed Marcel's name on the screen.

It only rang once before Marcel picked up.

"Louis."

His voice broke on the single syllable. He sounded like he hadn't slept, like he'd been crying on the plane, like he was barely holding himself together and it made Louis want to be sick.

"Hey," Louis said softly, voice hoarse. "You got home alright?"

There was a pause on the other end, a deep breath and then Marcel let out a quiet, bitter laugh that didn't sound like him at all. "Yeah. Got in around midnight. I didn't unpack. Didn't know if I was supposed to."

Louis closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry."

Another silence stretched between them, taut and heavy. "Why?" Marcel asked quieter now. "Why did you leave me there?"

Louis swallowed, and it felt like glass in his throat. "I don't know."

"That's not fair," Marcel whispered. "You have to know. We were at the gate, Louis. We were going home."

Louis's voice cracked. "That's just it, I don't know where that is anymore."

There was a shuddering breath from the other side of the line, and Louis could hear Marcel trying not to cry. "I would've done anything for you, you know that, right? I did everything for you. I moved my life for you. I stayed patient, I stayed kind, even when I knew there was always something between us that I could never quite reach. And I—I thought I could wait it out. That if I just loved you enough, you'd stop looking at me like I was someone else."

Louis's entire body went still, heart catching in his chest like a car skidding on ice. "What...?"

Marcel exhaled slowly, like it physically hurt him to say it. "I knew you were still in love with him. I didn't want to admit it, but I saw it. I saw it every time you looked at me like you were waiting for me to be someone I'm not."

"Marcel—"

"And I tried to be," Marcel whispered, voice cracking. "God, I tried to be him. I wore my hair a certain way. I read the books he liked. I made the same stupid pasta with cream and chili flakes because you said once that 'he' used to make it when you had long days. I let you love me like you were patching something together with broken pieces and I let you, Louis, because I was stupid enough to think you'd look at me one day and forget about him."

"I did love you," Louis said, breath catching on the words like they were burning his lungs. "I do. I love you, Marcel. I meant it."

"But it's not enough," Marcel whispered. "Not when you still love him more."

Louis pressed a shaking hand to his forehead, elbow braced against his knee. The garden blurred in front of him. "I didn't know it was still there. I swear I didn't. I was okay, I thought I was okay. And then I came back to London and everything shifted and.. God, Marcel, I hate him for it. I hate him for what he did to me. I haven't forgiven him and I don't think I ever will. But seeing him again... it was like someone cracked open a part of me I'd buried so deep I forgot it existed."

Marcel didn't say anything for a long time. When he finally did, his voice was small and tired and trembling. "I was going to propose."

Louis felt something deep inside him rupture.

"I had the ring," Marcel continued quietly. "It's in my bag. I was going to wait until we were back in the flat. I'd made reservations. I'd written something down because I knew I'd get too nervous to say it right. I thought maybe if I asked you to build a forever with me, it would be enough to finally erase the part of you that still belonged to someone else."

Louis was crying now, silent and broken, shoulders trembling as he pressed his knuckles into his mouth to muffle the sound. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve any of this."

"No, I didn't deserve it," Marcel agreed, voice numb. "But I'd still ask you. Even now."

And that, that was the thing that undid Louis entirely. Because Marcel meant it, even with a broken heart, even after being left at an airport without warning, he still wanted him.

"But I can't be someone else," Marcel added quietly. "And I don't want to be loved like a placeholder."

"You weren't," Louis said, choking on it. "You weren't. You were home to me. You made me laugh again. You were gentle with the worst parts of me. You gave me a new life when I didn't think I deserved one. I love you, Marcel."

"But not the way you love him."

There was no bitterness in the words. Just truth.

Louis pressed a hand to his chest and nodded even though Marcel couldn't see him. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I swear I didn't. I don't know what happens next, but... I had to stay. I didn't know why yesterday. I still don't. I just knew that I couldn't get on that plane. And I'll regret hurting you for the rest of my life."

Marcel cleared his throat. "I'll send your things. And the key. Just text me the address."

"I'll pay for shipping."

"I don't care," Marcel said. "It doesn't matter."

"Marcel—"

"Take care of yourself, Louis. I hope you'll find what you're looking for. I love you."

And with that, the line went dead.

Louis stared at the screen for a long time, his reflection barely visible in the black mirror of it. He stayed outside long after the call ended, letting the cold numb his hands and his tears dry on his cheeks. He didn't know what came next. Didn't know how to breathe without hurting or how to move without looking back. But he knew one thing, buried under all the guilt and pain and loss:

He'd stayed for a reason.

*

It had only been three days, but somehow it felt like Louis had been floating in this strange, shapeless limbo for far longer. Each hour passing not with the sound of ticking seconds, but with the heavy silence that settles after something breaks. He moved like a ghost through his parent's house, polite and quiet and soft-spoken, which was so unlike him that Jay had started keeping tea warm almost constantly, as though the solution to everything could still be found in a good cup and a long chat at the kitchen table.

But nothing was that easy.

Louis wasn't even sure what he felt anymore, he only knew that it was too much.

There were moments, long, aching stretches, where he wanted to take it all back. Where he saw Marcel's face as he turned around at the gate and felt something sharp and guilt-ridden twist in his stomach. Where he wanted to go back to Germany and beg for the simplicity of that life again, the comfort of knowing how each day would look, of waking up in someone's arms and believing, even if just for a little while, that the past had been buried deep enough to stay gone.

Moments where he wanted to call him, say it was all a mistake, ask if the ring was still in the bag. Marcel would take him back, he knew he would and it would be safe there.

But every time Louis reached that edge, every time he stood at the window and stared out at the gray London morning wondering what the hell he was doing, Jay would appear beside him with a hand on his shoulder and a truth he couldn't ignore.

"You don't leave someone at an airport because you might still love someone else," she said quietly the night before, both of them curled on the sofa like they had so many years ago. "You don't throw away a whole life unless you already know it doesn't fit anymore. Even if you haven't admitted it yet."

And Louis had cried again. Because that was the thing, wasn't it? He hadn't admitted it even if he knew.

He hadn't said the words and let them sit in his mouth or roll off his tongue. Because once he did, everything would shift again and he wasn't sure how many more earthquakes his heart could take.

Now it was Friday. The air outside was brisk and damp, typical for London in this time of the year, and Louis tugged his coat tighter around him as he walked toward the small café in Camden where he was supposed to meet Zayn, Liam and Niall. They'd insisted on it, said it was time to talk, time to stop spiraling alone and start figuring out what came next. Louis wasn't sure a cup of overpriced coffee would help him sort through the ruins of his life, but he'd agreed anyway.

He spotted them before they saw him. Liam waving toward the barista, Zayn already holding two takeaway cups, Niall perched on a bench outside with his sunglasses pushed up into his messy hair even though the sky was gray. For a moment, Louis just stood there, watching them. Three people who'd known him better than most.

One of them who witnessed nearly
every part of his adult life, his fire, his heartbreak, his ambition, his downfall. They were waiting for him now, like they always had, like they never really stopped. And something about that made his chest ache.

He made his way over, and Niall looked up with a grin. "Well, look what the wind dragged in. Still in one piece, then?"

"Barely," Louis said, cracking a tired smile as he sat down. "But I'm here."

Zayn handed him a coffee without asking what he wanted. He just knew. Louis took it and wrapped his hands around the cup, letting the warmth bleed into his frozen fingers.

"So," Liam started, his voice soft. "How're you doing?"

Louis took a breath and looked down at the lid of his cup. "Like someone cut me open and left everything inside hanging in the air."

"Sounds about right," Zayn murmured. "You've been through hell, mate."

Niall gave him a long look. "You regret it?"

Louis didn't answer right away, he stared at the steam curling up from his drink and tried to make sense of the war inside his chest. "I don't know. I miss him... Marcel. I miss what we had, it was good, he was good and I was happy, I think, at least I thought I was."

"But?" Liam prompted gently.

"But I wasn't me." Louis looked up slowly. "I was living in a house we decorated together, sleeping in a bed that we picked out, laughing in a language that was never mine but I still... dreamed in English."

They got the meaning of what he'd said, they knew it was not about the language and they were quiet for a while, the sound of other people's conversations filling in the cracks around them. Eventually, Zayn leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low.

"Do you want to know what he's been like the last two years?"

Louis glanced at him warily.

"He didn't date," Zayn said. "Didn't really try. Didn't let anyone get close. Barely spoke to us unless it was about work or we forced him to. He sleeps in the hospital most nights, never takes holidays. And when he's home, he's miserable, crying himself to sleep in a bed you once shared with him."

Louis blinked. "I thought he moved."

"No," Niall said softly. "He couldn't, said it felt like the last place you were still with him. That if he left it, he'd lose you completely."

Louis' throat went dry.

"He still has them in that shoebox," Liam added. "Photos of you. From uni, from the hospital, from that short time after... when you moved in. He kept them all. Looks through them sometimes, like he's trying to remind himself that it was real."

Louis looked down at the table, jaw tight. "He should've told me, when I woke up, after everything. I trusted him."

"We know," Niall said. "He knows too. But he thought he was protecting you, he still swears that he wasn't sure how to tell you without breaking you all over again. But he wanted to tell you."

"I was broken," Louis whispered.

"And he never forgave himself for that," Liam said gently. "He carries it like a scar."

Louis looked up, eyes glassy. "So what do I do with that?"

"That's for you to figure out," Zayn said softly. "We're just here to help you get through the days until you do."

Niall leaned back and crossed his arms. "All we know is this: the moment he saw you at the wedding, he lost his breath. You were it for him, Lou. You still are. But maybe this isn't about what he wants anymore, maybe it's about what you want."

Louis nodded slowly, the words settling deep in his chest, he didn't know the answer yet but he was getting closer and for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel like he was drowning alone.

*

Life, as it tends to do, went on. It didn't pause out of respect for heartbreak, didn't soften its pace to let the grieving catch their breath, it simply moved forward, steady and indifferent, the sun rising and setting whether Louis was ready for it or not. In a way, that was a blessing. In another, it felt like a betrayal. Because how could the world keep spinning when he had left someone behind in an airport, with one half of a heart in his hands and half still in a ring box tucked somewhere in Marcel's bag?

The first week after the breakup passed in fragments. Days were blurry with too little sleep and too much quiet. He stayed with his parents longer than expected, their house turning into a kind of soft purgatory, neither here nor there, not his past nor his future, but safe. They didn't ask questions. Jay just made tea, folded his laundry and stood beside him when he got the call from the shipping company that his things from Germany were packed and on their way. Marcel hadn't wanted a big back-and-forth. No drawn-out exchanges. Just closure.

Louis had tried to help, offered to pay for the move, to keep covering rent until they sorted it all, but Marcel had been gentle and firm.

"I think we both know this is where it ends," he'd said during their final phone call, his voice calm and raw all at once, like a lake in the morning fog. "If I let you help, it'll feel like you're still here. And I need to learn how to let go, Louis. For real."

They both cried, there was no shouting, no resentment. Just the sound of two hearts unthreading themselves from the shared fabric of a life. It was the softest kind of devastation, the kind that left no bruises, only hollow spaces. And when they hung up, Louis sat on the back steps of his family house with his head in his hands and let himself fall apart.

He didn't know what came next, not really. But there was a pull now, something deep and familiar that tugged him back into the rhythm of the city he'd once called home. He started flat hunting, walking the streets of Camden and Islington with his collar turned up and his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. He viewed six places in two days, one too small, one too modern, one with a bathroom that looked like it hadn't been cleaned since 1982. But then there was a fourth-floor walk-up near Regent's Park, with old wooden floors and a balcony just big enough for a single chair and a mug of coffee and something about it felt right.. so he took it.

He moved in with nothing but three suitcases, a record player, and a box of books that smelled like another life. The furniture would come later, now he slept on a mattress on the floor with the duvet from his childhood room. He didn't mind the echo of empty rooms, it gave him space to think, to feel, to breathe.

Getting his job back at the hospital was harder than expected. Bureaucracy had never been a friend of his and two years away meant a new administration, new protocols, new hurdles. But Zayn vouched for him and made a few quiet calls, and eventually, there was movement. A provisional interview, a review of his old casework. He didn't know if he'd go back to psychiatry or try something new, maybe he'd open a practice or he'd do consulting. He had ideas, flickering ones, but for now, it was enough to be here.

The boys had started folding him back into their lives without question. Niall took him out for pints and crisps, pretended like nothing had changed. Liam invited him to their flat for dinner, where Zayn cooked and played soul music and made fun of Louis for being picky with spices. They talked about everything and nothing, old memories, current plans, the occasional awkward pause when Harry's name hovered unspoken in the air. Louis didn't ask, and they didn't push.

And Harry still didn't know.

Louis hadn't asked them to keep it from him but the moment just hadn't come and it had only been two weeks and Harry was always either buried in surgery or locked in that old flat, drifting through memories that had long since grown legs and walked away. Ironically, really.

Still, the city was only so big, they would cross paths eventually.

But for now, Louis lived in the in-between, half in the life he used to know, half in the one he hadn't yet figured out. He walked to the bakery on the corner each morning and bought the same croissant and coffee, watched the same old man feed the same pigeons on the bench across the street. He read more, slept less, sat on the floor in his new flat at midnight with music humming low through the speakers and thought about Germany. About Marcel. About the look on his face when Louis turned around and said he couldn't go. He still loved him, that much was true. But it wasn't the love. It wasn't the one that lived in the marrow of his bones, the one that came back no matter how many miles he put between it and his own beating heart.

And that was the thing, he hadn't come back to London for Harry or at least that's what he told himself.

But everything about being back was soaked in him; The skyline, the air, the pull in Louis' chest when he passed the hospital where they'd once spent every waking moment. He hadn't seen Harry yet and he still was everywhere.

And Louis was slowly starting to realise.. he always had been.

*

It had been over three weeks since Louis left, since the assumed departure and since Harry sat in his empty flat, caught in the quietest kind of mourning for something he'd never truly had. The days bled together, long and colourless, filled with surgeries and charting, the familiar cadence of hospital corridors echoing beneath his feet like a beat he didn't know he was still marching to. But something in him had shifted. He felt thinner, not in body but in spirit, as if grief had hollowed out a part of him and left everything echoing inside.

The thought had occurred to him, to sell the old flat and find something new. He had started sorting through the paperwork, had called an agent and even took some preliminary pictures himself, but something in him always stalled, a soft voice in his head, a pair of blue eyes he couldn't let go of.

He hadn't told the boys, only in a passing, something like a half-hearted, "Might sell the flat," over drinks one night, followed by a casual shrug. Liam had paused, Zayn had said nothing, Niall had coughed awkwardly and changed the subject.

But it was one night a few days later, that things came to a slow boil. They had all gathered at Harry's place after a late shift, Liam and Niall with beers, Zayn with some half-rolled cigarette he never ended up lighting. The windows were cracked open, the cold breeze tugging at the curtains, and there was music playing softly in the background, something old and jazzy and scratchy like vinyl.

Harry had been quiet most of the night, as usual so, just drinking slowly and staring at his phone every once in a while, like he was waiting for something, though he didn't know what. Maybe a sign, or maybe the silence itself was the sign.

It was Liam who broke the quiet. "I can't do this anymore," he said into the room, sudden and raw and out of nowhere. His fingers drummed against the side of his beer bottle.

Harry blinked and looked up. "What?"

Liam hesitated, a flicker of guilt crossing his features before he looked away. "It's just... feels wrong, keeping something from you. Especially after what we all... what you went through with Louis."

Harry's chest tightened. "You're scaring me. Is this about Louis?" he asked, voice cautious.

Zayn made a small sound in his throat and shifted on the sofa, but Liam just looked down.

"I'm not saying he.. look, I don't want to get your hopes up. It's not like that," Liam said, trying to walk the impossible line. "But I just, shit, I dunno. We're your friends, and keeping anything from you feels... bad."

Harry looked between them like they'd all grown a second head, confusion written all over his face and anger simmering under the surface. "What is this cryptic shit right now?"

Niall nodded slowly. "We didn't tell you because we didn't know how or when or what it would do to you. You've been through enough, H."

Zayn was quiet, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the floor. When he finally spoke, it was low and tired. "It's not my place. It's his life. You don't know what it's been like for him."

Harry felt the blood rush to his head. "So it is about Louis," His hands were suddenly clammy, heart loud in his ears. "Is he okay?"

No one answered, the silence was answer enough.

Harry looked between them all. "So what—What the fuck are you not telling me?"

Liam ran a hand through his hair, visibly torn. "He's back," he said finally. "He never left... Marcel left alone. Louis is here.. in London."

And just like that, the floor dropped out from under him. Harry didn't speak for a long time, just sat there, eyes locked on a point on the wall, like if he stared hard enough it might break apart and give him something else to look at, anything but the hollow ache that had just cracked open in his chest again.

He laughed quiet and humorless. "So all this time..."

"We didn't think it'd help to tell you," Niall said gently. "We didn't want you to spiral."

Harry stood slowly, like his limbs had forgotten how to carry his weight, he walked toward the kitchen just to have somewhere to go, then leaned against the counter with both hands, breathing through his nose. He didn't know if he wanted to scream or collapse.

"I was gonna sell the flat," he muttered after a while. "I was gonna try dating again. Thought maybe I'd finally let him go as he did with me."

The silence that followed was heavy with regret. "You still can," Zayn said carefully. "He's not here for you. He didn't come back because of you." Liam elbowed him, giving him a stern glance.

Harry's jaw clenched. "Doesn't mean I don't feel him in every bloody corner of this city."

Liam stood too, crossing the room and placing a tentative hand on Harry's shoulder. "Just.. don't make any decisions right now, okay? Not about moving, not about dating. Just... breathe."

Harry turned his head, his eyes were glassy but dry. "He really stayed?"

"Yeah," Niall said, soft and honest. "He's trying to figure out his life. And I think he's just as lost as you."

Harry didn't answer, just stared ahead, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

And somewhere deep down, in the quietest part of him, the part still stitched together with memory and longing, he knew it was only a matter of time before they saw each other again.

*

It had been one of those days where time felt like it had stalled somewhere between afternoon and evening, the city hushed in a strange kind of stillness, the air dense with the scent of rain that hadn't yet fallen. The sky hung low and grey above London and Louis had been walking for hours without direction, weaving through narrow streets and familiar corners, trying to outrun the pressure in his chest that had settled there since the moment he'd woken up.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket.

Zayn
We told him.

That was all it said. Louis had stared at the screen for longer than he should have. His fingers hovered above the screen, heart lurching in his chest with something too fragile to name, too violent to hold. He didn't reply, he simply shoved the phone into his coat pocket and kept walking, as if that might keep the truth from catching up to him.

But it did, it caught up to him in the form of muscle memory, of instinct and old longing. Without really meaning to, he found himself on a quiet street in Primrose Hill, standing in front of the café they used to sneak away to when the world became too loud. It looked the same. The little wooden sign above the door still chipped on the corner, the windows still fogged with warmth, the same gentle hum of soft jazz leaking through the open door.

His heart clenched painfully and before he could stop himself, he pushed the door open.

The bell chimed overhead, soft and delicate, the way it always had. A few heads turned, but no one really looked. He stepped inside, shoulders drawing up around his ears as if that could protect him from the storm inside his own body.

The woman behind the counter blinked in surprise before her face broke into a kind smile. "Been a while," she said softly, her voice carrying the kind of warmth that made his throat tighten. He nodded with a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, voice barely a whisper as he ordered his old drink. As if no time had passed, as if he were still the version of himself who sat across from Harry in this place, laughing into a paper cup and tracing invisible shapes into the table.

He didn't notice him at first, not until he turned around, drink in hand and there, by the window, sat Harry.

Back to the door, shoulders hunched slightly, head tilted as he gazed out through the fogged glass. A half-empty coffee cup sat on the table before him, his fingers drumming absentmindedly against the ceramic edge.

Louis froze mid-step.

And for a moment, it was like his heart simply... forgot how to beat.

Harry looked different than a few weeks ago but also the same and that was the most terrifying part. His curls were slightly longer, messier, curling around his ears like they had when he stopped caring to keep them neat. His coat was the same one Louis had bought for him on a cold winter day long ago, dark green wool, sleeves fraying at the cuffs. His face was thinner, his eyes sunken in that unmistakable way that grief and time carve into those who've carried too much for too long.

And then, as if pulled by the force of something unseen, Harry turned, their eyes met and the world—everything—fell silent.

Not the soft kind of silence that fills the space between easy conversation, but a deafening, soul-shattering silence. The kind that grips your lungs like a vice, that only lives between two people who once knew every inch of each other's hearts and now stood like strangers in the wake of what they'd lost.

Louis didn't move, neither did Harry, a full beat passed and then another. Long enough for Louis to consider turning and walking out, disappearing before the moment could bloom into something too unbearable, but he didn't, he couldn't.

Instead, slowly, hesitantly, he took a single step forward and Harry stood.

And then another.. until they were standing before each other, just a breath apart, close enough to see the cracks that time and pain had etched into each other's faces, close enough to feel the tremble beneath the surface of things neither of them could name.

"Hi," Harry said, barely more than a whisper. His voice was raw, stretched thin by emotion, as if it hadn't been used in weeks. Maybe it hadn't, not in a way that mattered.

Louis swallowed hard, the heat behind his eyes sudden and unwelcome. "Hi."

It was all either of them could manage. Harry's eyes scanned his face, desperate and reverent all at once, like he was afraid to blink in case Louis disappeared. "I didn't believe you were back," he murmured, though he did now and he had barely slept since they had told him.

Louis nodded slowly. "I didn't know I was staying."

Another beat passed, full of things unsaid.

"Marcel?" Harry asked, the name cracking like glass on his tongue.

A flash of pain crossed Louis' features, and he looked away, toward the café wall covered in old postcards and faded polaroids, some of which they'd pinned up themselves, once upon a time. "I left him," Louis said after a pause.

Harry's breath caught in his throat. "Oh."

The word was tiny but it echoed like a shout. Louis nodded, not trusting himself to speak further. He didn't want to see the flicker of hope in Harry's eyes. Didn't want to feel it in his own chest, where it had no right to bloom.

"I... I'm sorry," Harry whispered, and this time the tremble in his voice was unmistakable.

Louis turned back toward him then, jaw tight. "For what?" he asked quietly. "For my break up? For destroying my career before it even began? Or for what you did two years ago that I still can't forget?"

Harry's shoulders sagged under the weight of the words. He deserved that. "For all of it."

Louis closed his eyes briefly, as if it hurt to look at him and it did, God, it did.

"I should hate you, I convinced myself I do, but I don't," he said eventually, eyes still shut. "But I don't know how to forgive you either and I don't know if that's only a lie I'm telling myself."

Harry nodded, swallowing hard. "I don't expect you to." He pretended to not have heard the words.

Louis looked at him then and what he saw was not the boy he once loved or the man who had broken him, but someone in between.. lost, weathered, waiting.

"I have to go," Louis said, even though his feet didn't move.

Harry stepped aside, not trying to stop him but just before Louis turned to leave, he hesitated and looked back. "You look tired," he said softly, voice gentler now.

Harry's lips curved into the smallest, saddest smile. "So do you."

And then Louis walked away. No goodbye, no more words, no promises... Just the aching echo of two hearts still beating for each other in the quiet wreckage of what they'd once been.

And Harry stood there, watching the door long after it closed, as if hoping Louis might come back.

Chapter Text

It was raining by the time Harry made it back to his flat, the one that still felt more like a mausoleum of old memories than a home and he stood in the kitchen for a long time, just watching the way the water streamed down the windowpane like something out of a film; each drop carrying a weight he couldn't name, or maybe didn't want to. His coat was still on, scarf damp and clinging to the back of his neck, but he barely noticed. His mind was far too full.

Louis. Louis had been there, right there, not in a dream, not in some cruel imagining of what might've been, but flesh and bone and eyes that still held something that looked like the past.

He exhaled shakily and pulled out his phone with hands that wouldn't stay still, scrolling until he found Niall's name, pressing the call button before he could change his mind.

"Mate," came Niall's voice, sleep-rough and gentle. "You okay?"

Harry let out a breathy laugh that held no humour. "No," he said honestly, voice cracking a little at the edges. "I saw him."

There was a pause, just long enough to register understanding. "Louis?"

"Yeah."

Silence again, then the rustle of sheets as Niall sat up. "Fuck."

Harry leaned against the counter, eyes closing. "I didn't know he'd be there. I just... I went to the café, you know? The old one. Haven't been in years. Just had a feeling, I guess."

"And he was there?" Niall's voice was softer now, laced with something like awe and worry intertwined.

Harry nodded, forgetting for a moment that Niall couldn't see him. "He looked like had aged so much in just these few weeks. I wanted to touch his face just to see if he was real."

Niall sighed. "What happened?"

Harry swallowed. "Not much. We said hi. I told him I was sorry.. for everything. He said he doesn't hate me, but he doesn't know how to forgive me either."

Niall didn't speak for a while. When he did, his voice was careful, laced with quiet sympathy. "Sounds like he's not as far gone as you thought."

"But he left, Niall," Harry said, pacing now, voice rising with a kind of quiet desperation. "He left me, he fled the country, went to Germany into the arms of someone else and he looked so happy with him, like I never even existed."

"Harry," Niall interrupted gently.

Harry froze mid-step. "What?"

"You're spiralling, he's here now... maybe he's not as far away as you think."

Harry didn't asked further, but his mind was already spinning, the possibility of something he hadn't dared to hope for blooming like a wound.

"I don't know if I can survive hoping again," Harry whispered. "Last time nearly killed me."

"I know," Niall said quietly. "But it's Louis."

And somehow, that was reason enough.

*

Zayn was already at Louis' door when he arrived, waiting with two takeaway coffees and a softness in his eyes that only ever surfaced for the people he loved the most. Louis barely got the door open before Zayn was stepping inside, shrugging off his coat and kicking off his shoes like he belonged there, and he did.

They didn't speak at first. Louis gestured toward the living room where they settled into the couch like old times, like nothing had changed but everything had. It wasn't until the silence had stretched too long that Zayn turned to him, one brow raised. "You said you saw him?"

Louis let out a slow breath, the kind that felt like it carried a piece of his soul. "Yeah."

Zayn didn't say anything, just waited.

"It wasn't planned," Louis said, voice raw and quiet. "I went to that café. You know the one. Didn't think, just walked and he was there."

Zayn's mouth quirked with the ghost of a smile. "Of course he was."

Louis shot him a look, but his heart wasn't in it. "I didn't even know what to say. I think I forgot how to breathe when I saw him."

"What did he say?"

"That he was sorry. For all of it." Louis swallowed hard. "And I believe him. That's the worst part. I looked at him and I didn't hate him. I thought I still would. I thought I should. But all I saw was him, Zayn. Just... Harry. And it felt like my ribs were caving in."

Zayn placed his coffee on the table and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Maybe you never really hated him."

"I think you're right," Louis whispered. "And that terrifies me."

Zayn looked at him with quiet understanding. "Because it means it's not over."

Louis rubbed his hands over his face, eyes stinging. "But I can't just go back, can I? He lied to me, for months. He let me fall in love with him again without ever telling me the truth."

"And you left," Zayn said gently. "You broke his heart too."

Louis blinked rapidly. "I know. And I don't know how to fix any of it."

"You don't have to know yet," Zayn said. "Just don't run from it again."

Louis exhaled slowly and sank deeper into the couch. "Do you think he hates me?"

"No," Zayn said, voice firm. "And he never did, he loves you, never stopped. Probably never will."

Louis looked away, eyes fixed on some distant point on the wall. "That's what scares me the most."

And across the city, at the same moment, both men sat in different rooms, with different cups of coffee and different versions of the same aching heart, each wondering if maybe there was still a thread left to pull, still a way back through the mess of years and silence and things left unsaid.

They didn't know it yet.

But their story wasn't over. Not even close.

*

There were entire days where Harry didn't remember how he got from his front door to the hospital, if he even left the hospital in the first place. Sometimes it was muscle memory, the familiar click of his shoes on the pavement, the weight of his coat draped heavy on his shoulders like some old friend he couldn't shake; sometimes it was the blinding panic of knowing that somewhere out there, Louis was breathing the same city air again, and he had no idea where, or if he'd ever see him again, or worse, what he would do if he did.

He hadn't been sleeping again. Not since that morning in the café when Louis' eyes had met his across the steam of two forgotten cups of coffee and Harry had felt something inside his chest twist violently, something that hadn't fully untwisted since. It was like his body hadn't stopped bracing for impact ever since, like some cruel part of him was constantly waiting for the next accidental encounter, the next second of hope to be dashed again, the next moment where he would see Louis from across a room and realise that there would never be another chance, not truly.

So he worked, and he worked and when there was no work left, he invented things to work on, took double shifts and stayed for surgeries he had no business assisting on, redid his patient rounds twice over just to be sure he hadn't missed anything, answered emails at three in the morning and rewrote medical journals he hadn't even submitted yet, as if all of it might be enough to keep his mind from spiraling into that one dangerous place.

The one with Louis in it.

Liam noticed first, of course. Liam always noticed when Harry started slipping. The quiet in him got sharper and his already calm demeanour turned cold and clinical, as if emotion had no business trailing after him through the hospital halls. He snapped at residents, forgot to eat and when Niall asked him if he was coming out for drinks on Friday night, Harry had looked at him like he didn't understand the question.

"You're spiraling again," Niall had said bluntly over lunch one afternoon, chewing through half a sandwich while Harry sat with a barely touched salad, hands wrapped tightly around a bottle of water like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

Harry gave a hollow laugh, eyes tired and dark. "I'm working."

"You're not mate, look there's not much work left, you basically did all the work a hospital could offer," Niall corrected with a grin, trying to soften the mood and when Harry didn't reply, just stared down at the table like it held the secrets of the universe, Niall sighed. "He's not a ghost anymore, Harry. You don't have to be haunted."

Harry looked up and for a second there was something like pleading in his eyes. "But he might as well be," he said quietly. "He's out there and I can't see him. I don't know him anymore. And every second I don't see him, I think maybe that was it. Maybe that café was our last shot. Maybe that was him being brave for a moment and now he's gone again."

Niall frowned, setting down his sandwich. "He's not gone and he didn't run. Not this time."

Harry blinked, brows pulling tight. "What do you mean?"

But Niall had shaken his head, lips pressing into a line. "Nothing. Just... you're not alone in this, okay?"

Harry wanted to believe that, he wanted to hold on to that like a rope tied around his waist, guiding him out of the fog. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw Louis; standing across from him, saying I don't know how to forgive you, and it cracked something wide open in him that hadn't stopped bleeding since.

The days blurred and the weeks began to shift.
Summer crept in quietly, soft winds threading through hospital corridors that hadn't seen sunlight in days, nurses swapping out winter coats for lighter jackets, more flowers appearing in the gift shop window in bursts of pastel colours that made Harry ache in some small and inexplicable way.

He saw Liam less, saw Zayn only when he picked up Liam or something, and when he did see Niall, it was usually after dark, sitting in Harry's living room with a bottle of wine (as Niall insisted) between them that neither of them really drank, talking about anything except the one thing Harry couldn't stop thinking about.

Louis.

He dreamed of him sometimes. Sometimes the dreams were cruel, twisting old memories into new ones, Louis walking away from him again and again, always just out of reach. Sometimes they were tender, too tender... Louis laughing, brushing hair from Harry's forehead, whispering I love you. Those were the dreams Harry woke from in tears, the pillow soaked and his chest aching with the weight of things unsaid.

He wanted a second chance more than anything, but the fear of it, of reaching for something and finding it wasn't there, was paralyzing.

And because nothing makes you hurt like hurting who you love.

And so he kept working, he kept walking hospital corridors like they were the only roads that hadn't collapsed beneath him. He kept fixing broken things, hoping it would make up for the one thing he couldn't fix. He kept living with half a heart, waiting for a sign, a shift, a miracle... anything.

Because even after everything, even after the mistakes and the silence and the years lost to grief and guilt and stubborn hearts, Harry was still so in love.

*

Liam had always been the peacekeeper, the one who believed in subtle gestures and gentle bridges built over the sharpest ruins. And maybe it was a little bit selfish too, because the tension between Harry and Louis had grown into something so heavy that even not talking about it had started to feel like screaming.

So they arranged it like old times: A lads' night.
Nothing dramatic or monumental. Just a few beers, some music and the safe, nostalgic chaos of an overcrowded pub they used to visit back then, when everything had still been simple and stupid and wrapped in the illusion of forever.

What they didn't mention, of course, was that both Louis and Harry had been invited.

They were careful with their words. Liam had called Harry three times before he finally caved, practically begging, even resorting to emotional blackmail—"Mate, I'm not asking you to jump off a bridge, I'm asking you to have a pint and listen to Niall get too loud about football for an hour."

And Harry had agreed, reluctantly, his voice tight with the kind of tired that lived in his bones. "Fine. But I'm not staying long."

At the same time, Zayn had gone about Louis the same way; calm and careful, as if the wrong nudge might send him bolting in the opposite direction. Louis had rolled his eyes, but in the end, he'd said yes, even if he didn't know why, even if his stomach had curled into knots the second he'd hung up the phone. He told himself it was just a night with the lads. That he could handle that. That it didn't have to mean anything.

He had considered that he might not be the only one invited, but he still went.

The pub was loud and dim and smelled like warm wood and old stories. It hadn't changed much. The lights were still too low, the music just a little too loud to really hear each other properly unless you leaned in close and the booths still had that sticky varnish that never quite dried properly. It was familiar in the worst and best way.

Harry arrived first, with Liam and Niall flanking him like guards on either side as they came straight from the hospital. He looked uncomfortable, shoulders hunched like he was trying to fold himself into something smaller, something that wouldn't take up too much space. His coat hung off his frame like he hadn't realised how much weight he'd lost again. But his eyes... his eyes scanned the pub like he was preparing for battle.

Louis came in ten minutes later, Zayn beside him, casual and cool but not unobservant. And the second Louis stepped through the door, his breath caught.

Because there he was.
Harry.
Already here.

And Louis wanted to walk right back out again.

There was a beat of silence when their eyes met, a breath in time where the noise of the bar fell away and all that remained was the weight of everything unsaid, everything broken between them. Then Zayn gently nudged Louis forward and they walked to the table, each step heavy, reluctant, a silent protest against the inevitable.

They all greeted each other like the old friends that they were, except for the two of them, who offered the briefest of nods, eyes flickering away like it hurt too much to look for too long.

The conversation started slow and stilted.
Niall tried to bring up football, Liam made a joke about one of his old professors, Zayn rolled his eyes and ordered shots, Harry barely spoke.

And Louis.. he did worse, he laughed too loud, sipped his drink too fast, focused too hard on whatever Zayn was saying, like if he stared at him long enough, he might disappear into the conversation and forget that Harry was sitting just two feet away, silent and too still.

The air between them buzzed like an open wound and no one at the table could pretend not to notice. But still, they tried. Because that was what they did, that was how survival worked in the wreckage of something sacred.

It was around the third round when someone approached the table; a man Harry didn't know but who clearly knew him, or at least knew of him.

"Harry Styles, right? Neurosurgeon? I've read your piece in The Lancet. Brilliant work."

Harry blinked, startled, sitting up straighter. "Uh—yeah. Thank you."

The man smiled, leaned a little closer. "Can I buy you a drink?"

It wasn't flirtation cloaked in mystery. It was obvious and open, the kind of attention Harry hadn't received in years.

Liam raised his eyebrows, Niall nearly choked on his beer, Zayn looked away trying to suppress the twitch of his mouth.

And Louis froze.

His eyes snapped to the man, then to Harry, who looked deeply uncomfortable but polite as ever, fingers tapping against his glass like he didn't know what to do with himself.

And something twisted deep in Louis' gut.

He didn't speak, didn't interrupt or make a scene.
But his grip on his glass tightened, jaw locking as he looked away too quickly, heart thudding against his ribs like a drumbeat he couldn't silence.

He hated it. He hated it.

The way this man looked at Harry like he wasn't the storm that had torn Louis apart.
The way Harry half-smiled like maybe he could move on.
The way it suddenly became crystal clear that he didn't want to see him with someone else.

He barely registered that Harry gently declined the offer, thanked the man and turned his attention back to the table with a smile so faint it might as well have been painted on.

But the damage was done, the shift had begun.

Because Louis didn't speak to Harry all night, didn't so much as glance in his direction again, but he felt him in every breath, every ache, every moment that passed too slowly and left him too aware of how much of him still lived in the boy he'd sworn not to forgive.

Harry, for his part, stayed quiet, eyes flickering toward Louis in moments he hoped no one noticed. He didn't expect Louis to say anything. But still, when they all got up to leave and Louis didn't say goodbye, not even a look, Harry felt something sink deeper inside him.

Like the door had slammed shut again, like he had been a fool for thinking that maybe there was still a crack left open.

But Louis lay awake that night, staring at his ceiling, haunted by the ghost of someone else's hand reaching for Harry's and the fact that he wanted to tear it away, even if he had no right to.

And Harry? Harry didn't sleep at all.

Because for the first time in weeks, he was sure he'd seen something in Louis' eyes that terrified him more than hate; Jealousy.

And that... meant hope.. and that was the most dangerous thing of all.

*

"So, let me just get this straight," Zayn said, not even trying to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he leaned back on Louis' lumpy secondhand sofa, one ankle resting casually over his knee while he sipped on whatever cheap wine Louis had poured for them. "You're not jealous. You just think the guy who tried buying Harry a drink was a—what was it again?"

"A smug little fuckin' wanker," Louis replied without hesitation, accent thick, hands gesturing wildly, the motion of them sharp, erratic, like he was trying to physically swat the memory of the man out of his head. "He walked in like he owned the bloody place, all teeth and polished shoes and that stupid little scarf like he was auditioning for a bloody Netflix reboot of Sherlock Holmes."

Zayn laughed, loud and shameless, the kind of laugh that filled the room and scraped at Louis' already frayed nerves. "You are so jealous."

"I'm not jealous!" Louis snapped and then winced, as if the volume of his own voice startled him. He rubbed a hand over his face, leaning back on the floor where he'd ended up sprawled, wine glass dangerously tilted against the edge of the carpet. "I just.. he was slimy. And Harry didn't even say no straight away. He thought about it, Zayn. He thought about it."

Zayn's smile softened slightly as he tilted his head. "You realise you've said Harry's name more in the past ten minutes than you have in the last two years?"

Louis groaned, letting his head fall back against the edge of the sofa. "Fuck off."

"I'm serious," Zayn said, more gently now. "You act like he's a ghost that showed up in your mirror one day. But he's not, Lou. He's here. He's still Harry. Still the one you never really stopped loving, even if you hate him for it, even if you won't admit it to yourself."

Louis went quiet. The silence between them stretched long and uncomfortable, the kind that filled the space like fog, settling heavy over everything. His thumb tapped restlessly against his knee, jaw clenched so tightly Zayn could hear the tension in his teeth.

"I don't even know what I feel anymore," Louis muttered finally, voice low and worn, like someone who'd been screaming inside his own head for far too long. "I was fine. I was fine. In Germany, things made sense. I had a routine, I had Marcel, I had...I don't know, control. And now? I'm back here and I feel like I've stepped straight back into a fire I already burned in."

"You still love him."

"Don't."

"You do," Zayn said calmly, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. "You might not want to. You might hate what he did. But you can't tell me you watched someone else flirt with him and felt nothing. I saw your face, mate. You looked like you were going to kill him."

Louis flinched, eyes squeezing shut as if that might block out the memory. "It's not that simple, Z. He lied to me. He sat by my bed every day while I relearned my own bloody name and never once told me the truth. He let me fall in love with him again, let me trust him, let me build this version of us in my head, one where we were forever, and he knew the entire time that.." he couldn't even finish the sentence.

"I know," Zayn said softly. "I was there. I saw what it did to you."

Louis' throat tightened. "So then you get why I can't just...what? Fall back into it? Pretend like none of that happened?"

"I'm not asking you to pretend," Zayn said. "I'm asking you to admit that you're not done. Not with him. Not with the truth. Not with any of it."

Louis pushed himself up to sit properly, legs crossed, eyes burning as they met Zayn's. "I don't know how to forgive him."

"Maybe you don't have to. Not all at once. Maybe you just have to stop pretending that you've already let him go."

Zayn's words hung there, quiet and true and heavy with something unspoken. Louis stared at the floor, fingers twitching against his knee, breath catching in his throat. "He didn't even look at the guy properly," he said, almost to himself. "He said no. He was polite but he didn't flirt. And I still felt like someone punched me in the gut."

Zayn leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Because somewhere deep down, you thought that maybe you were still the only one who looked at him like that."

"I don't want him with anyone else," Louis whispered, more to the carpet than to Zayn. "But I don't know if I want him with me either. Not if I can't trust him."

"You know that this is very selfish, Lou," Zayn said. "Don't rush it. But don't ignore it either, you already tried running away and you came back."

Louis nodded slowly, throat tight. "Yeah. I did."

They sat in silence for a while after that, Zayn letting the quiet do the rest of the work. And Louis.. well, Louis stayed where he was, wine gone warm in his hands, head full of ghosts and scars and green eyes that still haunted his dreams. He didn't know what he was going to do. Didn't know how to make peace with the past without letting it tear the future apart.

*

Harry hadn't meant to end up at Liam and Zayn's place. He'd only meant to go for a walk after another soul-sucking day of surgeries stacked like bricks on his back, the kind of day where even breathing felt like a task he had to schedule in and somehow his feet had brought him here, to the one place that always smelled like peppermint tea, dog shampoo and something vaguely vanilla that Liam insisted wasn't a candle even though Harry knew it bloody well was.

"Didn't expect to see you," Liam said as he opened the door, barefoot and in joggers, a half-eaten bowl of pasta in one hand. "You okay?"

Harry shrugged, stepping in and toeing off his boots. "Define okay."

"Not showing up at my door looking like a drowned rat with cheekbones," Liam replied. "That'd be a start."

They settled on the sofa, the new puppy, Basil or Parsley or something Harry just couldn't get used to, hopping up between them before flopping dramatically onto Harry's thigh. Liam offered him a bite of whatever he was eating, Harry declined. He didn't have the energy to chew.

"I'm tired," he said finally, the words slipping out like water through cracks, soft but full of weight. "And not just work-tired. I mean... I'm just tired of everything."

Liam gave a slow nod, chewing quietly before replying. "Everything as in...?"

Harry huffed a dry laugh. "Everything as in living. Pretending I'm fine, pretending I've moved on, pretending I don't give a shit when Louis walks into a room and acts like I'm a chair leg. I'm tired of being around you lot and feeling like I don't belong anymore. Like there's this invisible line drawn in the sand and I'm on the side that doesn't get to look at him, speak to him, exist near him."

"He doesn't hate you," Liam said gently, though he didn't sound convinced, not entirely.

"He doesn't see me," Harry countered, voice sharp at the edges. "Not really. Not like he used to. And maybe I deserve that, I don't know. Maybe this is just the price I have to pay for being a coward."

Liam stayed quiet, letting him breathe it out, letting him unravel.

"I'm not saying he should forgive me," Harry continued after a moment, rubbing a hand over his face. "But I can't keep being around him like this. Can't keep acting like it doesn't kill me every time he walks in a room and won't even say hello."

Liam exhaled slowly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "So what are you gonna do?"

Harry gave a bitter smile. "Dunno. Maybe find someone new. Someone who doesn't know how to break me just by existing. Maybe I should've let this guy buy me the drink."

Liam raised an eyebrow. "You? Date?"

"Not date," Harry corrected. "Just... I don't know.. Fuck, maybe. Someone to sleep with. Someone who doesn't have the exact shade of blue eyes that ruined my life."

Liam chuckled. "You're really selling the dream."

"I mean," Harry said, smirking half-heartedly, "I've had a dry spell longer than a nun's Sunday. And I don't think my hand counts as emotional support anymore."

"Ah," Liam said, mock-theatrical. "So it's come to this. The man who once turned down half the hospital's staff now moaning on my sofa about how he needs a shag."

Harry threw a cushion at him. "Don't act surprised. You were one of them once."

Liam nearly choked on his pasta, laughing. "Christ. That was years ago."

"Still," Harry said, smile flickering for a moment before fading into something far sadder. "At least back then I didn't wake up feeling like my chest was too small for my lungs."

Liam looked over at him then, all the teasing gone, replaced by quiet concern. "You're really not alright, are you?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't think I've been alright since I let him walk out that night. Maybe not since before that."

Silence settled like dusk around them, soft and inescapable.

"I don't think I can be friends with you guys anymore," Harry said suddenly, voice low and tight. "Not if it means being around him like this. Not if I have to keep pretending I don't still... everything."

Liam reached over and rested a hand on his shoulder, warm and grounding.

"You don't have to decide anything tonight," he said. "But I'm not letting you walk away from us, Harry. We're still your people. Even if you're hurting. Especially then."

Harry didn't reply right away. Just leaned back into the sofa, eyes fixed on the ceiling like the answer might be painted there.

And somewhere, deep in the part of his chest that still refused to give up hope, he wondered if Louis would ever look at him again and not see betrayal.

Chapter Text

It started with a scribbled note on the back of a Tesco receipt he'd found in his coat pocket. A half-formed idea scrawled in a moment of quiet desperation, a thought that had come to him after yet another lukewarm email reply from the hospital where he used to work, politely informing him that his previous position had long been filled, that they were at full capacity and while they admired his experience, they simply had no current openings.

He didn't blame them, too much time had passed. London had moved on and maybe it was time he did too.

And so, one morning, curled up at the kitchen table, with a chipped mug of tea going cold between his palms and the light outside barely risen, Louis began to research what it would take to open a private practice.

It felt ridiculous at first. Like something that people with cleaner histories and more money did. But the longer he looked into it, the more it began to make sense. He already had the qualifications, his license was still valid, his experience was solid, if unconventional. The process, while daunting, wasn't impossible.

He'd need to register as a limited company, or possibly a sole trader to start. Sort out a business plan. Find a space, probably something small, with good natural light and soundproofing. Sort insurance. Start networking again. Build a website maybe. Hire a receptionist eventually, if it grew. But those were problems for later. Right now, it was still just a plan.

Something to hold onto when everything else still felt so far out of reach.

It was only theoretical for now, but the thought of it, of a space that was his, where he could work the way he wanted to, see patients on his own terms, create something new... settled like a warm stone in his chest. Heavy, but grounding, not a fix but a start.

And still, even with this fragile sense of purpose blooming in the back of his mind, Harry lingered like a phantom beneath the surface of every quiet moment.

Especially after that night.

The pub. The drink. The man who had tried to flirt with Harry like Louis hadn't been sitting right there, skin prickling and heart thudding like it was trying to break through his ribs. He hadn't said anything at the time, hadn't even really looked at Harry beyond what politeness required.

But now, days later, Louis was finally calm. Or calm enough to sit at Zayn and Liam's kitchen counter, mind on the search tabs open on his laptop, alternating between therapy room listings in East London and spreadsheets outlining startup costs. Zayn had gone for a nap and Louis appreciated the silence, he could've stayed in his own flat but he insisted on needing the inspiration that their flat brought him. What all of them knew but nobody said out loud was that he just didn't want to be alone.

The house smelled faintly of detergent and the vanilla scented candle Liam liked to burn and for a moment it almost felt normal. Basil was sleeping at his feet, letting out a soft sigh ever so often. It was calm, it was good.

Until the front door slammed open.

"Babe! You will not believe—"

It was Liam's voice, loud and carefree, ringing out down the hall. He sounded like he'd just come from a run.

"Babe!" he shouted again, clearly not realizing that the person currently sipping lukewarm tea in his kitchen was not his husband. "Guess who finally got laid!"

Louis froze, his hands stilled around his mug. There was a beat of silence, a breath that hung like a knife in the air and then...

"Harry," Liam said, still half-laughing, oblivious. "Fucking finally, right? Thought he was gonna explode from the tension. Said he was a—"

He stepped into the kitchen and stopped cold, mid-sentence, when he saw Louis sitting there.

The colour drained from his face. "Shit."

Louis didn't say anything, didn't move. Just sat there, the mug now trembling slightly in his grip, as if someone had tilted the earth slightly to the left and everything inside him had come undone.

"I didn't know you were here," Liam said quickly, his voice dropped now, apologetic and nervous.

Louis shook his head, still silent, not trusting himself to speak.. he wasn't angry, at least not at Liam.

It was the truth that hurt more than anything. Because he'd known, of course he had, that Harry would try to move on. He'd had no right to expect anything else.

But hearing it out loud—guess who finally got laid—like it was a victory, like it was something to celebrate, had made something sharp and ugly bloom in Louis' throat. A bitter ache that didn't have a name. Or maybe it did, and he just wasn't ready to say it.

"I'm sorry," Liam said softly. "I shouldn't have—"

"It's fine," Louis said, but his voice cracked on the word. He cleared his throat, looking away, eyes fixed on the teabag floating in his cup. "It's not your fault."

He stood slowly, legs stiff from sitting too long, hands still curled too tightly around the mug. "I should go."

"Louis.."

"I'm fine," he repeated but his voice was too thin, too tight. He set the mug down with more force than necessary, the clink of ceramic on wood too loud in the quiet room.

As he stepped past Liam, he caught the older man's hand reaching gently for his arm, halting him with a gentleness that only made it worse.

"He loves you," Liam said quietly.

Louis laughed, dry and hollow. "Then maybe he shouldn't be fucking someone else."

And with that, he pulled away and walked out, not even waiting to hear Liam's reply. Outside, the wind hit his face like a slap, sharp and cold and sobering. But it wasn't enough to wash away the sting of it. The image of Harry with someone else, a stranger whose face he didn't know but whose hands had been on the skin Louis still sometimes dreamed about. It was unfair, he knew that, it was hypocritical seeing as he was the one who was in a committed relationship for a year but still...

And suddenly, the idea of opening a practice, of starting fresh, felt both completely right and entirely impossible—because no matter what he built, some part of him would still be tethered to the boy with the green eyes and the hands that had once saved his life.

Only now, Harry was saving himself. And Louis didn't know what the hell he was supposed to do with that.

*

Jay had always known when to push and when to stay quiet. It was a talent she had perfected over years of raising a boy with fragile heart and loud tempers and though Louis had long ago grown tall enough to rest his chin on the top of her head, in moments like this, when the weight of the world curled his shoulders and wore his bones thin, he was still her little boy.

They sat side by side on the worn, soft sofa in ther living room, a blanket stretched over both their legs even though neither of them had said they were cold. The telly played quietly in the background, some old show they weren't watching and the room smelled faintly of the stew she'd made for dinner. Louis hadn't eaten much. He'd pushed the food around his plate, tried to pretend like his thoughts weren't eating him alive.

Jay hadn't asked yet.

She waited until he let out a long, tired sigh and dropped his head to her shoulder like he used to when he was small and too tired to stay awake but too stubborn to admit it.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he said softly, his voice fraying at the edges like a string pulled too tight. "I thought staying was the right choice. I thought—I don't know, maybe I'd come back and it would feel like home again. But it's not just about the city or the job or the flat. It's him."

Jay was quiet for a moment, just brushing her hand through his hair like she used to when he was younger, when things had been simpler, hurts smaller. "Harry."

Louis nodded. "I saw him the other night," he added, voice thinner now. "Well, we were both invited to a pub night. The others didn't tell either of us. It was... awful. Weird. He looked.. good, you know, he looked like the version of him I remember. The one before everything went wrong. But older and so tired. And then this guy tried to buy him a drink and I—" He broke off with a weak, humourless laugh. "I nearly choked on my beer."

Jay smiled softly but didn't interrupt.

"I don't know what it is, Mum. I don't know if I hate him. I think part of me still does but another part keeps watching the door when I'm in a café, wondering if he'll walk in. I keep telling myself I don't want him.. I keep trying to not want him."

She turned slightly then, guiding him to face her, her hands gentle but firm against his shoulders. "Baby, wanting someone who hurt you doesn't make you weak. It makes you human. Especially when that someone was your person for so long."

"But how do I know if it's real or if I'm just lonely?" he asked, his voice raw. "How do I know if I actually want him again or if I just don't want to see him with someone else?"

Jay gave him a look, one of those piercing motherly gazes that saw more than he ever meant to reveal. "You don't," she said plainly. "Not right away at least. And you don't have to decide right now. But here's what I do know: if the idea of him with someone else makes you sick, if your chest aches when he walks into the room, if your hands shake when you think of him laughing with someone who isn't you, then you haven't let go. Not fully, and it doesn't matter how many people you try to convince. That ache stays until you either work through it... or you choose to go back."

Louis blinked hard, his throat thick. "But what if going back breaks me again?"

"Then you'll know," she whispered. "But at least you'll know and not wonder. Don't punish yourself forever for not trying."

He didn't reply. Just leaned into her, letting her hold him while his heart warred with itself in the quiet.

*

On the other side of the city, Harry was pacing Liam's living room, fingers twitching at his sides, nerves shot from a week of restlessness that no amount of sleepless nights or surgical focus could fix. He was wearing the same hoodie from the night before and looked like he hadn't slept at all, which wasn't far from the truth.

Liam watched him with cautious eyes, a half-empty beer bottle in his hand, letting Harry speak when he was ready.

"I fucked someone," Harry blurted, almost violently, as if the words had been clawing at his throat and had finally torn themselves out.

Liam blinked. "I know."

Harry stopped pacing, turning to face him with a tight, humorless grin. "Of course you do. I'm sure the news spread faster than a viral infection around here. Dammit Niall."

Liam raised a brow but didn't comment. "Louis knows too," he added.

Harry froze.

Liam nodded, slow. "Yeah. I sort of... accidentally told him."

There was a pause. "Fuck."

Harry sank down onto the edge of the couch like his knees gave out beneath him. He dragged a hand over his face, fingers tugging at the tired skin under his eyes.

"It wasn't even good," he muttered.

Liam tilted his head. "The sex?"

Harry nodded. "He was... sweet, I guess. Said all the right things, touched me like he meant it. And I couldn't feel a thing. My body was there but my brain..." He laughed hollowly. "My brain was busy wondering if Louis was asleep or awake. If he had dinner. If he'd thought about texting me and stopped himself."

"Harry—"

"It's pathetic, isn't it?" he asked, eyes glassy now. "It's been two years since I destroyed everything and he left and still, I can't even kiss someone else without tasting the ghost of him."

Liam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Maybe you're not ready, maybe you just needed to know for sure."

"I thought maybe it would help," Harry whispered. "I thought if I crossed that line, if I let someone else in, maybe it would finally dull the ache. But all it did was remind me that I'm still in love with him. That I'm always going to be, whether he forgives me or not."

Liam's face softened. "He's struggling too, you know. He hasn't said it outright but... I don't think it's easy for him either."

Harry's eyes snapped up, suddenly alert. "What do you mean?"

"I mean he's not indifferent. He's hurt, and stubborn, and scared. But he's not over you and you need to stop assuming he is just because he hasn't forgiven you yet."

Harry swallowed hard, his voice barely audible. "Then what do I do?"

"You give him space," Liam said. "But you don't give up, not if you still want him."

Harry nodded slowly, his heart thudding loud enough to echo in his ears. It wasn't clarity and it wasn't set in stone but it was something like hope.

Faint and flickering, but still burning.

*

The thing about starting over is that no one tells you how brutally mundane it can be.

Louis had thought staying in London would feel more monumental, more cinematic somehow. A big decision like that should come with fireworks or at the very least, some orchestral swell in the background. But instead, it came with bills and empty cupboards and emails that went unanswered for days. It came with hours spent at his kitchen table poring over local listings and Excel sheets until the numbers started blurring together and every building looked the same.

He hadn't expected it to be easy, not really. But he hadn't quite expected this quiet sort of uphill crawl either, the one that left his spine aching and his eyes sore without the thrill of knowing if he was even moving forward.

Still, he tried. Because rent didn't pay itself. And because the idea of running his own practice, of no longer having to answer to a hospital board or explain himself to people who didn't understand the kind of patients he saw, had started to grow roots in his mind, deep and curling.

So he started small.

He made appointments with a local business consultant. Helena, middle-aged, sharp-eyed, kind but firm, who talked him through licensing and location scouting and start-up costs without blinking at the emotional chaos he kept barely tucked beneath the surface.

"Start with the numbers," she told him. "Then we build the bones. What you want it to feel like. Who you want to reach. What kind of care you want to provide that's different from what's already out there."

And Louis, after a moment's hesitation, had said softly, "I want it to be safe. I want people who've been through hell to know they won't be judged here. That they can say the darkest shit they've ever thought and I won't flinch."

Helena had smiled then, no pitying, just knowing. "Then that's what we'll build."

There were long days filled with paperwork and meetings, applications for funding, and calls to architects and property agents. Jay helped when she could, offering tea and her opinions on waiting room paint colours. Zayn helped draft the mission statement, his tone balanced and thoughtful. And slowly, Louis started to imagine it, his name on the door, a quiet space filled with soft light and softer words, the weight of other people's trauma held with the same reverence he wished someone had offered him when he'd been crawling through his own.

He still didn't sleep well, he still had nights where he stared at the ceiling and wondered what he'd done, why he'd stayed, whether he'd just traded one ache for another. But there was something about building something from the ground up, something entirely his, that anchored him in the hours where grief still curled sharp beneath his ribs.

And Harry... well.

Harry was there now.

Not in his day-to-day, not in any loud or obvious way. But there.

Sometimes across the pub table during lads' nights, half-listening to Niall's stories and drinking slowly, never more than two pints, his laugh quieter than it used to be. Sometimes walking down the other side of the street in his scrubs, dark circles under his eyes and a coffee clutched like salvation. Sometimes just... lingering. In the corner of Louis' mind.

They didn't talk much but it wasn't silence anymore either.. it was something else, tentative and uncomfortable and fragile.

Louis had caught Harry watching him once, just for a second too long. Not like he used to, with love softening the edges of his stare. No, this was different, this was hesitant and guilty and aching. And Louis had looked away first, his throat too tight, the walls around his heart still held together with bruised pride and duct tape.

He hated that it still hurt, that being near him, even now, still made everything inside of him feel off-kilter. He hated how he didn't hate him. How, if anything, he sometimes felt the same old gravity start to pull when Harry laughed at something dumb Niall said, or how his voice always softened when he spoke to Liam.

He wasn't ready for that.

But he didn't have the urge to leave the room anymore when Harry walked in. He didn't find excuses to avoid the lads' nights and even laughed once, at a story Harry told about an intern fainting during a consult, and the way Harry had frozen and looked at him like it was the first breath of spring after a long winter nearly broke something loose inside of him.

So he was trying.. to hold his own heart steady while it thundered in his chest, to build something good, something lasting, not to want something he wasn't sure he could have and most of all, trying not to fall all over again for the boy who'd broken him.. because as much as he told himself he was safer behind his walls, the truth was... they were starting to feel a little thin.

*

It was one of those strange London mornings, where the air felt caught between seasons, half-wrapped in the chill of late spring and half-warmed by the promise of sun. The clouds hung heavy but didn't burst, and the streets were just busy enough to feel alive but not so crowded that anyone truly paid attention to one another.

Harry ran like he always did when the thoughts got too loud. Headphones in, playlist dull in his ears, heart pounding harder than it needed to, shoes slapping rhythmically against the pavement as if he could outpace everything he refused to feel.

It was easier this way, this bone-deep exhaustion, the burning of his lungs, the ache in his calves. It dulled the sharpness of his thoughts, blurred the outlines of all the things he couldn't name. He didn't think, didn't speak, didn't feel.. he just ran.

He turned the corner of a quiet street near Regent's Park, head down, sweat beading along his temples, and collided—hard—into someone coming from the opposite direction.

A sharp oof punched out of both their chests as the impact sent them sprawling to the concrete, limbs tangled. A coffee cup flew from the other man's hand, the hot liquid arcing through the air and splashing across both of them. Someone cursed, someone winced. A knee hit the pavement, a shoulder cracked hard against the edge of the curb.

It took Harry a second to realise what had happened and another second to realise who it was.

Louis.

Flat on his back, winded, eyes scrunched shut, a grimace carved into the tight line of his mouth.

Harry froze, half on top of him, one hand braced against the pavement, the other still clutching at Louis's arm like he might somehow stop him from fading. For a moment, the world fell silent. No cars. No footsteps. Just the pounding in Harry's ears and the sick twist in his gut.

"Shit.. Louis?" His voice cracked around the name, hoarse and panicked.

Louis blinked, grimaced harder, then hissed through his teeth. "Bloody hell..."

"I—I didn't see you—I'm sorry—I didn't—fuck, are you okay?"

Louis didn't answer, his hand lifted to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, pressing gently. His face screwed up again and Harry saw it, the flicker of pain, sharp and unmistakable.

"You hit your head," Harry whispered, all the breath stolen from his lungs.

"Yeah, no shit," Louis muttered, but his voice was thinner now, almost breathless. "Jesus, that coffee was hot..."

"Louis, look at me," Harry said, heart plummeting, memories crashing in uninvited and ruthless. Blood. A surgery table under too-bright lights. "Look at me, please."

Louis blinked again and did, though slowly, reluctantly. His eyes met Harry's, blue and dazed and still the most familiar thing Harry had ever known and something in Harry twisted so violently he almost couldn't breathe.

"You hit your head," Harry said again, more to himself than anything. "You shouldn't.. can you sit up? Are you dizzy? Fuck, Louis, say something—"

"I am saying something," Louis gritted out, trying to push himself up with one arm while still cradling his skull with the other. "Christ, Styles, you always were dramatic."

Harry laughed then, a panicked, frayed sort of sound. "You could've died."

Louis gave him a flat look. "I tripped over your lanky arse and spilled coffee. Not exactly an assassination."

But the words didn't settle Harry's nerves, not even close, because his body remembered things his mind tried to suppress, remembered Louis broken on a stretcher, faceless beneath blood and bruises. Remembered the long hours of surgery. The not-knowing. The guilt that never left.

"You're dizzy," he said softly, still hovering close, still looking for signs, still pretending he had any right.

"A little," Louis admitted, finally sitting up, his expression unreadable. "But I'm fine."

Harry nodded, though everything inside him screamed otherwise. He moved to help him, automatically reaching out, fingers brushing against the fabric of Louis's coat before they both froze.

Louis looked at him then, really looked... and Harry felt the air change between them. Charged. Bitter. Fragile.

"I can get up on my own," Louis said quietly.

And that was it, wasn't it?

The reminder that Harry wasn't allowed anymore, that whatever right he might have once had to worry or care or help had been forfeited the moment he chose silence over truth.

Harry nodded again, throat dry, and stepped back, letting his hands fall uselessly to his sides as Louis slowly stood, wincing just a little.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, softer this time, almost ashamed. "I wasn't paying attention. I didn't... mean to—"

"I know," Louis said, brushing coffee stains from his trousers. "Wasn't your fault."

But the words didn't comfort Harry, they never did, not when he knew that deep down, so many things had been.

They stood there in the middle of the pavement, an awkward, jagged kind of silence stretching between them. Cars passed. Someone walked a dog. The city went on like it didn't notice.

"Don't fuss, Harry," Louis said finally, eyes forward, not meeting his gaze. "I'm not yours to fuss over anymore."

And that.. that hurt more than any head wound.

Harry nodded, once, sharp and silent. "Right," he said.

And then Louis walked away, slow and steady, one hand still pressed lightly to the back of his head, and Harry didn't follow.

Because he couldn't. Because he shouldn't.

And because it felt like no matter how close they came, they were always destined to run into each other just to be reminded of how far apart they still were.

*

The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that seemed louder than it should've been and for a long moment Louis didn't move. He stood there in the middle of his new but already familiar flat, keys dangling limply from his fingers, the faintest tinge of old coffee clinging to his coat and the ghost of Harry's voice still tangled in his thoughts like cobwebs.

His head throbbed. Not terribly, not enough to make him worry just yet, but enough to notice. Enough that when he tilted it too far to the left, a strange wave of nausea crept up the back of his throat, brief but unwelcome.

"Brilliant," he muttered to no one in particular, rubbing at the spot behind his ear where the dullest ache had settled.

He should sit,  drink some water and get back to the emails he'd promised to respond to and the financial outline he needed to finish by tomorrow morning for his consultant. Helena still had been kind but blunt "If you want this practice to open before the end of the year, you need to stay ahead, not just keep up."

Louis wanted to, he did. The idea of having his own space felt like the first real shot at building something for himself. A practice where people came because they trusted him, because they chose him, not because the system assigned them to him.

He dropped his keys in the bowl by the door and padded across the small living room, dropping onto the couch with a low exhale, his body still too tense. He pulled the laptop onto his thighs, opened the screen, clicked into the spreadsheet, then stared blankly at the numbers swimming before him.

He couldn't stop seeing Harry. The wide, panicked eyes, the hands fluttering too close. The way he'd said you could've died like he meant it, like it still mattered, like Louis still mattered.

It wasn't fair... that Harry could still make his chest ache just by being near. That even after everything, Louis still knew exactly what Harry's skin smelled like when he was sweating, still recognized the way his voice dipped lower when he was worried, still felt that unrelenting pull toward him like gravity had a personal vendetta.

Louis blinked, refocused on the screen and then winced.

The dizziness came again, not bad or terrifying. Just... wrong. A slow, swaying sensation behind his eyes, like the room had shifted half a degree without his permission. He sat still, hands pressing into the edge of the couch, breathing through it. But then nausea followed, faint and creeping, and the headache that had dulled began to flare again, deeper this time, settled behind his left temple like a tight fist.

He waited, counting backwards from twenty.

Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen—

Nope.

He shut the laptop and picked up his phone.

"Come on, come on..." he murmured as he tapped the screen. His fingers felt slightly clumsier than usual, which, combined with the faint buzz in his ears, made his skin crawl.

Liam answered on the third ring. "Lou?"

"I think I need you to look at my head," Louis said, skipping all preamble, voice tight and slightly breathless. "The one I smacked into the pavement earlier."

There was a beat of silence, like Liam had frozen mid-step. "What? Wait, what?"

"I ran into Harry. Literally. His fault, I'll have you know," Louis said, trying for levity, but it cracked halfway through. "I fell backwards. Hit the back of my head. Thought it was fine, but it's not."

"Fuck, are you dizzy?"

"Yes."

"Nausea?"

"Starting."

Liam was already moving; Louis could hear it in the shuffle of movement, the background noise intensifying. "Sit down. Don't move. I'm coming to get you. We're going to the hospital."

"Liam—"

"No. No arguing. You had a traumatic brain injury two years ago, Louis, in case you forgot. You don't get to wait this out."

Louis closed his eyes, breath leaking out of him like a slow deflation. "I was just trying to get some work done, mate."

"I know. And I'm sure the business plan will survive a couple of hours on pause. Your brain, on the other hand, might not."

Louis made a quiet noise of agreement, because honestly, there was no energy left in him to disagree. His head was beginning to feel like it was being squeezed gently from both sides, not in a sharp or immediate way, but like something just wasn't quite right.

"Ten minutes," Liam said. "I'm bringing a wheelchair. You're not walking a damn step."

"Drama queen," Louis muttered.

"You love it."

And he did, and ten minutes later, Liam was there, breathless and pale, practically glaring at him for trying to meet him at the front door. They didn't talk much on the way to the hospital. Louis didn't have the energy and Liam looked too focused to let his attention split.

The waiting room was quiet and Liam didn't even bother with triage. Being a neurosurgeon in the very same hospital apparently had its perks and within minutes Louis was on a gurney in the ER, hooked up to a monitor, a nurse taking his blood pressure with brisk efficiency.

When he closed his eyes, Harry's voice echoed again—You could've died—and this time, Louis didn't argue with it in his mind.

Not because he thought he would, but because Harry still knew the right places to press, even without trying. And Louis was starting to wonder if he ever really stopped letting him.

*

The hospital was quiet for once, oddly so for a Wednesday morning. No rushing gurneys, no bloodied paramedics yelling codes down the hallway, no nurses weaving in and out of trauma bays with adrenaline-fueled precision.

Harry, fresh from a shower after his eventful run this morning, had arrived early. He didn't need to be there until later at noon, but the thought of his flat.. the quiet, the memories, the echo of Louis' laughter in the kitchen that hadn't existed there in years, had made it unbearable to stay. So he'd come in, pulled on his scrubs, greeted the sleepy admin at the front desk with a nod and logged into the system, expecting to spend the next hour catching up on scan reports and prepping for the day's consults.

But then he saw it.

Patient File: Tomlinson, Louis William (male)
DOB: 24.12.1991
Admitting Reason: Head trauma — secondary to fall. History of TBI (x1).
Triage Level: Yellow — stable, monitoring for delayed symptoms.
Current Status: Awaiting CT. Observation bed 3A.

And just like that, the room tipped, Harry's hand hovered over the mouse, the soft click of keys fading beneath the roar of his pulse in his ears. He reread the name once. Twice. A third time, as if somehow it would shift into something else. But it didn't.

Louis.. In his hospital..with head trauma. Again.

The same dizzying kind of fear gripped his spine the way it had the night years ago, only now it curled sharper, crueler, because there were no gloves to snap on, no mask to hide behind, just him.. just Harry, breathing through the splintered panic of old nightmares scraping against the walls of his chest.

He was out of the chair before he remembered to lock the computer again, already moving down the corridor, coat billowing behind him like a second skin. His ID badge caught the light as he flashed it past security doors, shoes loud against the linoleum floors, turning down the corridor that led to the emergency observation unit.

Bed 3A.

He didn't know what he expected to find, didn't know if Louis would even want to see him, but his body didn't ask his mind for permission. It simply moved.

When he rounded the corner and came to a halt just outside the observation curtain, he saw him. Sitting half-upright in the hospital bed, gown slightly crooked over one shoulder, hair a mess, colour just a touch too pale. His legs were drawn up slightly, hands resting on his lap, a hospital-issued blanket pooled at his hips. A nurse was in the corner, charting quietly and Liam stood beside the bed, speaking low and reassuring.

Harry couldn't move for a moment.

Louis hadn't seen him yet and Harry took that brief second to just look. To take in the person he still loved with every fractured part of himself. Even like this, sick and tired and wrapped in unflattering fabric, Louis still had something about him that rooted Harry to the floor.

"Can you give us a minute?" Liam asked the nurse softly and when she nodded and stepped out, his eyes found Harry immediately.

"You saw the chart," Liam said under his breath.

Harry nodded. "I.. yeah. I had to come. I'm sorry."

Liam didn't argue, he just stepped aside and let Harry walk in.

Louis looked up slowly at the sound of footsteps, and his eyes did that thing they always did when Harry was near; widened first in surprise, then narrowed in careful consideration, as though he were still figuring out what he was allowed to feel.

Harry stopped at the edge of the bed. "You okay?"

Louis blinked once, then gave the smallest shrug. "I've been better."

"It's from the fall?"

"Apparently was harder than I thought." He hesitated, then added quietly, "Didn't mean to cause a scene."

"You didn't." Harry's voice came out softer than he meant, cracked open at the edges. "But you scared the shit out of me."

Louis looked down, fingering the blanket. "It's not serious, they said I'm stable."

Harry didn't answer right away, he just moved toward the monitors, scanning the vitals. Heart rate steady. Oxygen normal. Blood pressure a little elevated, likely from anxiety. He didn't touch anything, he wasn't on duty here, but his body knew how to read every number, how to listen for what wasn't being said.

"They're doing a CT." It wasn't a question, not exactly.

"Yeah," Louis nodded. "Soon. Just to rule out delayed swelling. Because of... you know."

Harry did know, how could he ever forget? "Did you lose consciousness?"

"No, you were there. Felt dizzy after coming home though."

Harry's jaw tensed. "I should've brought you right away."

"I wouldn't have let you."

The silence stretched, not quite awkward, not quite comfortable, but full of something unspoken, something old and frayed at the edges. When Harry finally sat down on the little chair beside the bed, Louis didn't stop him.

"Why'd you come?" Louis asked, voice a little quieter now. "You didn't have to."

Harry's fingers curled around his own knee. "Because I still care. And because no matter how much you hate me, if you ever show up on a patient list like that, I'll always come."

Louis didn't reply right away, instead looked away, out the small window. The city stretched there in muted grey, June drizzle streaking the glass. His profile looked older now, sharper with everything he'd been through. But beneath it, Harry could still see the boy who used to lie on his chest on Sunday mornings and talk about the kind of doctor he wanted to be.

"I don't hate you," Louis said, not looking at him. "I just don't know– anything.."

Harry swallowed hard. "I get that."

Louis finally turned back, his eyes softer than before. "But thank you. For coming."

And that, that tiny crack in the wall, maybe that could be enough at one point.

Chapter Text

The hallway light outside the observation bay flickered, humming gently with the soft buzz of the fluorescents above. Louis sat in bed, his fingers tucked under the scratchy hospital blanket. Harry was gone, had left quietly after the radiology tech arrived to wheel Louis to his scan, offering a small nod and a half-whispered, "You'll be okay," before stepping back into the corridor and disappearing from sight.

And now, the quiet returned. That strange kind of hospital hush that wasn't really silence, more a muted symphony of distant beeps, rubber-soled footsteps and papers shuffling from clipboard to clipboard.

Louis stared ahead as the curtain shifted gently with the flow of air from the ceiling vent. His head throbbed dully.. nothing sharp, just persistent and dull, like his body was trying to whisper: I told you something was off.

The CT had been quick, he hadn't asked the technician any questions; he didn't want to make conversation. Lying still beneath the cold ring of the scanner, arms at his sides, head secured with cushions, Louis let his thoughts drift somewhere else entirely, back to the moment he'd felt Harry crash into him with the weight of a body that once knew his own as second nature. The warmth of him. The instinctive way Harry had reached for him, shielded him even in the middle of their literal collision, as though protecting him was simply muscle memory.

He shook the thought loose just as Liam stepped back in, clipboard in hand, a subtle crease between his brows. He looked tired, but there was a gentleness to his gaze, something fatherly in the way he softened as soon as his eyes found Louis.

"Well," he said, voice calm, "your scan's clear. No bleeding, no swelling. Just a concussion. Low-grade, likely mild. But because of your history—" he paused to glance over the chart, "—I'd prefer you stay somewhere tonight where someone can keep an eye on you. Just in case anything changes."

Louis exhaled slowly, his posture easing a little. "So no overnight stay?"

Liam shook his head. "No need. But no being alone either. And definitely no staying up all night working on your business plan."

Louis offered a faint smile. "You know me too well."

"That's because you're terrible at hiding when you're pushing yourself too hard," Liam said, stepping closer and setting the clipboard down. "You can crash at ours. Zayn's already making up the guest bed."

Louis sighed, hesitating only for a moment before nodding. "Alright. But I get to pick the movie tonight."

"Deal," Liam grinned, then reached for his phone. "You should call your mum. Just let her know."

Louis groaned, leaning his head back against the wall. "She's going to panic."

"Yes, because she loves you. Just... reassure her you're not bleeding out on the floor and that you're under strict medical surveillance from two very bossy men."

Louis smirked and reached for his phone. "Fine. But if she starts planning a surprise trip, I'm blaming you."

He dialed the number and waited, pressing the phone to his ear. It only rang once before Jay picked up.

"Louis?" Her voice was sharp, anxious in that way only a mother's voice could be.

"Hey, Mum. I'm okay. Don't panic."

"I already am panicking, you little sod. Zayn messaged saying you were in hospital again? What happened?"

Seriously, Zayn? Louis rubbed a hand over his face. "It's... it was an accident. I bumped into someone, pretty hard, hit my head. They did a CT, said it's just a mild concussion."

"And you're sure you're alright?"

"Yeah. Bit dizzy, but nothing serious. No hospital stay. I'm spending the night at Liam and Zayn's so they can keep an eye on me."

There was a pause on the line, followed by a breath of relief. "Well. I'm glad you're not alone. And you better take it easy."

"I will."

"And you'll text me tomorrow."

"Promise."

Jay was quiet for a moment, then added gently, "And Louis... I know you hate when I fuss, but... don't scare me like that again, yeah?"

A soft tug in his chest. "I'll try."

After the call, Liam led him through the back corridors to avoid the main ER entrance, past the hum of late afternoon foot traffic and out into the soft drizzle that had started again, the sky overcast and stretching endlessly grey.

By the time they arrived at the flat, Zayn was waiting, arms crossed, expression lined with concern but warm in that effortlessly cool way of his.

"You look terrible," he said by way of greeting.

"You always know how to make a guy feel loved," Louis replied dryly as he stepped inside.

Zayn pulled him into a hug anyway. "Guest bed's ready. Tea's on. And you're not allowed to lift a single finger."

They settled in for the evening and after dinner and tea and the first twenty minutes of a crime documentary, Zayn finally spoke, eyes flicking toward Louis from across the sofa.

"So. Wanna tell us what really happened today?"

Louis shifted in his blanket cocoon, staring at the mug in his hands. "I told you. I ran into someone."

"You said someone," Zayn said pointedly. "You didn't say Harry."

Louis closed his eyes for a second, pressing his lips together. "It was stupid. I had just gotten my coffee and I was walking around the corner. He was on a run. And then... we collided. Hard. I hit the ground first. He landed on top of me. My coffee went flying."

"That explains the head," Liam muttered.

Louis exhaled slowly. "But it wasn't just the fall."

He looked up then, eyes flicking between his two closest friends, both of whom watched him patiently.

"It was the way he reacted. Like he forgot we weren't... us anymore. Like he thought he had the right to panic. The right to check my pulse and fuss over me and act like he still.. still cared."

Zayn tilted his head. "And that bothered you?"

"No." Louis rubbed his hands over his face. "It should have, but it didn't. It just... it broke me a little. Because I realised that... I don't hate him."

Liam was quiet.

Zayn leaned forward. "And that's bad because?"

"Because I don't know what to do with it," Louis said, eyes burning now. "I don't know if I want him back.. I don't know if I want closure or forgiveness or... or just to know if he still thinks about me when he wakes up."

Liam's voice came gentle. "He does."

Zayn nodded. "Every damn day, mate."

Louis swallowed, fingers curling tighter around the mug. "He said he still cares," he whispered.

"He does," Liam confirmed softly.

*

Harry finally stepped inside that night, the door closing behind him with a dull thud that seemed to echo through the rooms like a reminder of how alone he truly was. He dropped his keys onto the kitchen counter with a tired flick of his wrist, the sound harsh against the silence. The shift at the hospital had dragged endlessly after Louis had been cleared, every hallway somehow looking longer, every task heavier, every word spoken just a bit more hollow. He hadn't been able to shake the image of Louis sitting on that hospital bed, pale and blinking too much, the edges of his voice softened by pain but not by distance, not anymore.

He collapsed onto the couch without bothering to change out of his scrubs, rubbing his eyes with both hands, fingertips pressing hard against the bone as if he could erase the entire day by sheer force. But Louis' voice echoed somewhere inside him, blurry and quiet, telling him not to worry but still, he did.

He stared at his phone for a long time before unlocking it and clicking on Anne's contact.

"Hey, Mum," he said when she picked up. His voice was hoarse, cracking halfway through.

"Harry, sweetheart," she said gently, instantly sensing the weight he carried. "Are you alright? You sound wrecked."

"I am wrecked," he admitted, sinking deeper into the couch, "but mostly in the head, I think."

There was a pause on the other end. "Is this about Louis?"

Harry exhaled, slow and shaky, eyes fluttering closed. "Yeah. I saw him again. Twice, actually."

"Oh, Harry..."

"In the hospital," he added, voice quieter now. "He hit his head. Nothing serious, but, you know I panicked. I lost it for a second. And then we talked. Not really properly, but it wasn't cold this time. It was... it was something."

Anne didn't speak right away. She let the silence hold him, didn't fill it with clichés or quick fixes. And somehow, that helped.

"I told him I still cared," Harry continued, his voice beginning to tremble. "And he didn't push me away. He just... let me sit there. And I swear, I could feel it again. I could feel us. Just for a moment. But I know it's stupid. I know it's probably just me."

"No, baby," Anne said softly. "It's not just you. Love like that, it doesn't go away just because time passes. But you broke something. You know that."

"I do," Harry whispered. "And I don't know how to fix it or if I ever can."

Anne hummed. "Then don't rush. Just keep showing him. You've always had a quiet kind of love, Harry. But maybe now's the time to love him loud."

He smiled faintly, chest aching. "Thanks, Mum."

"Always."

*

The pub was warm and loud, a stark contrast to the cold confusion swirling in both Louis' and Harry's minds. They somehow both shown up after Niall and Liam sent a string of half-begged texts, promising good food and bad jokes and only a little bit of forced laughter.

They sat across from one another at the long table in the back corner. Harry beside Niall, Louis next to Zayn, and for the first half hour, the air between them was thick with everything unsaid. Neither dared to look directly at the other. They sipped their drinks, laughed at the boys' stories with delayed reactions, made polite conversation and let their fingers fidget nervously with the beer labels and folded napkins.

Until something happened.. they both had the same phone model, same colour, Louis' case black, Harry's a dark purple but in the dimmed light of the pub one wouldn't notice. Louis had set his down a little next to Harry's while heading off to the loo and when he returned, it buzzed.

He glanced down automatically, thinking it was his, one glance was all it took.

"Had a good time the other night. Maybe round two sometime soon? xx"

A text from an unsaved number, but Louis didn't need a name to know who it was. His stomach dropped, heat flooding his face, chest tightening so violently he thought he might be sick right there at the table.

"That's not mine," he said a little too quickly, pushing the phone toward Harry as he reclaimed his seat.

Harry looked confused, then horrified. "Shit, sorry."

But Louis didn't answer, he didn't look at him. reached for his pint with a shaking hand and took a long, deliberate sip.

"You okay?" Zayn asked, eyebrows raised.

"I'm great," Louis said, voice tight, eyes on the far wall. "Fucking amazing." He spat.

Harry's face twitched, brows furrowing. "Louis, —"

"No, it's fine," Louis interrupted, his tone too light. "You're single, you can fuck whoever you want. It's none of my business, right?"

Silence fell like a crash of glass. "Louis," Harry said, low and pained, "it meant nothing."

"Don't," Louis snapped, finally looking at him. His eyes were glassy, jaw clenched. "Don't try to explain. You don't owe me anything."

"I don't owe you, no," Harry said, his own voice trembling now, "but I didn't—"

"Just don't," Louis repeated, pushing his chair back and standing up. "I need air."

He walked off before anyone could stop him, leaving behind the sharp taste of jealousy and heartbreak and the bitter sting of old wounds opened fresh.

Harry slumped forward, face in his hands.

"He's still in love with you, you know," Niall muttered.

"Doesn't feel like it," Harry said into his palms, voice cracked in half.

But maybe that was the problem. It felt too much like love but it still wasn't enough.

*

The still chilly night wrapped itself tightly around him as Zayn stepped out of the pub, tugging his coat tighter around his body, his steps purposeful and quick. He spotted Louis just a few paces ahead, walking as if the pavement beneath him had betrayed him too; shoulders stiff, spine straight, jaw clenched like he was holding himself together by the last thread. Zayn didn't bother calling his name; he simply caught up, reached out and grabbed Louis gently by the arm, halting him in his tracks.

Louis turned, sharply, but his expression cracked when he saw it was Zayn, tension giving way to a tired, frayed exhale. "What?" he asked, voice rough and not nearly as defensive as he wanted it to be.

Zayn didn't let go of his arm. "That wasn't okay."

Louis tried to scoff, but it fell flat, more like a wince. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, you're going to," Zayn said, calm and level, but there was a steeliness underneath it that Louis recognized well. Zayn rarely raised his voice, but when he used this tone, you knew you'd messed up. "You can't just walk in there after years of silence that came from you, pick a fight over a text you had no business reading nor is it any of your concern and then storm out like you were cheated on."

Louis looked away, jaw tightening again, mouth moving like he wanted to speak but couldn't quite find the words.

Zayn didn't stop. "You know what hurts, Lou? Watching you do this to yourself and to him. Watching you pretend like you're above caring when clearly you're not. You're still in love with him."

Louis's head snapped back toward him, eyes glassy and suddenly furious. "That's not fair."

Zayn's gaze didn't falter. "Isn't it?"

A long silence stretched between them, London buzzing faintly around them like it belonged to someone else.

"You think I don't know you?" Zayn asked, softer now. "You think I didn't see the way you looked when he laughed earlier tonight? Like it cracked something open inside you you'd spent over two years trying to seal shut?"

Louis looked away again, swallowing thickly. "He slept with someone else."

"He isn't yours," Zayn said sternly. "You made sure of that when you walked away and never talked to him again, when you started a new relationship with someone else."

Louis's voice dropped to a whisper. "Because he lied to me."

"Oh come off it, Louis. I'm done with this. You know I always have your back but are you hearing yourself? You can't always hide behind those words and you know that. You never gave him the chance to explain. You never even asked for the whole truth. You shut him out and expected him to stay alone, just waiting on the off chance you might forgive him someday. You hurt him too, so fucking bad, and now all you do is act like you're the only victim when he is too," Zayn paused, eyes searching Louis'. "That's not fair either."

Louis let out a shaky breath, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets like they were the only anchor he had left. "I don't know what I want from him."

Zayn nodded slowly. "You keep saying that but then figure it the fuck out. You're a fucking adult, Lou, a psychiatrist for fucks sake. But don't keep punishing him, or yourself, in the meantime."

And Louis, who had spent so long burying everything under anger and pride and the illusion of closure, stood there in silence with too much emotion and now embarrassment threatening to rise and nowhere left to shove it.

Back inside the pub, Harry sat hunched at the table, shoulders curled inward like the weight of everything had finally become too much. His phone was dark and still on the table, as if the last message had drained it, or maybe drained him. His knuckles were white around his glass, but he wasn't drinking.

Liam sat beside him, one hand on his back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. Niall was across from him, frowning, watching with a helplessness he hadn't felt in years.

"All because of the text?" Niall asked gently.

Harry didn't lift his head, just nodded once, a movement so small it could've gone unnoticed if they weren't already staring at him like he might break.

Liam let out a quiet sigh. "Jesus."

"I did nothing wrong this time," Harry murmured, voice cracking at the edges. "I was just... existing. And he looked at me like I'd betrayed him all over again."

Niall leaned in, elbows on the table. "You haven't."

"I know," Harry said finally lifting his head, eyes red and glassy, lips trembling from the effort not to fall apart. "But I never wanted anyone else, not really. That guy, he didn't mean anything. I thought maybe I needed to move on. I thought maybe I deserved to."

"You do," Liam said quietly.

"But I don't want to," Harry said, and the words spilled out, raw and aching. "I want Louis. I want him so badly it makes my chest hurt and every day I wake up without him, I hate myself a little more. And then tonight, he looked at me like he wanted to scream and kiss me and kill me all at once and I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do with that."

Niall looked at him, eyes soft. "You keep living. You don't chase him right now, he's not ready. And when he is ready, if he ever is, then you'll be the one person who didn't give up. If that is what you truly want. But Harry, you can't let him hurt you like this anymore."

Harry let his head fall into his hands, shoulders shaking under Liam's touch. "I can't do this much longer," he whispered. "I feel like I'm losing everything all over again."

*

The night had stretched on awkwardly after Louis' abrupt exit, a haze of tension and concern lingering thickly over the remaining group like the aftersmoke of a fire none of them had the tools to put out. Laughter, which once came easily, now felt strained and infrequent. Conversations lost their rhythm. Even Niall's jokes fell flat, his smile never quite reaching his eyes.

Zayn returned after twenty long minutes, his coat damp from the misting rain outside and his expression drawn in resignation. He gave a quiet shake of his head as he slipped back into his seat beside Liam.

"I tried," he said simply, voice low. "Told him he needs to figure out what he wants... told him he can't keep hurting Harry like this."

Harry just smiled faintly, though it didn't reach anywhere near his eyes. He sipped his now-warm pint and shook his head as if to clear the air of their worry.

"It's okay," he murmured. "Really, I'm fine. You don't have to fix this."

But they knew better than to believe that.

He stayed for another hour or so, not because he wanted to, but because it felt like less of a defeat than leaving right away. Eventually though, he said his goodbyes with a tight hug to Niall and a hand briefly squeezing Liam's shoulder. Zayn gave him a look—worried, quiet, kind—but Harry brushed it off with another one of those too-easy smiles.

By the time he got home, the apartment was cold, his footsteps echoing too loudly against the wooden floorboards. He kicked off his shoes by the door, unwrapped his scarf with fingers that still trembled slightly from too much emotion and not enough closure, and walked straight into his room without turning on any lights.

The darkness felt less lonely than the emptiness of trying to explain himself.

He dropped his phone onto the nightstand without checking it and changed into a loose shirt and sweatpants, brushing his teeth out of habit more than care. But when he laid downl, back flat against his mattress, eyes wide and staring up into the shadowed ceiling, he sighed with a heaviness that felt far older than his thirty-something years.

Everything hurt. Not in a loud way, not anymore. But in that low, throbbing kind of ache that nestled in his chest like it belonged there. Familiar and permanent.

Eventually he reached for his phone and opened the conversation with the man he'd slept with, thumb hovering for a moment before he typed:

Hey. Just wanted to say thanks again for the other night. It was nice, but... I think it's best we leave it as that. A one-night thing. Hope you understand.

He stared at it for a few seconds longer, then hit send. The message marked read a moment later, but no reply came. He didn't mind.

He tossed the phone back onto the nightstand, rolled onto his side, pulled the duvet up higher around his shoulders.. and then the phone vibrated again.

His heart jolted, he blinked once in the dark, fumbled for it, looked down.

Louis. His breath caught.

Just his name. Just that name. On his screen. After everything. He sat up, back pressed to the headboard, heart pounding as he opened the message.

I shouldn't have reacted like that tonight. I'm sorry.

It was simple, the bare minimum, but to Harry, it may as well have been the sun after two years of rain.

He stared at it for a long while, not daring to breathe too loud. Not daring to hope. But he read it again. And again. And again.

*

Across the city, Louis sat on the edge of his bed with a cooling cup of tea beside him, his coat was still on, his shoes too.

He hadn't even turned the lights on when he got home, just flicked the lamp in the hallway and made it to his room on autopilot. He'd been too worked up, too angry.. mostly at himself.

The fight he picked, the way he snapped without thinking, the way he let that unread message burn in his brain like it had anything to do with him, had left him raw and restless.

And now, in the quiet of his bedroom, away from Harry's eyes and the boys' heavy glances, he felt it all crash down with humiliating clarity.

What the hell was he doing?

Harry hadn't done anything wrong. If anything, Louis was the one who'd spent two years trying to stitch a new life together in a different country, with someone who wasn't Harry, pretending he hadn't left behind something that had felt like everything.

And Harry... Harry had been alone. Louis knew that. He'd seen it in the lines on his face, in the way he looked at Louis with a kind of caution that had never been there before.

Of course he had tried to move on. Why wouldn't he? And yet, the thought of someone else touching Harry still made Louis sick.

He dropped his face into his hands, fingers tugging at his hair. "God, you're such an idiot."

He wasn't angry at Harry, he was angry at the feeling that kept twisting inside his chest whenever he saw him. The feeling that he didn't know what to do with, that he hadn't wanted to admit never went away.

He grabbed his phone before he could talk himself out of it and wrote the text quickly, fingers trembling slightly.

I shouldn't have reacted like that tonight. I'm sorry.

He hit send before he could overthink it. And then he set the phone down and leaned back, eyes closed, heart racing, the first tiny crack of light creeping in beneath the heavy door he'd sealed shut two years ago.

Maybe, he thought, just maybe, it was time to open it again.

*

The mornings at the hospital always started before the city even remembered it was alive and that Monday in late June was no different. The halls were soaked in silence, a pre-dawn sort of hush that clung to the whitewashed walls and hummed beneath the flickering lights. But Harry was already there, as usual, his stethoscope looped around his neck, his scrubs crisp and his gait purposeful as he pushed open the door to his office, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, grin already tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It was still there. That message from Louis.

It had been weeks and yet Harry still read it every morning before rounds like some kind of ritual. It was brief and vague and far from a declaration, but it was a start. The beginning of something. Or maybe just a reminder that Louis didn't hate him entirely. Either way, Harry clung to it more than he let on.

"You're smiling like a right idiot again," Liam muttered as he entered behind him, juggling two patient charts and a half-eaten croissant. "Don't think I haven't noticed, mate."

Harry didn't even bother pretending he didn't know what Liam meant. He leaned against the edge of his desk, sipped his coffee, and shrugged. "It's just a text," he said, even as his grin betrayed him.

Liam gave him a look, one of those Liam looks, knowing and kind and far too perceptive for Harry's liking and shook his head. "Yeah. Sure. And I'm a ballerina."

Still, he clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "I'm happy for you, man. Even if it's just a text."

And Harry was happy. Or at least... he was something adjacent to it. Not quite whole, because nothing would ever feel truly whole until Louis stopped looking at him like a ghost in a room full of people, but there was a glimmer of light now, a tiny spark where before there had only been smoke.

The hospital was good at dulling everything else. Always had been. Between endless scans and consultations and surgeries that demanded every ounce of focus he had, there was little room for heartache. He was good at his job—no, not just good, he was brilliant—and in the operating theatre, he was godlike. Steady hands, razor-sharp mind, no time to think about anything except the fragile brain tissue beneath his fingertips. That was the beauty of neurosurgery: it demanded everything, and gave nothing back except survival. And that, Harry had decided a long time ago, was enough.

Across the city, Louis was bent over his kitchen table, wearing a hoodie two sizes too large, sipping cold tea as he scrolled through a spreadsheet that had taken him three days to build. His hair was unkempt, sleep still clinging to his jaw in the form of unshaven stubble and a headache already blooming at the base of his skull from too many late nights with too little progress.

But the business plan was nearly done.

He'd worked on it obsessively; meeting with consultants, reviewing his qualifications, researching the costs of office spaces in central and outer London, carefully budgeting for equipment and staff and insurance and licensing. It was all terrifyingly adult, suffocatingly bureaucratic, but beneath all that, there was a flicker of something he hadn't felt in a long time.

Hope.

He'd found a small office space near Camden he liked; a bit worn, but with character, with room to make it feel safe. A place that could become his. He'd reached out to the borough council about zoning and licenses, started the registration process with the Care Quality Commission, even had a meeting set up with a financial advisor to explore funding options. Everything was moving forward, inch by inch, like some delicate machine slowly grinding to life.

But still.. there was this dull throb in his chest every time he let the silence linger too long. Every time the laughter at a lads' night faded into awkward quiet when their both were there. Every time he caught Harry's eyes across the table and saw that soft, familiar sadness hiding behind his polite smile.

It was getting easier. But it wasn't easy.

They'd managed to make it through a handful of lads' nights since the message. Civil, cautious, steeped in some fragile truce neither of them dared shatter. There had even been moments of conversation; brief, stilted, filled with nervous half-smiles and old inside jokes that slipped out like muscle memory. But still, they orbited each other like stars with too much gravity between them. Close, but never touching.

And Louis hated it.

Hated how much he still felt when he saw Harry smile at something Niall said, how much it hurt to think of those years they lost to silence. He hated how his body still reacted to Harry's voice, how the scent of his cologne brought back memories he'd buried so deep he thought they'd rotted. Most of all, he hated how he didn't know what he wanted.

He wasn't with Marcel anymore for weeks now. That door had been closed in the weeks following Louis' decision to stay. And Louis had felt gutted, not because he'd lost the relationship, but because he'd never truly been present in it.

Because Marcel had always been a safe alternative. Someone he could never hurt like he hurt Harry. And someone who couldn't hurt him in return.

And now, with that chapter over and a new one on the cusp of beginning, Louis felt more lost than ever.

He finished his tea, closed his laptop and stared out the window for a long time, watching the late June sun dance across the rooftops. The city was alive out there, buzzing with people who knew where they were going. Who didn't hesitate to reach for what they wanted.

And Louis? He was still standing at the edge of everything; half in, half out. Too afraid to fall again. Too afraid not to.

He sighed, rubbed at his face, and muttered under his breath, "You've got to get your shit together, Tomlinson."

And maybe.. this summer would finally be the one where he did.

*

The evening sun cast a golden glow through the sheer curtains of Liam and Zayn's flat, bathing the living room in soft amber light and there was something undeniably warm about the air that night. Something less tense, less fragile, as if time itself had softened the edges just enough to let the laughter breathe again. The whole place smelled like grilled halloumi and roasted garlic, with a hint of Liam's cologne lingering around the hallway and only the faintest smell of dog.

Niall had texted in the group chat, about needing a quieter night, something smaller, just the five of them this time, no extra guests or loud pubs, no excuses to keep avoiding each other. No buffer. Just food, beer and easy comfort.

Harry had arrived last, carrying a bottle of wine tucked under his arm and his anxiety stitched into the seams of his jumper. His smile was tight when he greeted Louis, a small, polite lift of his lips that didn't reach his eyes, but it was something. And Louis, to his own surprise, didn't flinch this time. He nodded back, quietly and their gazes held for a beat longer than expected before Zayn pulled Harry into a hug and swept him into conversation.

For the most part, the night went on like usual. There was banter, inside jokes that had survived the years of silence, clinking glasses and shared stories over plates of food that Liam had been fussing over all afternoon. Louis had helped with the prep, slipping into the rhythm of chopping and seasoning, of watching Zayn move around the kitchen so thoroughly, it made Louis smile.

But then came the moment. The not-so-subtle orchestration.

"Hey, Louis," Liam called from the table, spearing another roasted potato with his fork. "Can you check the bread? I think it's burning."

Louis blinked, half-laughing. "You put it in five minutes ago."

"Yeah, well," Liam shrugged. "I'm paranoid."

"And send Harry to help," Zayn added, far too quickly, his voice casual but his eyes too knowing. "You can't be trusted not to burn yourself again."

"Thanks, babe," Louis deadpanned.

But he didn't argue, he pushed his chair back and made his way into the kitchen and moments later Harry followed.. steps tentative and quiet, like he was stepping into a place he used to know by heart and now wasn't sure he was still allowed to touch.

The kitchen was warm, smaller with just the two of them inside, the air fragrant with herbs and heat, the oven humming softly behind them. Louis reached for the oven mitts while Harry moved toward the counter and for a few minutes, they existed in parallel silence, hands working, eyes watching, the kind of domestic routine that might've felt too intimate if it weren't so grounding.

Louis pulled the bread from the oven, perfectly golden, not even slightly burnt, and placed it on the cooling rack. Harry chuckled, voice quiet. "You could've let it go a bit longer. Give Liam a heart attack."

"Tempting," Louis said, smiling before he even realised it.

And that was when it happened. Louis turned to set down the oven mitts and Harry moved at the same time to grab the knife. Their hands collided; just a brush, fingers slipping against one another, the lightest touch across knuckles and skin, but it felt like something burst open between them.

A static jolt. A breath caught mid-throat.

Louis froze, his eyes flicking up to meet Harry's. And Harry, God, Harry looked like he'd forgotten how to move entirely. His fingers lingered for just a second too long before he pulled them back and even then, it was hesitant, reluctant, like he hadn't quite decided if he could let go yet.

Neither of them spoke but the air between them had shifted.

It wasn't angry or bitter now. It was... weighted. Electric. The kind of tension that hummed beneath the surface and made your chest tighten, your mouth dry.

"Sorry," Harry murmured, his voice hoarse, but not apologetic in the way it used to be. It wasn't an I'm sorry I touched you. It was I'm sorry this still means something.

Louis swallowed, his throat thick. "It's okay," he replied, softer than he meant to. And he didn't mean it in the dismissive way, he meant it in the way that said maybe I'm not afraid of this anymore.

The silence returned, but it wasn't uncomfortable. If anything, it felt like the aftermath of something necessary. Like they'd cracked the surface just enough to let the light in.

"I forgot how good you are in the kitchen," Louis said eventually, a small, tentative attempt at conversation.

Harry huffed a breath. "I forgot how bad you are at pretending you're not terrified of kitchens."

Harry smiled then, a real one, that kind that tugged at the corners of his mouth like it used to, the kind Louis hadn't seen in years.

"I missed this," Harry said quietly, as he picked up the bread knife and began slicing the loaf, careful, precise, like he was afraid of messing it up.

Louis watched him, chest tight, heart loud in his ears. "Me too," he said after a moment.

They returned to the others a few minutes later, carrying the bread between them like a peace offering neither of them knew how to articulate. And no one said anything, but Zayn caught Liam's eye across the table and smiled softly, satisfied. Niall raised an eyebrow but kept eating. The conversation picked up again, and the night went on like nothing had happened.

But something had.

It wasn't much. A touch. A look. A breathless second in the middle of a too-small kitchen. But for the first time in a long time, it felt like a beginning.

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.

Chapter Text

Harry had woken up smiling, fingers ghosting over his lips like he could still feel the kiss from the night before and the memory of Louis' eyes wide and soft in the hallway light kept replaying in his head on an endless loop. He sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, trying to will away the giddy laughter bubbling in his chest before it even rang.

But when Niall picked up, bleary-voiced and clearly still in bed, Harry didn't even wait. "Mate," he breathed out, almost breathless. "I kissed him."

There was a pause, then a rustle of sheets. "What? Who? Louis?!"

"Yeah." He exhaled a laugh. "Well, no—he kissed me. I don't even know. We both—shit, Niall, we kissed."

"You absolute wanker," Niall groaned, but he sounded entirely too delighted to be annoyed. "Tell me everything and you better make it good or I'm hanging up."

Harry lay back, arm folded behind his head and he did. Every step of the date, from the awkward beginnings to the way Louis kept brushing his fingers over Harry's sleeve like he wasn't quite sure if he was allowed to touch him, to how his voice got softer with every hour they spent together, to the way he lingered at the door. Niall didn't interrupt once, just listened quietly, which was rare, and at the end of it he simply said, "Good. I hope he knows what he's doing with your heart, H. And if not, well, he's got me to answer to."

*

Across town, Louis was pacing the length of his living room like it owed him something, heart thudding too fast for someone who wasn't even running. His phone was pressed to his ear and he was saying nothing, because Zayn hadn't even given him the chance.

"Let me guess," Zayn said, smug and knowing. "You're calling to freak out because you kissed him and now your entire sense of emotional control has gone to shit."

Louis paused. "I didn't—well. Yes. Kind of."

Zayn laughed. "Told you."

"You don't even know what I'm going through," Louis groaned, slumping down on his couch. "It was—god, Zayn, it was so much. He walked me to the door and we hugged and it was nothing, but it was everything and I got inside, I was still behind the door, about to pull it open again and ran after him and then he—he came back, and we just—"

"Kissed?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

"No! Not good! I'm freaking out because it felt like everything I've been missing for years but I don't know if I'm ready for it and I can't stop smiling like an idiot and I can't—Zayn, I'm scared."

Zayn went quiet for a second, then said gently, "There's nothing to be scared of Louis, it's Harry."

Louis bit down hard on his bottom lip, blinking rapidly toward the ceiling. "Yeah," he whispered. "I think I need to stop running."

*

That night, Louis texted Harry.

Are you free this weekend? Want to go on a second date with me?

And Harry, already halfway to replying before he even finished reading, fired back:

Tell me where and when and I'll be there.

They met at a quiet little place with a terrace that spilled into a green garden, and it was different this time, lighter and less guarded. They ordered a bottle of wine and laughed about things that didn't hurt, about Niall's inability to ever wear matching socks and Zayn's overly dramatic music tastes. They walked again, just like the first time, fingers brushing until Harry—emboldened by something he hadn't felt in a long, long time—took Louis' hand and held it. Louis didn't pull away.. he squeezed.

Days blurred after that, soft and unhurried.

Louis worked through logistics with his consultant, met with a lawyer to finalise things about his practice and Harry found himself thinking about Louis more than he should while reviewing charts or scrubbing in for surgery.

Then on one afternoon, Louis invited him over. "I've got paint and a wall that's giving me a headache," he said. "Come help?"

Harry brought beer and old clothes.

The waiting room was a blank canvas, a white background and the promise of something new. Harry grabbed a roller while Louis crouched by the open paint bucket, dipping his brush and already splotching green onto the wall.

They talked while working, about nothing and everything. Music, TV shows, what they missed about each other's lives. And somewhere along the way, Louis reached over to smudge a line of paint on Harry's cheek with the tip of his brush.

"Oi!" Harry yelped, retaliating with a flick of green onto Louis' shirt.

"War is it?" Louis challenged, grinning.

And that was how it started. Ten minutes later, they were covered in streaks of green and laughter, when Harry slipped on a stray paint rag. He yelped as he fell backward, grabbing Louis by instinct and Louis, caught by surprise tumbled with him, landing sprawled across Harry's chest with a loud, messy thud.

Silence, then laughter.

But it died slowly, the space between them suddenly far too intimate, too charged.

Harry's fingers were on Louis' waist and Louis' hands were braced against Harry's chest and for a moment they just stared. Not like they had before, not tentative or unsure, but knowing.

And when Louis leaned in, it was slow and steady and inevitable.

The kiss was nothing like their new first. This one was hungrier. It tasted like green apple paint and laughter and something aching and wanting that they'd both been holding back for far too long.

They stayed there, tangled and breathless on the floor of Louis' practice, grinning like idiots.

Finally on their way to building something that would last.

The days moved forward in a rhythm they had quietly slipped into without ever naming it. There were no declarations or rules, but there was something that felt like commitment in the way they made time for each other. They still texted daily, sometimes just a simple good morning or a late-night you'd hate the music they're playing at this café kind of message. Sometimes they didn't talk much at all, but there was comfort now in the silence, not the charged kind they used to dread, but something settled, like exhaling after a long-held breath.

Harry was back to his usual 12-hour shifts at the hospital, bouncing between surgeries and consults and even though the job was as intense and consuming as ever, he felt different inside it now. His colleagues noticed, the nurses teasing him about how he didn't look like a man carrying the weight of the entire neurosurgery department on his shoulders anymore. There was a lightness in him again, visible in the way he smiled at patients, the way he hummed under his breath while reviewing charts. One of the new interns asked him if he was in love. He hadn't answered, just smiled to himself, eyes cast toward the floor, heart louder than anything else in the room.

Louis, meanwhile, was wrapped up in the final touches of launching his private practice. The furniture had arrived, sleek and warm. The logo was on the door. The waiting room had just the right mix of calm and professionalism and the soft green wall—complete with one tiny corner where a smudge of a handprint was left untouched—felt like his version of a personal triumph. He liked arriving early to open the blinds, to walk through each room like it was sacred, built by him and now full of potential.

And when Harry had stopped by again, just to drop off some coffee and linger in the doorway of Louis' office, they both paused and looked around.

"You built this," Harry said softly, with a kind of reverence.

Louis smiled, hand still holding the lid of his takeaway cup. "Yeah. I did."

The day of the opening came on a Friday, clear skies and surprisingly warm. Louis wore his nicest blazer and tried not to sweat through it, welcoming colleagues and old friends, health professionals from both Germany and London, even a few neighbours who'd heard about the clinic through word of mouth. There were flowers on the front desk, soft jazz playing overhead and champagne flutes passed around by someone Liam insisted on hiring for the day.

Harry arrived too late, still in his hospital scrubs under a jacket, forgotten stethoscope stuffed in his pocket and Louis' heart did a stupid little thing the moment he saw him. But he was there, that was all that mattered.

The celebration was beautiful. Speeches were made, Zayn told a joke that made Louis groan into his hands and Liam said something heartfelt that made Louis tear up. Niall made sure everyone's glass was never empty and Harry stood just a little behind Louis during most of the evening, his silent presence enough to ground him.

Later when the crowd had trickled away and the clinic was quiet again, it was just the five of them lingering in the candlelight of the waiting room, sitting on the same chairs they'd assembled together weeks ago. There was music still playing from someone's phone, now quieter, more ambient, like the night itself was winding down with them.

And then slowly the group began to dissolve. Niall left first, mumbling something about an early meeting and needing sleep. Liam and Zayn followed, with Zayn giving Louis a look that said everything and nothing before gently closing the clinic door behind him.

Louis and Harry were alone.

The lights were dim, just the candles flickering now, their glasses filled again with deep red wine, the bottle half gone. They didn't speak for a moment, just let the silence stretch comfortably between them. Then Louis turned slightly, his knee brushing Harry's where they sat side by side on the waiting room couch.

"This feels strange," he murmured. "In the best way."

Harry turned to him, brows raised.

"Just... being here. Sitting with you. Like this." Louis took a sip from his glass, his fingers toying with the stem. "I keep thinking about everything we went through. How long we didn't talk. How stupid we were."

Harry hummed. "Yeah. We really were, weren't we?"

Louis looked over, gaze softer now. "I was angry. For a long time. Not just at you but at the world. At myself. And then... I forgave everyone. Except you."

Harry's throat bobbed. "I get it."

"I thought you were the only one who should've known better. Because you knew me. And when you lied, when you didn't say anything about... it felt like everything we had was just..." Louis trailed off, pressing his lips together. "But it wasn't. I know that now."

Harry set his glass down on the table in front of them, the clink of it gentle in the quiet. "I never wanted to hurt you. And I didn't say anything back then because I didn't know how. I was scared if I tried, I'd lose you. And then I did anyway."

Louis shifted closer, enough that their shoulders touched. "We lost years."

"I know," Harry whispered. "And I'll always be sorry for that."

There was a moment before Louis leaned his head gently against Harry's shoulder, his wine glass tucked against his chest, breath steadying.

"But we found our way back."

Harry wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him a little closer, the touch so natural it felt like it had always been there, just waiting for them to remember how to reach for it. "Yeah. We did."

They stayed like that, quietly curled into one another, the candlelight flickering against the walls they had painted together.

Louis looked up once, just to find Harry's eyes and saw a reflection of something he hadn't let himself believe in for years; hope. Not the naive kind, but the earned one. The kind that came after all the bruises healed.

And when Harry kissed him, slow and unhurried, it wasn't with urgency or need, but with understanding. With gratitude.

Later that night, as they sat there wrapped in each other, Louis let his eyes flutter closed and thought, this is what I wanted all along.

And Harry, holding him closer, thought the same.

*

The sun had already dipped beneath the horizon when they finally stepped into Harry's flat, the last soft glimmers of dusk painting the walls in lavender and gold. They'd spent the day in the kind of slow, quiet way that didn't need to be named, wandering through markets, sitting on benches sipping takeaway coffee, laughing over stories that had become more nostalgic than painful, letting hours pass with only each other as company. It felt like slipping into a rhythm they'd never forgotten how to move to.

Now, hours later, the warmth of red wine swirled low in their stomachs and the lights were out, music humming gently from the speakers. They were seated on the couch, a little closer than they had been a few weeks ago, legs brushing now and then, Louis' bare foot tucked under himself, Harry's fingers curled loosely around the stem of his glass.

There'd been a lull in the conversation for a while now, the kind that was comfortable rather than awkward and Harry kept glancing sideways at Louis like he wasn't entirely sure he was real. He didn't know how long it would take before the newfound novelty of this, of them, would wear off. If it ever would. Louis was here. In his flat. Hair a little messy from the wind, cheeks still flushed from wine and laughter, eyes flicking around the room like he was trying to memorize it.

And then Louis looked at him, properly looked, and Harry couldn't pretend anymore.

"Where do we stand?" he asked quietly, voice low and a little rough, like it had been building in his chest for hours and now finally had somewhere to go.

Louis didn't speak for a beat. Then he blinked slowly, exhaled through his nose and set his wine down on the coffee table. He shifted to face Harry, elbow on the back of the couch, fingers toying with the hem of his own sleeve. There wasn't fear in his eyes, just something like careful honesty.

"I don't know," Louis admitted. "But I know that I don't want to keep pretending it's nothing. I don't want to wonder what this is anymore, or where it might go." He hesitated, a soft crease between his brows. "We've already lost enough time, haven't we?"

Harry's throat bobbed, a soft sound slipping from him that wasn't quite a laugh and wasn't quite a sob either. "Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, we have."

After a moment of silence Harry reached over, his hand finding Louis' and holding it there like it was the only thing grounding him to the earth. His thumb brushed the back of Louis' hand with a slow kind of reverence.

"I want you," he said. "Only you. It only ever was you and it always will be. I don't need time or space or questions. I just want to know that you're mine and I'm yours again."

Louis' fingers curled around his with a firmness that spoke louder than words. "Then we're exclusive," he said, mouth twitching into the smallest smile. "Official, if that's what you want to call it."

"It's what I've wanted since the fucking moment I met you," Harry said, voice a whisper.

That was all it took.

They leaned in at the same time—maybe too fast, maybe a little hesitant—and their mouths brushed in a way that was more breath than kiss, more promise than possession. But then Louis pressed in further, hand cupping the side of Harry's neck and Harry sighed against him, fingers curling around the hem of Louis' shirt like he was anchoring himself.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, full of everything they'd been holding back. Harry tasted like wine and heat and something Louis could only call home. Their mouths moved with a tenderness that felt almost sacred, not rushed, not greedy, just a soft unravelling of restraint. Louis shifted closer, knees brushing Harry's thighs and Harry's hands slipped beneath the fabric of his shirt, fingers splaying warm and reverent over skin he'd missed for too long.

Louis shivered at the touch, not from cold but from memory—of being wanted like this, known like this. He pulled back just slightly to look at Harry and for a moment neither of them spoke. Their foreheads rested together, breath mingling, and Louis reached up to trace the edge of Harry's jaw.

"We're really doing this," he whispered.

Harry nodded, eyes glassy and full of something overwhelming. "We are. And right this time."

And then Harry kissed him again, deeper this time, one hand at the small of Louis' back, the other cradling his cheek as though he were something fragile and priceless. Louis climbed into his lap without thinking, their bodies fitting together in that way that always felt inevitable, and Harry groaned low in his throat as their chests pressed flush.

Every kiss was a reassurance, every touch a vow: I'm here. I've always been here. I want you now. I wanted you then.

They moved together with the kind of tenderness born from years of wanting, of waiting, of mourning what they thought they'd lost. It wasn't rushed, it couldn't be. Not after everything.

Harry slowly lifted the hem of Louis' shirt, slow enough to give Louis time to change his mind but he didn't. So slowly, piece after piece, they undressed each other and when they finally lay together—naked on a couch way too small to fit two grown men in that way—it was more than either of them could handle.

"I want to feel you inside me." Harry whispered and made eye contact. He saw Louis' eyes darken, the familiar hunger in them he hadn't seen in years. Louis nodded and let his hand wander down Harry's body, leaving goosebumps where he touched. They watched each other mesmerised, as if still not believing that this was happening.

When he finally touched Harry's hard dick, both of them moaned, a sound they missed so much and from then on everything was like muscle memory. Louis' fingers were soft and gentle as they worked on opening Harry up, one after another he let slip inside, making Harry a right mess underneath him.

Louis' own painfully hard cock was rubbing against Harry's hip with every movement, giving just the tiniest bit of so needed satisfaction.

"Louis, please.. wanna feel you." and that was all Louis needed to hear.

He adjusted their position on the couch and was about to line up his cock with Harry's entrance when Harry gently stopped him.

"I need to ask this uh—I don't want to bring him up– but uh do we need to use..?" Harry stuttered, blush creeping up his cheeks and Louis smiled at him lovingly.

He cupped Harry's face and looked him deep in the eyes when he said, "The only person I ever slept with without protection was you. I got tested but we can use a condom if you're more comfortable with that." He said so gently and sincere it made Harry tear up.

"No, no I trust you. And—uh, same uh I only.. I never– I .. yeah I get tested regularly too. You know, job and so.." he was rambling now and Louis never found anything more adorable.

"Hey, Haz, shhhh... it's okay. I've got you, yeah?" And Harry nodded, closing his eyes and waiting for Louis to finally enter him again.

Louis then grabbed his dick and positioned himself at Harry's tight hole. A last glance, a silent nod and then he pushed in. And it was bittersweet.

They watched each other with every inch Louis sunk in deeper, at one point Louis had to wipe away the tears that left Harry's eyes. The younger man apologised embarrassed but Louis only held him closer.

And then, after Harry adjusted to the feeling of Louis' huge cock inside of him, it was something neither of them could describe.

Soft and slow strokes, skin on skin, not rushed. Every motion was unhurried, guided by emotion and instinct. They moved in sync, soft murmurs filling the silence between moans and whispered names.

It wasn't about release. It was about connection. About being together—fully, finally, again.

"I'm going to come," Harry whimpered when Louis began to tug at his cock in sync with his strokes and soon after Harry came with a silent cry of Louis' name between them. And Louis followed short after, being to overwhelmed by feeling and hearing Harry like that again.

And they just laid there after, no words being said, none needed.

Because this was what they'd been missing.

And it was only the beginning.

*

The morning crept in through the sheer curtains in soft streaks of white and gold, laying itself gently across bare skin, across tangled limbs and the throw blanket that had half-slid to the floor during the night. It was the kind of morning that didn't demand anything, didn't rush, didn't shout, didn't need to be anything other than what it was. The flat was still and quiet but for the distant sound of a bird outside the window and the soft, sleepy hum of the city waking up below.

Harry stirred first, blinking groggily against the pale light, the unfamiliar ache in his neck announcing itself before he was even fully conscious. His spine gave a crack when he shifted, an awkward wince tugging across his face as he tried to stretch without disturbing the body pressed half on top of him.

Louis.

Fast asleep, head pillowed against Harry's chest, one leg tossed lazily across his lap, their bare skin warm where it met. His breath was soft and steady, lips parted just slightly, hair a mess of strands, some of them grey already, sticking up in defiance of sleep. He still looked younger like this, even though Harry knew better than anyone how many years they were carrying between them now, some heavy, some light, all layered into every touch, every quiet inhale they now shared again.

Harry shifted again, less careful this time, groaning aloud as a dull ache spiked across his lower back.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, massaging his side. "This is what I get for having sex and falling asleep on a couch in my thirties..."

Louis made a low noise and blinked blearily up at him. His voice was hoarse and cracked from sleep when he said, "Tell me about it. I think my hip's out."

Harry laughed, tipping his head back against the cushions. "You're too young to say things like that."

"Says the man who just made a sound like a dying kettle."

They both chuckled, warm and easy and something about it settled deep in Harry's chest.. this easy, unthinking comfort. This domestic little moment that didn't feel forced or performative, didn't feel like they were pretending to be anything other than two people who had once been everything to each other and were slowly becoming that again.

Eventually they untangled themselves, groaning and laughing as they tried to stand upright like actual functioning adults, trading soft kisses between stretches and curses. Harry tugged on a t-shirt and boxers and padded into the kitchen while Louis pulled on his jeans and one of Harry's old sweatshirts, mumbling something about needing caffeine before his brain could function again.

They made breakfast together like they'd done a hundred times before, years ago, moving in sync in a way that was both muscle memory and something entirely new. Louis brewed coffee while Harry fried eggs and buttered toast, hips bumping, fingers brushing, laughter spilling like the morning light through the window. They ate sitting cross-legged on the couch they'd just slept on, their plates balanced on their laps, sharing bites and stories and plans for the day like they hadn't once forgotten how to exist in each other's daily lives.

It was... easy.

Almost too easy.

Harry felt it when Louis laughed with toast in his mouth, when their knees knocked together, when Louis leaned in to steal the last bite of scrambled eggs off Harry's plate with an unapologetic grin. It felt dangerously good. Familiar in that way that made Harry's heart ache just a little, like he'd waited his whole life to get back to this without realizing he'd been holding his breath for years.

And yet, despite the soft ache of nostalgia, neither of them said a word that morning about what had happened. Not in a heavy way, at least. There was no uncertainty in the air, no cloud hanging above them. Just quiet understanding. No regrets. No rushing. No need to define what already felt so sure.

Eventually, Louis glanced at the time and groaned, stuffing the last crust of toast into his mouth. "I've got two meetings today," he said, voice muffled. "Potential clients. I'm meant to be convincing and charming, not crawling out of bed with sex hair and a limp."

Harry grinned, eyes raking over him slowly, teasing. "You look very convincing to me."

Louis threw a dishtowel at him.

After some shuffling and a few more half-kisses that lingered like promises, Louis pulled his bag onto his shoulder, keys in hand, and paused at the door. Harry stood just a few feet away, barefoot and still sleepy-eyed in a hoodie he had thrown over his shirt now.

"I'll call you later?" Louis asked, tone casual but eyes soft.

Harry nodded, heart quietly swelling. "Please do."

Then Louis was gone.

And Harry was alone in the flat again, standing in the quiet kitchen with two coffee mugs, one half-empty, and a heart that felt full in ways he hadn't expected to feel so soon. Or maybe not soon at all.

He had the whole day off. No patients. No rushing to the hospital. No unread emails waiting like landmines. Just a quiet house, a city outside and, for the first time in years, a desire to actually do something.

He got dressed slowly, letting the morning stretch into late noon, and eventually tugged on his shoes and left the flat with no real destination. The weather was crisp but sunny, the kind of autumn day that invited wandering. He ducked in and out of bookshops and corner markets, let himself browse the racks in a vintage record store without the pressure of needing to be anywhere else.

Around midday, he stepped into a little café he used to go to sometimes before everything fell apart; before Louis, before the fallout, before the guilt had wrapped itself around his bones and never let go. He ordered a matcha and sat by the window, watching people pass.

And then, as if on cue, his phone buzzed.

Niall: Are you alive? Or still in a post-sex coma?

Harry choked on his drink and laughed, thumb flying across the screen.

Harry: Alive. Barely. Slept on the couch and woke up feeling 85.

Niall: Nothing like morning-after back pain to remind you you're not twenty anymore. But seriously... you good?

Harry paused before answering.

Harry: Yeah. I'm good. Actually... I'm really good.

There was a moment's pause before Niall sent a gif of someone dancing terribly in celebration.

Harry smiled, tucked his phone away, and leaned back in his chair. Outside the café window, the world kept moving, buses rumbling, children chasing pigeons, couples holding hands, the breeze tugging at people's coats like a mischievous friend.

And inside, Harry sat alone for the first time in a long time without feeling lonely. Because for the first time in years, he wasn't waiting for something to begin or for someone to come back.

He was in it. Right in the middle of something good. And this time, he wasn't going to let it go.

*

Louis had barely stepped out of the last meeting when he allowed himself a breath he hadn't known he was holding; deep, long, and steady like it was the first one in a long while that wasn't tethered to fear or pressure or some lingering knot of anxiety in his chest. He blinked up into the late morning sunlight as he stepped onto the pavement, the buzz of the city folding around him in a way that no longer felt suffocating or too loud. Today, it just felt alive.

The clients had been kind, enthusiastic even. Two were already confirmed. A third one had asked if they could recommend him to a colleague. Another had inquired whether he'd be open to consulting on a recurring basis. And when he'd shaken hands with the final one, the smile on their face had said more than words could, it was the kind of smile that made Louis feel like he wasn't just someone trying to prove himself anymore. He was already doing it.

His name on the door.

His own little waiting room, freshly painted.

His own coffee machine in the back that made terrible coffee but felt like a milestone anyway.

He walked down the street with a quiet kind of pride humming beneath his skin. It was subtle, not boastful or loud, just a warmth in his chest, a knowing in his steps that he'd fought hard for this—for the peace of having something that was his, built with his own hands after everything fell apart. The fact that it was all starting to come together again—work-wise, home-wise, and now Harry-wise—made it feel almost surreal.

He stopped at the bakery on the corner, picked up something sweet he didn't need but wanted anyway, and ate it leaning against the railing outside, letting the breeze ruffle his hair and the sugar stick to his fingers. He wasn't rushing anywhere today. He didn't have to run. And it hit him, somewhere between the second bite and a sip of lukewarm takeaway coffee, that for the first time in a long time, he wasn't waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He was just... okay. Actually okay.

He made it back to his flat late-afternoon, still smiling to himself when he tossed his keys in the bowl by the door, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed into the couch cushions with a sigh that was more satisfied than tired. He thought about texting Harry, something stupid and flirty and unprompted, but didn't want to interrupt if he was doing something important, so he just sat there, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen, smiling to himself like an idiot.

That was when his phone rang. Mum.

His heart softened immediately, thumb swiping to answer before he even fully sat up. "Hey, Mum."

"Hey, love." Her voice was warm, comforting as always, but there was something suspiciously knowing about her tone. "You sound happy."

Louis blinked, startled. "Do I?"

"You do. You sound like yourself again." She paused, then added, "I ran into Trisha the other day—Zayn's mother. Said you've been around the boys more again."

"Yeah," he admitted, glancing at the ceiling, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Feels like I'm really back now."

There was a short silence, and then her voice softened further, almost fond. "You've got that smile in your voice again."

Louis laughed, rubbing a hand over his face. "What smile?"

"The one you always had before," she said gently. "Back when you'd come home and talk about him like he'd hung the bloody moon."

He went quiet then, heart catching in his throat for a second, because she wasn't wrong, and because she always knew. She had always known.

"You don't have to say anything if you're not ready," she continued, "but I think I already know, and I just want you to know I'm glad. I'm glad you're smiling again."

Louis let his eyes close, chest tightening just a bit in the best kind of way. He could hear it in her voice, that belief she'd never stopped holding, not even when he did.

"We're seeing each other," he said finally, quiet.. careful, "Started while ago. And..."

"And?"

"And it's different this time," Louis said. "It's not rushed. It's not heavy with all the past things. It's slow, and it's soft, and we're figuring it out like we're new to each other. But it feels right. Like maybe we needed all that space to come back different."

Jay was silent for a moment and then she exhaled softly. "I always believed in you two. You know that?"

"I know."

"And I know it wasn't easy.. what happened. And I don't blame you for leaving back then, for being angry, for needing time. But I'm glad you're giving yourself the chance now. You both deserve to be happy."

Louis swallowed, his voice tight when he said, "I think I want to be."

"Good," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "Then be."

They talked for a while longer, about the new practice, about how the walls finally didn't smell like paint, about how she was planning to visit soon and how he better have biscuits in the cupboard when she did. Before they hung up, she said, "You'll bring him by soon, yeah?"

Louis laughed, shaking his head. "He's not a stray dog, Mum."

"No," she said, warm and soft. "He's still
family."

And that, that stayed with Louis for the rest of the day. He felt lighter as he hung up, felt the glow of her words settle in his chest as he wandered around the flat, tidied up, went through notes, made another cup of coffee even though he didn't need one. He found himself humming a song he didn't even realize he knew anymore, checking his phone more than he should, wondering if Harry had eaten, if he was busy, if he'd text soon.

Everything was coming together, not just work, not just life. But everything. And for once, Louis couldn't wait for it.

*

It had rained earlier that day, one of those light autumn drizzles that left everything slick and shining but never quite broke into a proper storm. By the time Louis arrived at Harry's flat, the skies had cleared, but the scent of wet leaves lingered in the air, mixing with the faint trace of Harry's vanilla scented cologne that clung to the hallway just outside his door. When Harry opened it, barefoot and dressed in sweatpants and an old Rolling Stones shirt Louis hadn't seen since their late teenage days, it felt like home in a way Louis didn't have words for.

"Hey," Harry said, soft and smiling already, stepping back to let him in.

"Hi," Louis replied, slipping past him and kicking off his boots, the warmth of the flat welcoming him instantly. "Smells like that cinnamon candle again."

Harry laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I like it. Feels like autumn."

"It's either that or the vanilla-sugar-biscuit one next time, innit?"

They shared a look, and Louis grinned. It was easy now, the way they fit into each other's spaces again, the way the air between them wasn't tense or uncertain anymore. They cooked dinner together without saying much, just a steady stream of soft conversation as they moved around each other in the kitchen, Harry chopping vegetables while Louis stirred a sauce on the stove, their elbows brushing occasionally but neither of them pulling away.

It was comfortable in a way that didn't feel lazy or stagnant. It was just... settled. Grounded. A version of peace that neither of them had ever truly believed they could have with each other again, not after all the fire and wreckage they'd left behind.

After dinner, they curled up on the sofa, sharing a blanket, the rain starting up again in soft percussion against the windows. Harry's legs were stretched out, now socked feet resting near Louis' thigh, and Louis had tucked a cushion under his arm, head tilted slightly as he listened to Harry talk about a patient he'd seen, nothing serious, just an elderly man who told jokes the entire time Harry was trying to check on him.

"Sounds like your type," Louis said with a grin.

Harry gave him a look. "He's eighty-two."

"Still. Got that cheeky charm you like."

Harry rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, and Louis felt it again; that softness, that warmth blooming in his chest like something he'd forgotten how to carry. It wasn't overwhelming or terrifying. It just was.

When the conversation slowed and the room fell into a comfortable silence, Louis glanced over at him, suddenly aware of the weight of the moment. The fact that they were here. That this wasn't some fragile new start anymore, it was a real one, a sturdy one, built on conversations and slow healing and hard truths spoken aloud.

"Harry?" he asked quietly.

Harry turned toward him, eyes soft. "Yeah?"

"I've been thinking..." Louis hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek. "We should visit our families soon. Like... together."

Harry blinked, surprised but not shocked. His expression melted into something more tender than Louis was prepared for. "Yeah?"

Louis nodded. "I know we said we'd take it slow. And we are. But I think we've wasted enough time pretending we weren't still—" He swallowed, eyes dropping to his hands. "Pretending we didn't still want this."

"I agree," Harry said, no hesitation, his voice steady in that way it only was when he was sure of something. "I don't want to take it slow if it means pretending I'm not already there with you. I want this. I want you."

Louis looked up, and their eyes met.

"I think if we keep talking like this, and trusting each other... we won't lose it again," Harry continued. "Not like before."

"No, not like before," Louis echoed, the words thick in his throat but true. "I'm not scared of us anymore. I'm just scared of wasting more time."

They were quiet again, but this time the silence was full; of the things they didn't need to say because they were already understood. There was no rush between them now, no frantic urgency, but there was clarity. This was it. This was happening. Not in a movie-scene whirlwind. In real life. Slow and steady, a little messy, but honest.

"I told my mum," Louis said, voice quieter again, a little breathless with how real it felt. "About you. She wants us to come over."

Harry's face lit up in that warm way it always did when something genuinely moved him. "I'd like that. We can go to mine too. Maybe not the same weekend though, or our mums will start trading recipes and wedding plans."

Louis laughed, a real, low laugh that shook his shoulders. "God, they would."

"But it's nice to think about," Harry added, almost shyly, looking down at his hands before glancing back up. "That we can plan things again."

Louis nodded, eyes fixed on him. "Yeah. It is."

They stayed like that for a long moment, just watching each other, the rain thickening outside, the candle on the table flickering gently in the dim room.

"We're not rushing," Harry said softly, as if reading Louis' thoughts. "We're just... continuing. Picking up from the place where we should've been, if we'd had the courage to talk."

Louis reached out then, resting his hand gently on Harry's knee beneath the blanket. "Well. We're talking now."

Harry smiled, a slow and genuine thing, and reached over to link their fingers. "We are."

They ended the night curled up again, the television playing some low-volume film neither of them was watching. Louis' head rested on Harry's chest, Harry's hand gently stroking through his hair. And it wasn't grand or cinematic.. it was even better. It was quiet, safe and real.

Outside, the wind picked up, scattering leaves down the pavement. Inside, they stayed warm and close.

Already, Louis was thinking about Christmas.

Already, Harry was wondering how it would feel to wake up next to Louis on a snowy morning, years down the line.

But for now, they had this. Autumn evenings. Low laughter. Shared meals. Slow healing. Gentle kisses between words that didn't need to be rushed.

They had now... and for now... that was all they ever needed.

Chapter Text

The week unfolded in its own unremarkable but comforting way, the kind of rhythm that might've once bored Louis or made Harry restless, but now felt like the kind of peace neither of them had dared to believe they'd earn again.

Louis had thrown himself into the new routine at his practice. The sign out front still had that too-clean look of something brand new, and the rooms still smelled like new built furniture, but people were showing up. Word was spreading faster than he'd anticipated, patients who were quietly grateful, who left thank-you notes on the reception counter, who told their friends about the gentle psychiatrist with kind eyes and a quiet laugh.

His calendar was filling up. First-time consultations turned into long-term treatment plans. A mother brought in her son and then came back for herself. A man in his late thirties, shaky and uncertain, confessed that it was the first time he'd stepped into a therapy room in his life. Louis had smiled, had told him that was okay, and that they'd figure it out together.

On Tuesday afternoon, between clients, he sat at his desk with a mug of tea and scrolled absently through his phone. There was a message from Harry waiting "Lunch soon? Got a weird break between surgeries and I miss your face" , and Louis had just started to type out a teasing reply when another notification slid in just beneath it.

Fizzy
Heard about you and Harry. Don't tell me it's true. If it is, I swear to God, Louis, I'm  coming there  just to knock his stupid curls into last century. What the hell are you thinking? He broke you. He lied. I haven't forgotten that, and I won't forgive him just because he looks at you like the sun shines out of your arse. You know I love you, but I will have his head if he hurts you again.

Louis stared at the screen for a moment, heart sinking a little, not because Fizzy's fury surprised him, but because it felt like a sudden reminder that while his own wounds were healing, the ripple effect of what happened between him and Harry had extended far beyond just the two of them. It had reached his family too, and Fizzy... Fizzy had always been the most vocal and protective.

He didn't respond right away. Instead, he took a slow breath, turned his chair toward the window, and let the afternoon light soak quietly into his skin. A minute passed. Then another. And then he texted Harry.

Louis :
Got a message from Fizzy. She's not thrilled. Wants to personally murder you.

The reply came quickly, as if Harry had been staring at his phone.

Harry:
Yeah? I deserve it. Tell her I'll line up if she wants to punch me. But... you okay?

Louis stared at the blinking cursor for a long while before he typed back.

Louis:
Yeah. I am. Just... a reminder that this isn't just about us. That this has to be real, y'know?

Harry:
It is. And I know I have a lot to make up for. Not just with you. With them too. I get it.

Later that evening, they met at Harry's. Harry had cooked something simple—vegetable risotto with parmesan and garlic bread (yes, Louis complained about the lack of meat)— and they sat on the sofa with their legs stretched across each other's laps, bowls balanced in hand. Louis told him about the new client who couldn't make eye contact at first but left saying thank you. Harry told him about a young patient who had refused stitches unless Harry promised to sing.

"He made me sing, Lou," Harry said, dramatically burying his face into Louis' shoulder. "In the middle of the trauma bay. I was holding a needle and singing Yellow Submarine. I think I've lost all dignity."

Louis chuckled, setting his empty bowl on the coffee table. "Bet you sounded good, though."

"I did," Harry mumbled and after a pause, he pulled back slightly. "Can we talk about Fizzy?"

Louis looked at him, surprised, but in a good way. "Yeah. Of course."

Harry shifted to face him more fully. "I know she's not wrong. And I know your parents and the girls probably feel the same, even if they haven't said it. I don't expect them to welcome me back with open arms, not after everything. I lied. I hurt you. And I never got the chance to make it right with them either."

Louis nodded slowly, biting the inside of his cheek. "They know it wasn't malicious. I think they always knew that more than me. You weren't cruel. You were just... scared. But still. It hurt them too, seeing me like that. Seeing what it did to me and I think part of them blames you for the fact that I left, even if they don't say it out loud. Though, I'm very sure my mum already forgave you before you did yourself."

Harry's voice was quiet when he said, "I blame me too, you know. And I don't think I'll ever forgive myself, no matter how many times you tell me that you've forgiven me. It's something I have to live with for the rest of my life."

Louis reached for his hand then, curling their fingers together in the space between them. "We'll work on it. Not just us. Them too. You'll come with me sometime, yeah? Like we planned."

Harry nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah. I want to. I want to earn their trust again."

There was a pause, then Louis added with a wry smile, "Just maybe don't bring wine with a cork. Fizzy might turn the screw into a weapon."

Harry laughed, breathless and grateful and leaned into him again. They spent the rest of the evening side by side on the couch, music playing softly in the background, not in a rush for anything, just breathing and being. The world outside could take its time catching up. Let the conversations happen. Let trust be rebuilt, one small step at a time.

*

The first signs of Christmas crept in like whispers in the air, barely there, almost hesitant, like the city itself was unsure whether it was ready to welcome the season just yet. But there it was all the same: the fairy lights starting to blink behind shop windows, the faint sound of old carols leaking from speakers in cafés, trees stacked outside grocery stores wrapped in netting.

Louis had noticed it on a Tuesday morning, on his way to work, when he passed a bakery and saw a small chalkboard sign that read "Mince pies are back!" in looping cursive. Something in his chest tugged, something soft and quiet, something that almost ached. Not in a bad way, just in that way nostalgia does when it brushes the edges of the present.

And then on Thursday night, it was lads' night again.

They met at Liam and Zayn's again, mostly because it had become a kind of unspoken tradition that their place was the default when nobody could be bothered to argue about who was hosting, but also because their living room was the biggest, and Basil, their fluffy dog with a tendency to sprawl across laps like a weighted blanket, had become everyone's emotional support creature.

The flat was already lightly dressed for the season, Liam had strung warm fairy lights around the window frames, and a modest tree stood in the corner, not yet decorated but already making the room smell of pine and something faintly sweet, like clove. There were blankets on every armrest, mismatched mugs on the coffee table, and a playlist of old Christmas songs humming low in the background.

Louis sat curled into one end of the sofa, a cushion hugged loosely to his chest, and Harry was tucked beside him, not quite touching but close enough that their knees bumped every so often when they shifted or laughed. Niall had taken the floor with a beer in one hand and a bowl of crisps in the other, and Liam was perched on the armrest behind Zayn, who sat cross-legged and barefoot on the rug with Basil melting into his lap.

They'd spent the first hour doing exactly what they always did; reminiscing, teasing each other, comparing Spotify Wrapped playlists and debating the eternal question of whether Die Hard was a Christmas movie.

It was after the second round of drinks, some mulled wine Liam had insisted on heating up in the kitchen even though everyone had just wanted cider, that Zayn leaned forward and asked, "Alright, serious question now. Are we doing something for Christmas? Like the five of us?"

Niall perked up immediately. "Do we mean actual Christmas Day, or just our own thing sometime around it?"

"I mean..." Liam glanced at Harry and Louis, then back at Zayn. "We've done both before. Like, family Christmas separately, and then our own little chaos celebration after."

"Or before," Niall offered. "I'll be home with my family on the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth, but I'm down for anything the week before or New Year's."

"Same," said Zayn, stroking Basil's ears as the dog stretched across him.

Louis, quiet until then, looked over at Harry and shrugged a little, voice soft. "We were talking about doing something together this year. For Christmas, I mean."

Harry nodded, eyes gentle when he looked back at him. "Maybe even visit our families. If the timing works."

Zayn smiled faintly, exchanging a brief glance with Liam. "That's good. You should. I mean, if anyone deserves a proper holiday this year, it's you two."

Louis lowered his gaze but his smile lingered, fingertips tracing the edge of the cushion in his lap. "It's weird. Thinking about it. Last year I spent Christmas with Marcel's family and it was nice, but it didn't feel like mine, y'know?"

Harry's hand brushed his knee then, just a gentle nudge beneath the fabric of his jeans. "We'll make it feel like home again."

And somehow that promise, quiet as it was, felt like more than enough.

They talked logistics for a while, about gifts or no gifts, about doing a dinner together before the twenty-fourth, about who would cook what and how Zayn absolutely refused to let Niall make mashed potatoes again after The Incident two years ago (a crime involving too much nutmeg and not enough salt). It was light-hearted, full of laughter and harmless bickering and the comfortable kind of chaos that only ever existed between people who had grown into each other over years of shared living and loss and joy.

At one point, Basil trotted over to Louis and practically launched himself into his lap, making a contented little sound before settling there with no apology.

"He knows," Zayn said, smug from the rug. "He always did like the drama."

Louis rolled his eyes but scratched gently behind the dog's ears anyway, murmuring, "You're lucky you're cute, mate."

"Speaking of," Liam cut in, leaning forward with a grin, "your birthday's on the way, Lou. What's the plan?"

"Oh god." Louis groaned theatrically. "Can we not talk about that yet?"

"Nope," Niall said gleefully. "You're gonna be ancient. We have to celebrate."

"Thirty-six, you twat," Louis shot back, then looked to Harry with mock betrayal. "You better not let them throw me some surprise party with strippers and balloons."

Harry grinned, sipping from his glass. "No balloons. But I can't make any promises about the strippers."

Laughter erupted around the room and Louis shook his head, trying not to smile too much even though his cheeks hurt from it. It was that kind of night that was effortless, filled with warmth and something that tasted like home. The kind of night that made it easy to forget there'd ever been tension at all.

They stayed late. The boys eventually started yawning into their drinks and stretching sore backs, and Basil wandered off to his corner of the flat to sleep, his work for the evening clearly done.

Harry and Louis left together, walking back toward Harry's with their hands buried in coat pockets, the air crisp around them and their breath coming out in soft, foggy clouds.

"So," Louis murmured, bumping their shoulders as they waited at a crosswalk, "Christmas with my mum?"

Harry turned to look at him, the streetlight casting a soft glow on his curls. "Yeah. Christmas with your mum."

"And Fizzy?"

Harry groaned but smiled. "And Fizzy."

Louis grinned, voice softer. "You sure?"

Harry nodded. "I'm sure."

And somehow, in the hush between streetlamps and the rustle of the last autumn leaves, it really did feel like they'd made it back to something. Not what they were before, but something better.

Something built from the ground up, slowly and carefully, one laugh and late night and conversation at a time.

Something worth keeping.

*

It was one of those November evenings where the air outside pressed cold against the windows, but inside the flat everything glowed with the gentle hum of familiarity and quiet happiness. The small radio in Louis' kitchen was playing a soft playlist Harry had put on, something warm and indie, just enough to fill the silence between lazy conversation and clinking dishes.

Harry was leaning against the doorway, a glass of white wine in his hand, smiling faintly as he watched Louis fumble with a pot on the stove, cursing under his breath at something boiling over. He was wearing one of Harry's jumpers, far too big on him, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, and Harry couldn't help but let his eyes linger on him, how effortlessly he fit into the space, into the moment, into Harry's world again.

Louis glanced over his shoulder and smirked. "Don't just stand there like some posh housewife. Grab the salad out the fridge, will you?"

Harry huffed a laugh and pushed off the frame, his socked feet silent against the hardwood as he passed behind Louis and let his fingers brush lightly along the small of his back. It was instinctual now, not even a calculated move, just touch for the sake of it.. because he could again.

He retrieved the bowl and set it down beside the pot. Louis turned the heat down and gave a satisfied sigh before looking for his phone that had buzzed against the counter.

"Oh, actually—would you check that for me?" he asked, distractedly stirring. "I think it's my accountant texting about the lease contract. Just tell him I'll get back to him in a bit?"

Harry nodded, lifted the phone without a second thought, thumbed it open... and then stopped.

Marcel. The name blinked up at him, tucked above a message that, in any other context, might have been harmless. But now, with Louis in his jumper and the air smelling like garlic and thyme and something that felt almost like safety, it landed in Harry's chest like a stone.

Marcel :
Thank you for the scarf. It smells like you. I missed that.

Harry didn't speak. The wine felt like it turned to vinegar on his tongue. He just held the phone in his hand, blinking at the screen like it might rewrite itself if he stared hard enough. The blood drained from his face and pooled somewhere low in his chest, a sudden weight pressing down on his ribs.

Louis noticed instantly, he always did with Harry and turned, brow furrowed. "What is it?"

Harry's voice came quieter than it usually did, like it had to fight its way out. "It's... it's from Marcel."

Louis stilled. "What?"

Harry turned the phone around, let Louis see the screen, his expression unreadable in the golden kitchen light. "Is there something you didn't tell me?"

For a heartbeat Louis didn't respond. His face was unreadable, shocked, confused, and then something else creeping in like smoke curling from an unseen fire. He exhaled sharply through his nose, already reaching for the phone. "Oh for fuck's sake..."

Harry didn't know whether to laugh or walk out the door. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to breathe through the ache rising in his throat. "Look, I know it's not my business—"

"It is your business," Louis cut in softer now, already scanning the screen again. "It's just... fuck, I didn't even know I still had his scarf until I found it in the back of a drawer. I mailed it back to him last week. That's all this is. He gets sentimental sometimes."

Harry met his eyes then, searching for any flicker of dishonesty, but all he found was frustration and sincerity tangled together. Louis ran a hand through his hair and gave a small, almost helpless laugh.

"He probably meant it in some weird nostalgic way, not trying to stir anything up," he muttered.

"It's fine," Harry said, voice thin. "It's not—I know. It's just—" He tried to swallow the sudden wave of nausea rising in his throat. "I just wasn't expecting to see his name, that's all."

Louis looked at him for a long moment, the pot on the stove now forgotten, the wine and warmth and comfort momentarily pushed aside by a cool gust of old uncertainty. But then slowly and calmly, he set the phone down and stepped closer.

"No," he said quietly. "It's not fine if it's making you doubt anything. I'll call him. Right now."

Harry shook his head. "You don't have to do that—"

"I want to."

Louis picked the phone back up, found Marcel's name and pressed call. Harry stood frozen as Louis walked toward the hallway, but not far enough that he couldn't hear.

"Hey," Louis said, a little sharp, no preamble. "Yeah, I saw your message. Look, not that it's any of your concern but I'm back with Harry and uh, I don't think you should text me anymore, especially not like this," he was silent for a moment, Marcel probably talking. "Yeah, of course." Another pause. " Yeah. Take care."

He hung up, returned slowly to the kitchen, the phone still in his hand.

"I should've blocked him ages ago," Louis muttered, placing it face down on the table like it had betrayed him. Then he looked at Harry and his voice softened, eyes steady. "You have to know, he means nothing, not like this. Not like you."

Harry let out a breath that sounded like something inside him loosening.

"I do know," he admitted, voice quiet. "It just caught me off guard. I think I'm still—I don't know—scared sometimes, that you'll realise this is all too much. Or that you'll change your mind."

Louis stepped up to him, took the wine glass from his hand and set it aside, then reached for his fingers. He didn't lace them, just held them in his own.

"I've already walked away from you twice, and that was the biggest mistake of my life," he said, voice low, certain. "I'm not doing it ever again."

Harry didn't respond for a moment. He just watched Louis watching him, both of them hovering in that uncertain air, the past and present and future all pressing in. And then finally, quietly and more vulnerable than he'd meant it to sound he asked, "Would you have told me if he was trying to get you back?"

"Yes. I promise you. Harry, I'm here with you. I've chosen you. And I'm not going to let something fuck this up again."

Harry swallowed hard, the knot in his chest slowly easing even as the weight of the message still lingered, like the scent of smoke after a candle's been blown out.

"Okay," he said finally. "I believe you, it just— I didn't expect it."

Louis touched his wrist, fingers curling gently around it, grounding. "I know, and I get it. You have every right to feel weird about it. I just need you to trust me when I say I don't want him back. I want us."

And hearing that was enough.

They didn't need to say anything more about it. Instead, Harry just leaned his forehead gently against Louis' for a long second, breathing in the safety of that promise, of that trust finally being built brick by brick again, on something stronger this time.

*

Louis stirred first, lazily stretching in the bed that somehow had come to feel like theirs again, the sheets tangled around his bare legs and the familiar weight of Harry's arm across his waist grounding him in a way he hadn't realised he missed this deeply. He turned slightly, just enough to catch Harry's face still relaxed in sleep, lashes brushing his cheeks, lips parted just slightly, and curls tousled against the pillow.

It would've been enough to just lie there forever, to pretend like the world outside didn't exist, but the reality of the day crept in with the sound of Harry's phone vibrating once on the nightstand, and Louis blinking through his thoughts, remembering the date. His birthday. Christmas Eve. And they were about to go see his family... Harry was about to go see his family again.

"Mornin'," Harry mumbled, voice scratchy and low as he blinked awake, arm tightening instinctively.

Louis smiled, brushing a hand gently through Harry's hair. "Happy Christmas Eve."

Harry gave a soft hum, stretching like a cat before turning more fully toward him. "Happy birthday, love."

They lay there for another few minutes, quiet and slow, exchanging sleepy kisses and holding onto the weight of the morning before it could slip away. One thing led to another, and maybe it was the nervous energy, or just the comfort of this bubble they'd built over the last few months, but soon Louis's hands found their way down Harry's body, underneath the blanket. "I love that you sleep naked." He groaned when he touched Harry's already hard cock.

Harry hummed in response. "I hate that you don't." And didn't waste any time to get Louis out off his pyjama pants and underwear. For a moment, they just laid there like that, kissing and slowly stroking each other's cocks like they had all the time in the world.

"Let me make you feel good, birthday boy." Harry rasped and gently slapped away Louis' hand. He sat up and moved down on the bed, turning Louis onto his back and after a few more movements, Louis' legs were over Harry's shoulders and the latter grinned at him like a child on Christmas morning. "Can't wait to get my mouth on you."

And he wasted no time then, licking up between Louis' ass cheeks, spreading them with his hands to get better access. And he licked and sucked and felt the flutter of Louis' muscles at the tip of his tongue as he slightly pushed in. Louis was letting out small moans, his fingers clenched in the sheets and his head thrown back onto the pillow.

He felt his cock twitch with every move of Harry's tongue and he wanted to touch himself so badly but he also knew Harry and that he wouldn't let that happen.

"Taste so good," Harry mumbled as he came up for air for a second and took in the sight of his boyfriend. His hard cock leaking pre cum onto his stomach, making Harry's mouth water again, oh how he loved to pleasure Louis.

Normally, he would've edged him, made him beg until he couldn't anymore, but not today. Today was Louis' day and he deserved everything Harry could give.

So he grabbed Louis' cock at the same time as he got his tongue back on his hole and tugged in the same rhythm his tongue licked.

"Harry..Haz, fuck, stop. I can't—" then Harry felt a hand grabbing his hair and pulling, he disconnected with a slurp and moaned at the slight sting on his scalp. He made eye contact with Louis. "I need you inside of me.. now."

And Harry only nodded as he moved up, lying down again between Louis' open legs. "You good or need more lube?" Louis shook his head. "Good." And Harry smiled, still spitting in his hand and using his saliva and his own pre cum as natural lube.

"Okay?" He looked at Louis again while he lined up his cock between Louis' cheeks. "Okay." He nodded and lifted his head to reach Harry's lips. They met halfway, tongues touching before lips could meet as Harry slowly pushed in.

Inch by inch, they grew closer, their mouths still connected and open but not actively kissing, just touching, breathing into each other's mouths. Louis dragged his nails down Harry's back and lifted his legs to wrap them around his lover's hips, the position made Harry slip in deeper as he bottomed out.

They both moaned, Harry giving Louis a moment to adjust and then he slowly dragged his hips back only to push them back in.

Soon, both men were moaning messes as they desperately chased their highs and when Harry hit Louis' spot in the same moment as Louis pushed a finger against Harry's hole they came together without warning or even knowing what happened.

They watched each other, surprised and overwhelmed by their shared orgasm, trembling limbs and hearts slamming against their rib cages as they held each other.

Afterwards, they cleaned up and moved around the flat with a rhythm that felt settled and familiar, and somewhere between Harry making tea and Louis digging through his wardrobe to decide what jumper to wear to his own childhood home, Harry called out, "Wait, sit down for a second, will you?"

Louis turned, confused but obliging, sinking onto the couch.

Harry disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a small, wrapped package, simple, neat edges and a ribbon that looked just slightly askew, as if Harry had tried to redo it three times before giving up.

"I know we said no big gifts," Harry said, suddenly awkward, "but I saw it and thought of you."

Louis's heart clenched as he opened it carefully, inside was a leather-bound notebook, worn around the edges, already softened like it had been handled a hundred times. On the first page, in Harry's handwriting, was a note.

"For all the stories you've yet to tell, and the ones you've lived already—especially the ones that brought you back to me."

Louis looked up, speechless for a moment.

Harry's smile was tentative. "Thought it might help with... everything. Work, life, you know. I remembered how you used to write everything down back in uni."

Louis reached across the space between them and pulled him in for a long kiss, filled with so much more than words could offer. "Thank you," he whispered against his lips, "it's perfect."

And then reality hit again. "Right," Louis muttered with a groan, "time to get judged by my sister."

Harry laughed nervously, running a hand through his curls. "Can't wait."

*

The drive was filled with music and the occasional teasing, Louis trying to distract Harry from the way he kept fidgeting in his seat, tapping his knee or rechecking the directions even though he'd been there a hundred times before.

"You've done brain surgery half asleep and blindfolded," Louis said at one point, smirking, "but the idea of my family is what does you in?"

Harry glanced over with a pained smile. "Your sister might stab me with a fork."

Louis didn't argue.

They arrived in the late afternoon, the front garden lined with soft twinkle lights and the familiar wreath on the door, and everything about it made Louis exhale slowly, grounding himself.

When the door opened, it was Lottie who pulled Louis in first, warm, laughing, already halfway into a story. Her hug to Harry was firm, genuine, no edge to it. Phoebe was the same, offering Harry a warm, knowing smile and telling him he still owed her a coffee from years ago, Daisy smiled at him and turned around. Doris and Ernie ran toward them with the enthusiasm only kids have, flinging their arms around Louis and then Harry as if they hadn't noticed he'd ever been gone at all.

But Fizzy.

Fizzy stood a little further back, arms crossed, brows raised. She didn't say anything at first, just gave Harry a once-over that was more cautious than cruel. Louis knew her well enough to know it wasn't all hatred, Fizzy didn't hate easily, but it was anger. Or maybe protectiveness.

Harry offered a careful smile. "Hi, Fizzy."

She tilted her head. "You brought wine?"

He held up the bottle, only slightly sheepish. "It's your mum's favourite."

That earned the smallest of hums from her, and she stepped aside to let them in without saying more.

They made it through dinner like that.. tiptoeing, but not hostile. Fizzy never said anything cruel, but her silence around Harry was noticeable. The rest of the family made an effort, asking about work, about Louis' new practice, about their plans for the rest of the holidays. Laughter came easier after the second glass of wine, and Harry kept checking on Louis with small glances, fingers brushing just briefly beneath the table, both of them grounding each other without words.

It wasn't until everyone had eaten far too much and the others started slowly heading off to bed, that it was just Louis and Harry left in the softly lit dining room, plates half-empty, and glasses half-full.

Louis leaned back, breath slow. "She'll come around, you know."

"I know," Harry said quietly. "It's just... hard. Being here again. I missed this. Missed them. You."

Louis didn't say anything at first, just reached across the table, lacing their fingers together, thumb brushing the back of Harry's hand.

"I missed you, too."

There wasn't a kiss this time, just hands clasped across the table, soft candlelight flickering shadows against the wall, and the unspoken promise that this was the first Christmas of many they'd never spend apart again.

*

The kitchen was still warm but only the soft light over the sink illuminating the clutter of empty wine glasses and plates still needing washing. Harry had offered, of course he had. Louis' family had always been big on the rule that guests didn't do the tidying, but Harry had insisted, almost too eager to make himself useful, to show he wasn't just there with Louis, but there for Louis.

He was rinsing out a glass when he heard a voice behind him, gentle but unmistakably firm.

"You don't have to do that, love."

Harry turned startled and met Jay's eyes. She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, not cold, just watchful. There was that same energy in her that Louis had, the ability to see straight through someone with very little effort.

He wiped his hands on a towel. "I wanted to. Least I can do, really."

Jay didn't answer right away. She stepped further into the room, picking up a tea towel and starting to dry a plate he'd just washed.

For a moment, it was quiet, the soft sound of water running, dishes clinking, their movements in quiet sync. And then Harry cleared his throat.

"I know I already said it," he began, voice low, rough around the edges, "but I want to say it again. I'm sorry. For how it ended back then. For not... For hurting him like I did."

Jay paused with the towel, staring at the plate in her hands for a second before setting it down. Her voice was quieter than he expected, but clear. "Harry, I was angry with you. I won't lie. I hated seeing Louis like that. I didn't know how to make him feel whole again."

Harry nodded slowly, taking it in, chest heavy.

"But," she added, softer now, "I also know it wasn't just your fault."

She turned to face him fully, her expression more open now, more tired, but not unkind. "We didn't tell him what we should've either, so no Harry, it wasn't just you."

Harry blinked, caught off guard.

Jay's eyes shone with something sharp and honest. "We all failed him, in one way or another. You may've been the one he loved, but we were the ones who should've protected that love. And we didn't. So if you're apologising, then we are too."

Harry felt something catch in his chest, a breath held for years finally exhaling.

"I love him," he said, and it wasn't new or surprising, but it was different now. "I never stopped. I just didn't know if he would ever let me love him again."

Jay stepped forward then, reaching out to take his hand the way only a mother could. "But he did. That's what matters now."

There was silence again, but it was easier this time. Full of understanding. And when Jay leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, Harry felt something in his heart loosen.

"You two wasted enough time. Don't waste another second," she whispered. "And don't worry about Fizzy. She'll come around. She's stubborn, like her brother. But she's got a soft heart."

Harry smiled, overwhelmed and grateful. "Thank you."

Jay gave his hand a final squeeze. "Welcome home, Harry."

Chapter Text

It was quiet in the way only a house full of sleeping people could be, sunlight lazily slipping through the curtains and across the worn wood of the kitchen table. Louis came in barefoot, hair still a mess from sleep and a thick jumper thrown over his pyjamas, just as Harry was setting down two mugs of tea with a triumphant little smile.

"Proper Yorkshire," Harry said, holding one out.

Louis took it, curling his hands around the warmth. "You really know the way to my heart."

"Years of field research," Harry replied grinning.

They sat like that for a while, close and peaceful, the world outside just beginning to stir. Eventually, the others joined them. Daisy yawning dramatically, Mark making a beeline for toast, Jay humming Christmas carols under her breath while stirring something on the stove.
It was domestic and chaotic in the best kind of way, like Harry had slipped into a memory that had never quite been his but now felt like home.

And when it was time for presents, chaos erupted. Suddenly the house was alive with the kind of live only a family that big could create, Lottie and Lewis bouncing baby Flossie gently in turns while Lucky toddled around in christmassy pyjamas far too excited to sit still, Phoebe and Jack helping Olive tear through wrapping paper with squeals of delight, Fizzy's wife June wrangling their daughter Juliet away from the biscuits before breakfast, and Daisy laughing with Ryan as they passed around mugs of tea and joying the rest of the family around the tree.

Harry's second gift to Louis (who the latter complained about a lot) was a custom-framed print of an old map of London, marked with a tiny gold star exactly where Louis' new practice stood, the words "found our way back" etched into the corner. Louis didn't say anything, just leaned in and kissed him like the house wasn't full of people, soft and sure, his smile trembling a little when they parted.

Louis had given Harry a pair of vintage cufflinks shaped like swallows, one for each of them, wings curved inward as if they were always flying back to one another.

Afterwards, while Louis was upstairs changing into something that didn't look like he'd slept in it, Harry found himself cornered in the hallway by Fizzy.

She leaned casually against the wall, sipping a cup of tea, eyes sharp as ever. "I still think you're a twat," she said, without any real venom.

Harry raised a brow, heart thudding a little too fast. "Fair enough."

Fizzy studied him, then sighed. "But... you're his twat. And I know what he looks like when he's pretending to be okay. That's not what this is, so.." She took a sip. "Don't make me regret not actually having your head."

She smirked and patted his cheek lightly, leaving him blinking after her as she disappeared into the kitchen.

By the time they were packed up and ready to go, there were warm hugs and calls of "Drive safe!" and "Text when you get there!" echoing out the front door. Louis gave his mum an extra-long hug, whispering something in her ear that made her smile with teary eyes, and then they were off—hand in hand down the drive, hearts light, a little giddy.

They got into the car and shut the doors at the same time, glancing at each other with mirrored smiles before Louis whispered, "That went well."

Harry nodded, staring at him for a moment too long, then started the car with a grin. "Feels like a blessing, doesn't it?"

Louis reached over to squeeze his knee. "That's exactly what it is."

And they drove toward Harry's family, toward the rest of their day, toward whatever came next—hearts open, full of love and hope.

*

Anne had cried before she even opened the door. They hadn't even made it up the final step to the porch before the front door flung open and she barreled straight into Louis' chest, arms thrown around him so tightly Harry had to laugh and tug his boyfriend back slightly so he could breathe.

"Oh, my god," she sniffled, barely managing to look up at him. "You're actually here. You.. both of you."

Louis chuckled softly, his hands warm on her back. "I'm here, Anne. Not going anywhere."

Harry leaned down to kiss the top of his mother's head, tugging them both into the house and closing the door against the sharp chill. "He's mine again, Mum," Harry whispered into her hair, and that only made her cry harder.

Robin was already stepping over to take their coats, smiling warmly as ever, offering a hand to Louis that turned into a hug. "Good to see you again, Louis."

Louis smiled at that. "Good to be back."

The warmth of the house wrapped around them like a wool blanket: it smelled of cinnamon and roast vegetables, wood polish and the faintest trail of Anne's perfume from somewhere down the hall. Fairy lights blinked lazily along the banister, casting little golden flecks over the floor. From the living room, muffled laughter and the low tones of conversation filtered in, the kind that only belonged to families who'd known each other a lifetime.

Gemma was next to appear, baby in one arm, the other wrapping tightly around Louis. "Alright, you. Took you long enough."

"Alright, alright," Louis grinned, gently smoothing a hand over her daughter's fine dark curls. "Don't start on me yet."

Micha was behind her, smiling warmly. "We've heard nothing but Louis this, Louis that from Harry the last few weeks. You'd think he invented romance."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're just jealous I'm living my rom-com."

Louis reached out to tickle the baby. "Hi, lovely," he murmured, eyes soft. "You're the cutest thing I've seen all day, you know that?"

"Heeey, I'm standing right here," Harry said, but he was smiling as he leaned over to press a kiss to his niece's head, then to Louis' cheek. The ease of it all, the natural rhythm, it felt like breathing again after years underwater.

Even Desmond was there, already sipping mulled wine on the sofa. Though he and Anne had long divorced, Christmas was always the one day they shared without question, and it had become something of an unspoken tradition; no hard feelings, no drama, just the quiet appreciation that family could take many shapes and still feel whole. He greeted Louis with a nod and a smile, warm and easy.

"Didn't think I'd see you again, lad," he said, patting his knee. "Harry's been brooding for years."

"Heeey," Harry whined, smiling.

"You're glowing like you're in a bloody commercial for romance," Gemma quipped from the kitchen.

They exchanged gifts after lunch, surrounded by open paper and ribbons and the occasional stolen kiss behind someone's back.

Anne watched them the whole time. "It's just," she said, wiping at her eyes and laughing through it, "I never stopped hoping, you know? And look—look at you now."

"We stopped talking," Harry admitted, "but I never stopped loving."

Louis reached for his hand then, lacing their fingers together on the couch between them, his thumb brushing slow circles along Harry's. "Me neither."

Later, while the house quieted for the afternoon lull—baby napping upstairs, the men snoozing on the couch—Anne pulled Louis aside into the hallway, under the garland and beside the mirror that always seemed to reflect too many memories at once.

"I wanted to say," she started, soft and earnest, "thank you. For coming back. For forgiving him. For—being here."

Louis held her gaze, a small knot tugging in his chest. "I love him," he said. "Always did. That's all it ever was. I was just too stubborn and stupid to see it."

"And I know he hurt you. We all know he did." She reached for his hand. "But I need you to know, he's not the same boy. He's grown into something better. Not because he lost you, but because he learned from losing you."

Louis blinked then smiled. "Good. Because I'm not the same either."

"Well, good." She squeezed his hand. "You're both still idiots, but maybe now you're the right kind of idiots."

They laughed and Louis kissed her cheek and the whole day, every second of it, felt like something golden and true.

When Harry found him again by the window, the sun low in the sky and painting the frost outside in a glow of rose and silver, he leaned into Louis without words, wrapping an arm around his waist, and Louis let himself fall into it completely.

Everything hurt less now, everything finally made sense.

*

Boxing Day started slow, as it should, wrapped in the afterglow of Christmas warmth and the kind of sleep that only comes after laughter, full bellies, and being held through the night by the person you never thought you'd get back. Harry stirred first, his nose brushing the curve of Louis' neck, and when he sighed, it came out as something blissfully weightless, like a quiet thank-you to the universe. Louis mumbled something unintelligible, still mostly asleep, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting lazily against Harry's hip. They didn't rush, didn't need to.

They stayed in bed for hours, talking and kissing and falling into each other in that familiar, overwhelming way. It wasn't hurried or frantic.. more like rediscovery with every slow drag of fingers and lips, like reminding each other of every inch they once knew. When they made love that morning, it was unhurried and sweet and somehow more vulnerable than anything they'd shared before. It wasn't just sex, it was themselves, returning again and again to the place they always belonged.

By the afternoon, they were still half-dressed in hoodies and boxers, sipping tea on the couch, legs tangled and toes brushing. The telly played something but neither of them really watched, their attention too fixated on quiet conversation, memories, things they used to do around Christmas, Louis laughing over Harry's failed attempt at vegan stuffing one year, Harry mocking the ridiculous tinsel Louis once wrapped around his steering wheel just after he got his license. And somewhere in the middle of it all, Harry turned his face and whispered, "I don't think I've ever been this happy," and Louis smiled at him because the feeling was mutual.

The days between Christmas and New Year passed in that delicate rhythm of real life. Louis kept his schedule light, only seeing his most vulnerable clients—the ones who needed stability over the holidays, who clung to his words like lifelines. He was always gentle with them, but something about this week made him softer still, more attuned, perhaps to the fragility of people in the midst of joy they couldn't always feel.

Harry worked two shifts at the hospital, both long, both relentless, but different now. He smiled more, he hummed while making notes. People noticed, other doctors, nurses, even patients. "He's glowing," someone said at the nurse's station, and Harry overheard it and flushed like a boy caught in something sacred.

On Louis' day off, he surprised Harry at the hospital, appearing in the corridor with two takeaway coffees and a lazy grin that made Harry forget whatever chart he was holding. They snuck into his office between consults, the door locking behind them with a soft click. Louis perched on the edge of the desk first, pulling Harry between his legs, and what started as a teasing kiss became something heavier, more heated. Their hands wandered, clothes were undone. Louis gasped something filthy into Harry's neck as Harry dragged his mouth along Louis' jaw and Louis made him swear quietly when he slipped a hand into his pants.

"Lou," Harry breathed as he felt Louis' hand around his hardening cock. "Not...here..." He was already panting, his voice not even convincing himself.

Louis tugged a bit harder, Harry let his head fall onto his shoulder. "I'll stop, you only have to say the word." And both of them knew, Harry wouldn't. So Louis continued stroking Harry under his pants, pre cum smearing at the inside of his underwear until Louis finally pulled the pants down just enough to free Harry's cock.

Harry came embarrassingly fast from Louis' hand and after he tucked himself back into his pants he turned Louis around, pushed him over his desk and dropped to his knees in front of him. Louis couldn't even say a word before Harry had his mouth on his ass and his tongue licking and sucking around his hole. He slowly added his fingers one after another and when he was three fingers in, repeatedly hitting Louis' prostate, the latter came untouched with a muffled cry of Harry's name against the wood of the desk.

Louis bumped into Niall and Liam on the way out. "You look flushed," Niall teased, nudging his elbow. "Something about hospital corridors does it for you?"

"Shut up," Louis muttered, trying not to smile too wide but he didn't bother denying it. Liam only grinned, clapping him on the back. "Glad to see you here under better circumstances."

That night when Harry came home, he found Louis curled on the couch in joggers and a hoodie, his hair damp from a shower, a book half-open on his lap. "Missed you," Louis murmured, eyes flicking up.

Harry dropped everything and sat beside him without a word, kissed his cheek like it was second nature. "Missed you more."

They fell asleep like that, pressed together beneath a throw blanket, in the kind of silence that felt earned, two people who had finally stopped running.

*

The flat was a mess of half-empty tea mugs, clothing options draped over furniture, and two men darting in and out of rooms in varying states of dress and laughter. The air buzzed with something electric, and Harry, for the first time in what felt like years, felt like himself again. Not just the collected doctor or the brooding ex who had learned to live without.. but Harry—the Harry who used to wear sheer shirts and glitter in his hair, who had a penchant for tiny necklaces and boots that clicked confidently across a room, who had once made an entire bar gasp with a wink and the flash of his collarbones.

And tonight, he wasn't trying to impress the room. He was dressing for Louis.

He stood in front of the mirror in their now shared bathroom, half-buttoned in a silky black shirt that clung to his frame in all the right places, sleeves rolled up to show off his tattoos. His now again grown out curls were a little wild, he hadn't tamed them completely on purpose, and a delicate chain with a single silver cross sat just above his collarbone. He squinted at his reflection and turned sideways. "Too much?"

Louis, barefoot and shirtless paused in the doorway behind him, toothbrush hanging from the corner of his mouth. "Nah," he said around a mouthful of mint. "Not enough, actually."

Harry turned, mock offended. "Excuse me?"

"I'm just saying," Louis mumbled through a grin, disappearing again, "if we're turning heads tonight, might as well break a few necks too."

They were heading to Liam and Zayn's for the New Year's Eve party-slash-Louis' birthday celebration, and even though it was just the five of them—and Basil of course—it felt like the most important night of the year. Maybe because it was. The first celebration in years where things felt right again. Like everything had finally found its place.

Louis rifled through his wardrobe, tossing a few options onto the bed. "Do I do the black jeans or the dark green ones?"

Harry appeared in the doorway, holding two wine glasses. "Depends. Are you going for 'I'm the birthday boy, bow down' or 'I'm effortlessly sexy and didn't even try'?"

"Second one, obviously," Louis muttered, grabbing the green.

Harry handed him a glass. "Then the black ones. But you'll have to let me stare at your arse all night."

"Isn't that just your usual plan?"

They both laughed, comfortable in the kind of flirtation that didn't feel heavy anymore. It was easy again, warm and playful.

As Louis changed, Harry turned on some music, an old playlist, one Louis hadn't heard in years, and they buzzed around the flat together, stealing kisses in doorways, bickering over which boots looked better, singing off-key to The 1975. Louis eventually settled on the black jeans, a loose cream shirt with the first few buttons undone, and a navy blazer he only wore on special occasions. He looked like every version of himself Louis used to dream about, grown up but still sharp-eyed and magnetic.

Harry, of course, looked like sin in human form.

"You're going to get us kicked out for indecency," Louis muttered as Harry checked himself in the mirror one last time.

"We're going to Liam and Zayn's. If anyone shows up in a sheer crop top and angel wings, it'll be Zayn."

Louis snorted. "Fair point."

And then they stood in the entryway, coats on, glancing at each other like they couldn't quite believe this was real—this life, this moment, this night.

"Ready?" Harry asked, his voice softer now.

Louis nodded, stepping closer to fix the corner of Harry's scarf. "Yeah. Let's go cause some chaos."

*

The second Louis and Harry stepped through the front door of Liam and Zayn's place, chaos met them like a physical force.

Basil came thundering down the hallway at a speed that should have been illegal for a dog of his size. His paws skidded dangerously on the polished wood floor as he tried to change direction mid-sprint, claws scrabbling uselessly before he launched himself bodily at the newcomers.

"Basil, no!" Liam's voice carried uselessly from the kitchen.

But it was too late. Basil threw his entire eighty pounds of excitement straight into Louis' legs.

Louis, not entirely unprepared but vastly outweighed, stumbled backwards, windmilling his arms and somehow Harry caught him just before he went down, both of them laughing helplessly as Basil wormed himself between them, tail wagging so fast it looked like a blur.

"Alright, alright, we get it, you missed us!" Louis said, squatting down despite the fact that Basil immediately started trying to climb him like he was a tree.

Harry knelt too, laughing breathlessly. "You've gotten even bigger, you menace."

"He's just happy you're here!" Zayn called from somewhere deeper in the house, not sounding remotely sorry.

Basil was trying to lick every available inch of Louis' face now, whining and panting and practically vibrating with the effort of expressing his uncontainable joy. It was ridiculously cute and a little overwhelming. Louis, giggling, tried to fend him off while Harry just knelt there and watched with open adoration written across his face, as if he couldn't quite believe he was allowed to witness this version of Louis again—the one with cheeks flushed from laughter, hair a mess from dog paws, and eyes bright with nothing but happiness.

"Alright, mate, if you're this excited about us, wait 'til you see the drinks we brought," Louis said, finally managing to wrestle Basil into something resembling a cuddle. He scratched behind Basil's ears expertly, the way Zayn had taught him he liked. Basil promptly flopped onto his side with a heavy thud, legs kicking the air.

"Traitor," Zayn grumbled as he appeared, a dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, grinning like an idiot. "He didn't even greet me like that when I got home earlier."

"That's 'cause he knows we're the real party," Louis said, finally standing and wiping slobber from his cheek with a grimace.

"You are the party," Liam said, emerging right behind Zayn, carrying a tray laden with glasses and a bottle of champagne already popped.

Niall burst out of the living room next, holding a ridiculous party hat that looked like a cross between a unicorn horn and a disco ball. He shoved it onto Louis' head without warning.

"There. Birthday boy crowned!"

Harry, predictably, doubled over laughing.

Louis glared at all of them half-heartedly, batting at the hat. "I swear to God, if there are pictures of this..."

"There will be pictures," Niall said, already pulling out his phone. "And blackmail material."

"Cheers to that!" Liam said, passing around the glasses.

It was loud, it was chaotic, it was exactly what Louis had dreamed of having back, once upon a time when everything felt too far away to fix. And now here they were; together, solid, messy in all the right ways.

After the initial madness settled, they all gravitated into the living room, where the fireplace was already crackling and an absurd amount of fairy lights twinkled around the room. Basil wedged himself happily between Harry and Louis on the sofa, resting his heavy head on Harry's thigh and giving Louis the most put-upon look every time he dared shift an inch away.

"You've been adopted," Zayn said from his place on the armchair, raising his glass. "Sorry, lads. Basil's yours now."

Harry leaned down and kissed the top of Basil's head. "Guess we're parents."

Louis choked on his champagne. "Let's not start rumors now."

Niall was already typing furiously on his phone. "Too late. Hospital chat's gonna eat this up."

They all howled with laughter and for a moment, Louis leaned back against Harry's shoulder, the sound of it filling his chest like warmth, like something tangible. Safe and real.

And even though they hadn't even gotten to the actual midnight countdown yet, even though the night was just beginning, Louis already knew.

This was it, this was the start of everything.

After they'd wrangled Basil off their laps, or rather, after Basil decided he was satisfied with the amount of fur he'd left on Harry's black trousers, they finally migrated toward the massive dining table Liam and Zayn had set up.

It was almost ridiculous: candles in every color, a mismatched assortment of Christmas crackers, a playlist of indie folk music buzzing low in the background, and an almost criminal amount of food that Niall insisted would be finished because he was ready for the challenge.

Dinner was its own mess of overlapping conversations, clinking glasses, and Liam trying to stop Basil from stealing sausages straight off the table.

At one point, after Harry made a sly comment about Louis' attempts at cooking being "at least brave," Louis pressed a hand to his heart dramatically and said, "I'll have you know, I once made a soufflé so emotional it collapsed before it even made it to the oven."

Zayn nearly snorted wine through his nose.

"And I," Louis continued grandly, "have baked exactly one cake in my life and it looked like a sad deflated tire, but it was made with love."

"Did it taste like rubber too?" Niall asked sweetly, fluttering his lashes.

Harry gasped. "I'll have you know, it was delightfully chewy."

They all burst out laughing again, Harry reaching for Louis' hand under the table instinctively, squeezing it in a way that said I'm kidding, I love you, please never change, and Louis squeezed back, his grin softening at the corners.

After dinner, which somehow did not kill any of them despite Zayn attempting a spicy curry no one had agreed to, they cleared the plates in a storm of ridiculous teamwork, Liam directing traffic like a drill sergeant and Niall sneaking handfuls of stuffing when he thought no one was looking.

"Oi! That's for the midnight snack!" Liam scolded.

Niall blinked innocently. "I'm carbo-loading. Essential for dancing."

"Why would we dance? You haven't danced properly since 2017," Liam said.

"Tonight's the comeback," Niall shot back.

"The Return of the King," Harry intoned, pitching his voice deep and solemn like a movie trailer.

Zayn snorted. "Alright, Tolkien, let's save it for later."

They reconvened in the living room after that, the five of them sprawling across every available surface, music turned up just enough to make conversation require leaning in a little closer.

Basil was back in his glory, alternating between laying his heavy head on Liam's lap, then Zayn's, then squeezing himself onto the sofa between Louis and Harry as if he couldn't possibly decide which human was his favorite.

It was cozy and loud and safe in a way Louis had almost forgotten he could have again but somehow even sweeter because he knew now what it was like to almost lose it forever.

Around ten-thirty, Liam made a show of disappearing into the kitchen with Zayn, suspiciously smug grins exchanged between them. When they returned, they were balancing a cake that was somehow even more absurd than Louis expected: a giant, chocolate-covered monstrosity, crowned with sparklers and a ridiculous amount of glittery decorations spelling out HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, LOU.

They all sang a loud, off-key version of "Happy Birthday," Harry wrapping his arms around Louis from behind halfway through, pressing a kiss to his temple as everyone clapped and cheered.

"Make a wish, birthday boy," Niall said, nudging him.

Louis closed his eyes for a second longer than necessary.

Please just let it stay like this. Let it stay good. Let it stay real.

He blew out the candles and everyone whooped.

Harry turned him around and kissed him right there, smiling against his mouth, the cake and the candles and the boys' drunken cheering fading into a beautiful blur.

And when they demanded a speech, he stood, glass in hand, cheeks flushed from champagne and love and all the soft, wonderful exhaustion of a year that had nearly broken him but somehow put him back together again, piece by piece.

"I don't think I deserve all of you," Louis said honestly, voice rough around the edges. "But I'm grateful every bloody day that you're mine. You lot.." he glanced around the room, lingering on Harry last, "you're my heart. Always have been."

It was cheesy and it was true, and by the time he sat down again, Niall was pretending to blow his nose dramatically into a napkin, and Harry's hand found his thigh under the table, warm and steady.

"Alright, alright, enough emotions," Zayn grumbled, wiping at his eye in a way he clearly thought was discreet. "More booze."

"Finally!" Niall said, already popping open another bottle.

The night carried on, the music turned up louder, the laughter a little freer, the world shrinking down to just their little universe of candlelight and music and old friends who knew too much about each other to ever really be apart again.

Basil howled along to one particularly high note in a song Harry insisted on karaoke-ing to, which was honestly more on-key than Niall. Louis laughed so hard he actually had to wipe tears from his eyes, leaning into Harry without even thinking, Harry automatically wrapping an arm around his shoulders, tugging him close like it was the most natural thing in the world.

As midnight approached, the energy buzzed higher, the music louder, the laughter sharper.

They counted down together, arms slung around shoulders, champagne sloshing in flutes, Basil barking excitedly as the clock ticked toward twelve.

5... 4... 3... 2... 1...

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Everyone shouted and cheered, fireworks bursting in the distance.

Louis barely had a second to turn before Harry caught him by the face, pulling him into a kiss that felt like a whole lifetime in itself, desperate and soft and sure.

When they pulled back, flushed and smiling and stupidly in love, Harry whispered, almost reverent, "Happy New Year, Lou."

"Happy New Year, Haz," Louis breathed back.

It was a new year.
It was a new beginning.
And it was theirs.

*

By the time the fireworks had faded into the London night sky and the champagne bottles had been drained, not a single one of them had the energy, or the sobriety, to go home.

At some point around two in the morning, they all collapsed where they stood.

Liam, ever the responsible host even in his tipsy state, handed out spare duvets and pillows like a sleepover dad. Basil was vibrating with excitement, weaving between them, licking faces and wagging his tail so hard it made the couch rattle.

Louis and Harry ended up sharing the big couch, tangled together under a too-small blanket that Harry kept pulling off Louis by accident every time he shifted.

"Stop moving, ya big giraffe," Louis mumbled into his chest, too tired to even open his eyes.

"You're a tiny man," Harry slurred back, tucking Louis closer. "You don't need all the blanket."

"I'll smother you," Louis warned and Harry laughed into his hair, a sound so wrecked and happy it made Louis' heart ache.

Niall was face-down on the floor in a nest of pillows, muttering something about Guinness and bad life choices. Zayn and Liam had retreated to their room after making sure everyone was settled, though Basil occasionally poked his head out, checking to make sure his kingdom was still intact.

At some point someone, probably Harry, started humming Hey There Delilah, and for a long, hazy moment, it felt like being seventeen again. Like nothing had ever broken or bled or gone wrong.

Louis fell asleep with his head on Harry's chest, hearing the steady beat of his heart, and thought:

Maybe this is what it means to come home.

*

The morning after was a disaster.

Louis woke up to the smell of strong coffee and someone gagging dramatically in the hallway (sounded a lot like Niall).
His back hurt. His neck hurt. His head hurt.
He cracked one eye open and saw Harry still snoring, mouth open, curls a riot, face blissfully unaware of the mortal pain Louis was currently enduring.

"Bastard," Louis muttered affectionately, shoving him lightly.

Harry stirred with a groan, blinking blearily. "M'dying."

"Yeah, welcome to thirties," Louis croaked.

Groaning and laughing, they peeled themselves off the couch, bones cracking like a percussion ensemble. The flat looked like a battlefield, empty bottles everywhere, clementines rolling under furniture, someone's glittery party hat hanging from Basil's tail.

In the kitchen, Liam was already brewing industrial amounts of coffee, looking mildly traumatized.

"Happy New Year, boys," he said hoarsely, handing them mugs like they were soldiers at war.

"Why is the sun so angry?" Niall demanded from under a blanket on the floor.

"Because God hates us," Louis deadpanned, making Harry choke on his coffee.

Basil, immune to the horrors of alcohol and bad decisions, trotted around the living room with a sock in his mouth, wagging happily as if mocking their collective misery.

Despite the pounding headaches and the suspicious bruises (Harry had a mysterious glittery mark on his forehead he couldn't explain), it was one of the best mornings Louis had ever had. Full of easy smiles, affectionate shoves, and the kind of laughter that only came from surviving something ridiculous together.

They eventually found some energy to clean up, or at least, pretend to, before they all crawled into their respective Ubers, groaning, half-asleep, promising to do it again next year.

On the ride home, Louis leaned heavily against Harry, eyes closed, letting the gentle hum of the car lull him into a doze.

Harry's hand found his under the blanket Louis had stolen from Liam's house, their fingers tangling quietly.

"Best birthday slash new year's ever," Louis mumbled against Harry's shoulder.

Harry kissed his hair. "Best everything ever."

They fell asleep just like that, with the city flying past them in a Uber, cradled in something soft and steady and real.

*

The first few days of January slipped by like melted snow; slow, easy and a little blurry around the edges. Harry's flat became their cocoon, wrapped in the warmth of thick jumpers and endless mugs of tea and the soft thrum of music Harry always had playing somewhere in the background.

They moved around each other in a rhythm that felt both new and ancient, brushing shoulders in the kitchen, sharing toothbrushes without thinking, collapsing together on the couch after long days without needing to say much at all.

Louis had gone straight back to work after the New Year, balancing his delicate caseload with remarkable ease. He often came 'home' with a tired smile, dropping his bag and toeing off his shoes before falling straight into Harry's waiting arms.

And Harry, for the first time in what felt like years, found himself living outside of work, letting himself be someone other than just Doctor Styles. He worked his shifts, of course, but he also took himself out shopping, explored new cafés, spent hours wandering little bookshops, letting his mind breathe in a way it hadn't in years.

One Thursday evening, Louis came back late, the cold clinging to his cheeks, his hair a mess from the wind. He found Harry in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, baking.

"What's the occasion?" Louis asked, tossing his bag onto a chair and grinning.

Harry turned around with a flour-smudged nose and a sheepish smile. "Thought we could plan a winter date. Maybe... ice skating? Hot chocolate after? Pretend we're teenagers?"

Louis laughed, warm and full. "You're gonna fall on your arse."

"Not if you catch me," Harry said, winking exaggeratedly, making Louis snort.

They settled into the evening like that, planning silly dates they'd probably mess up, debating whether winter picnics were romantic or just a good way to catch pneumonia, Harry nearly burning a batch of cookies while Louis teased him mercilessly.

*

Louis arrived early at his practice, energized despite the dark clouds overhead. He had a full schedule: a few returning patients he already cherished for their bravery, and two brand-new ones who had been referred after hearing about him through word of mouth.

It still amazed him, how people found hope in the soft strength he offered. How word about his practice had spread quietly, kindly, like a ripple across a still lake.

During his short lunch break, he texted Harry:

Got three new patients signed today. Might finally afford a couch that doesn't break my back.

Harry's answer came a minute later:

Proud of you, love. We'll go couch shopping Saturday.

Louis chuckled to himself, already picturing Harry dramatically throwing himself onto every single couch they tested.

Meanwhile, Harry's day at the hospital was relatively quiet. Between patients, he ducked into the staff lounge where he found Niall sprawled on a chair, munching on crisps despite the "No Food" sign.

They chatted easily, about the boys, about Basil's newest trick (he had learned to bring slippers to Zayn and was now unbearably smug about it).

At one point, Niall leaned back and said, "You're different now, y'know. Lighter. Like... I dunno. Like you finally took that bloody backpack of guilt off your shoulders."

Harry fiddled with the label of his water bottle, smiling softly. "Feels like that too."

And it did , every day, it felt a little more real.
A little more permanent.

Saturday arrived with the kind of soft, stubborn snow that turned London streets into watercolor paintings. Louis wore a thick navy jumper and a coat that looked stolen from Harry's closet, while Harry showed up in a ridiculous knitted beanie with two pom-poms that bobbed every time he turned his head.

They argued about couches in two different stores—Harry wanted something impractically soft, Louis demanded back support like an eighty-year-old—but eventually they compromised on a plush, sturdy grey one that they could both live with.

"I'm still buying ridiculous throw pillows," Harry warned as they paid.

"You're still paying for them," Louis countered, smirking.

They ended the day in a tiny café, sharing a brownie so rich it probably shaved minutes off their lifespan. Harry had cocoa foam on his upper lip, and Louis didn't even think before leaning in and kissing it away, right there in front of everyone.

It wasn't the kind of kiss meant to be seen. It was the kind meant to be felt, soft and slow and sure.

And if a few strangers smiled over their mugs and looked away politely, well... that was just part of it.

Later that night, they curled up together on Louis' (their) new couch, a film playing they weren't really watching. Harry tucked his nose against Louis' neck and whispered, "Feels like we're building something, doesn't it?"

Louis ran his hand lazily through Harry's hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "We are," he said simply. "Brick by brick."

Harry smiled so hard it hurt and pulled Louis closer. Outside, the snow kept falling, quietly erasing the sharp edges of the world.

Inside, two people, who had once been everything and then nothing to each other, found themselves becoming everything again, only stronger this time, only real.

*

The snow had mostly melted by late January, leaving the streets wet and gray, but their world remained wrapped in a kind of quiet magic that neither of them dared disturb.
The days blurred together in the best way, steady heartbeat of work, home, love, repeat; building a rhythm that felt more natural than anything either of them had ever known.

It was a Sunday morning, the kind that came wrapped in slow-moving clouds and the smell of rain in the air. Harry had dragged Louis back to bed after breakfast under the excuse that it was "too bloody cold to be upright," but really he just wanted to burrow into Louis' warmth for as long as he'd allow it.

They lay tangled in each other, Harry's fingers lazily tracing nonsense shapes into Louis' bare hip, Louis' hand resting heavy on Harry's chest, feeling the slow, steady thud of his heart. They did that often now, just laying together in bed, completely naked and just the feeling of skin touching skin, as if they needed it without any barriers to  know the other was real—that this was real.

The flat was silent, apart from the occasional sleepy hum Harry let slip every time Louis moved just slightly against him.

At some point, when the ceiling had been sufficiently stared at and the lazy kisses had turned into the kind that made Louis huff out a laugh against Harry's throat, Harry tilted his head back and asked, "What are you thinking about?"

Louis didn't answer immediately. He shifted onto his side, propping his head up with one hand, and looked down at Harry... really looked, taking in the mess of curls flattened against the pillow, the faint freckles still visible despite the winter paleness, the familiar green of his eyes that somehow managed to look brand new every time.

Finally Louis said quietly, "How easy this feels now. And how bloody hard we made it for ourselves before."

Harry smiled, small and a little sad. "We didn't know better."

Louis exhaled slowly, pressing his forehead against Harry's. "I still feel bad," he admitted, voice low and rough. "For... how quick I was to forgive everyone else. My family, Zayn, the others... even myself, for being a coward. But not you. I held it against you like you meant to hurt me."

Harry's hand found his, squeezing gently. "You were hurting. You had every right to."

"But you didn't deserve it," Louis said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. His voice cracked a little. "You didn't deserve me looking at you like you ruined everything, when you were the one who fought hardest to keep me in your life. And you certainly didn't deserve me pretending you don't exist anymore."

Harry blinked, and Louis saw the shimmer there, the old fear that still hadn't fully left him.

"I never blamed you for needing time," Harry whispered. "I blamed myself for not being braver and telling you immediately."

Louis closed his eyes for a moment, breathing through it.

When he spoke again, his voice was steadier. "We're not those people anymore. We can talk now. We can say when we're scared. When we need each other. And yes, you cut me deep, but I chose to love you louder than ever."

Harry nodded teary eyed, cupping Louis' cheek, his thumb brushing the soft skin just below his eye.

"I love you too and I'll spend the rest of my life proving it to you," Harry said, and it wasn't a plea—it was a promise.

Louis smiled then, a slow almost shy thing. "You already are."

They kissed again, just a long, deep meeting of mouths that said everything they hadn't found the words for.

When they finally broke apart Harry grinned. "Not to kill the mood, but... if you don't move your knee soon, I might lose feeling in my entire leg."

Louis laughed, untangling them with a ridiculous amount of drama, flopping onto his back and declaring, "Murderer."

They stayed like that, basking in the silly, sleepy aftermath of a conversation that once would have broken them apart and now stitched them even closer together.

Later after showers and mugs of tea and Louis managing to burn toast again, they found themselves sprawled across the couch, a pile of home decor magazines abandoned on the coffee table in front of them.

They hadn't talked about moving in together in any official capacity yet, but somehow somewhere between the new couch and them living practically together anyway, it had started to feel inevitable.

"You realize," Louis said, flipping absently through a magazine, "we could just get a bigger flat. Instead of, you know, moving back and forth with our stuff every weekend."

Harry's eyes lit up instantly, the kind of wide-eyed, hopeful look that made Louis' heart ache in the best way.

"Yeah?" Harry asked, voice soft.

Louis shrugged, pretending to study a page full of rugs. "Only if you want to."

Harry was on him in two seconds flat, knocking the magazine out of his hands and straddling his lap, grinning so wide it was practically illegal.

"I want to," he said, punctuating each word with a kiss. "I want to. I want to. I want to."

Louis laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch, but he held Harry close, feeling dizzy with happiness.

"You're such a menace," Louis said affectionately, carding his fingers through Harry's hair.

"And you're stuck with me," Harry replied, kissing his nose.

They talked about it properly after that, looking at neighborhoods, weighing options, laughing about how much closet space Harry would need a la "You're not dragging twenty pairs of boots into my life, Styles."

It was exhilarating, not the rush of fear they'd once associated with change, but a slow, steady build of excitement. This time, it wasn't about saving something broken. It was about building something better.

That night, they made dinner together, Harry chopping vegetables with alarming enthusiasm, Louis managing the oven with the focus of a man defusing a bomb.

They ate cross-legged on the couch, plates balanced precariously on their laps, laughing about everything and nothing.

Afterward, they found themselves wrapped in a blanket by the window, watching the rain fall in soft sheets across the city.

Louis' head rested against Harry's chest, their hands twined together under the blanket.

"We've come a long way since Princess Park don't you think?" Harry murmured, breaking the comfortable silence.

Louis hummed. "And we're just getting started."

Harry tilted his head down, pressing a kiss to Louis' hair. "I love you," he said, soft but certain.

Louis lifted his gaze, blue eyes burning with something too big for words. "I love you more," he said, smiling that small, fierce smile that Harry knew had always meant I choose you.

They didn't need fireworks or declarations shouted into the night, they also didn't need drama or grand gestures.

They needed this, the small, quiet certainty that wherever life led them, it would be together.

Harry tucked Louis even closer against him, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath his palms, and thought, This is it. This is home.

And outside, the city pulsed and breathed, indifferent and vast but inside Louis' little flat, the whole universe had narrowed down to the space between two beating hearts.

Two boys, grown into men.
Two broken hearts, stitched back together.
Two lives, intertwining so tightly that they no longer knew where one ended and the other began.

It was messy, it was imperfect, it was beautiful.

And it was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

1 year later

The flat looked nothing like it did the day they moved in.

The walls were filled with photos; laughing ones, blurry ones, ones taken when neither of them noticed.

There were plants (more than Louis would ever admit agreeing to), a ridiculous record collection, a rainbow of throw blankets Harry had insisted on and a kitchen that Louis had somehow become very territorial about.

The place was alive. It felt like them.

And today was special. Today was their one-year anniversary of moving in.

Harry woke up first, because Louis was practically glued to his side, mouth open slightly, hair a glorious disaster. Harry watched him for a moment, heart so full he thought it might burst.

Then he kissed Louis' shoulder and whispered, "Happy move-in-together-anniversary, love."

Louis mumbled something unintelligible and pulled him closer, burying his face in Harry's chest. They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in morning warmth and soft kisses and whispered I-love-you's.

At some point, Louis cracked one eye open and said, "How did we get so lucky?"

Harry smiled. "Dunno. Don't care. Never letting go."

And he meant it.

They spent the day exactly how they wanted, breakfast at their favorite little café (where Harry spilled his coffee all over the table and Louis cackled so hard the waitress gave them free biscuits), a long walk in the park with Basil (they ended up babysitting him more often since Liam and Zayn had a baby six months ago and were still adjusting to that), and lazy hours curled up on the couch watching terrible movies.

They exchanged small gifts, nothing flashy, just meaningful. Harry gave Louis a leather bracelet with the coordinates of their flat engraved inside.
Louis gave Harry a framed photo from their first night in the flat—half blurry, full of laughter.

It was perfect. And then, naturally, it ended in the bedroom.

Louis was stretched out beneath Harry, still slightly flushed from laughing so much earlier, his shirt discarded somewhere across the room.

Harry kissed his way up Louis' torso slowly, deliberately, taking his time.

"You're mine," Harry whispered against his skin.

"Yours," Louis breathed, arching up into him, fingers tangling in Harry's hair as the latter slowly pushed into him again and again.

When Louis came, it was with a broken, beautiful cry of Harry's name, his hands clutching at Harry's back like he never wanted to let go.

And when Harry followed, it was with his forehead pressed to Louis' temple, whispering, "Always.. always you."

When they lay together after they cleaned themselves up, Louis traced lazy patterns on Harry's chest, smiling. "We really did it," he said quietly.

Harry kissed the top of his head. "We're doing it. Every day."

Louis smiled wider, letting himself believe it, letting himself live it. "Happy move-in-together-anniversary," he whispered.

Harry tightened his arms around him. "Happy everything."

And outside, the city slept on, vast and unknowable. But here, in the space between two hearts, there was only certainty.

There was only home.

And Louis and Harry? They're home. Always.

The End
- at least for us, at least for this story, but in our minds and imagination the endless universe of Harry and Louis will live as long as we let them.