Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Louis had hated school for as long as he could remember. It wasn’t just the lessons that dragged, or the early mornings, or the endless noise of classrooms. It was the way the walls seemed to close in on him, the way he never quite fit in, like he was always a step out of sync with everyone else. Football was the only thing that made sense — the only escape from the dull, pointless routine.

He stared out the window, watching the grey sky blur into a pale haze. His mind wandered, tracing the cracks in the glass, thinking about the ball waiting for him at practice, the feel of the grass beneath his boots. He let the quiet grow inside him, shutting out the noise of the lesson, the teacher’s voice blending into a meaningless hum.

And then, like a splash of cold water, Harry’s voice cut through the fog. “Oi, Louis, you coming or what?”

Louis’s jaw clenched. That calm, effortless tone always grated on him. Harry — quiet, smart, the kind of boy who didn’t need to prove anything, the kind of boy everyone seemed to like. Louis had never been able to stand him. The way Harry moved through school like it was all easy, like he belonged.

He snapped his head toward the door, watching Harry lean against the frame, that small, confident smile flickering like he knew something Louis didn’t.

Louis hated it. Hated him.

But today, like every other day, he pushed the feelings down, shoved them away as the bell rang, breaking the spell.

Football practice was waiting. And for now, that was all that mattered.
____

In the hallway, the usual chaos swirled around him—students shouting, lockers slamming, the unmistakable buzz of teenage life. Louis kept his gaze forward, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

He passed Harry without a word, his stomach tightening at the brief contact of their shoulders as they brushed past. Louis’s steps didn’t falter. He didn’t turn back.

A few yards ahead, he spotted Zayn leaning against the lockers, scrolling through his phone with that laid-back air that made everything seem effortless. Louis relaxed a little, the tension loosening in his chest.

“Oi,” Zayn said, looking up and flashing a half-smile. “Heading to practice?”

Louis nodded, shrugging his bag higher on his shoulder. “Yeah. Can’t wait to get out of here.”

Zayn grinned, pushing off the lockers. “Same. This place’s a nightmare sometimes.”

Louis laughed softly, the sound unfamiliar in the noisy corridor. “You don’t play football though.”

“Nah, not my thing,” Zayn said with a shrug. “But I’m your biggest fan.”

Louis shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re a legend, mate.”

They walked side by side for a moment, the noise fading behind them as they headed toward the pitch. Louis’s mind still churned with the lingering tension, but for once, the weight wasn’t quite so heavy.

“See you there,” Louis said, nodding to Zayn as they reached the gate.

“Later, Louis.”

With that, Louis stepped onto the grass, the familiar scent of cut turf and sweat filling his lungs. The world narrowed down to the game, the ball, and the chance to escape — if only for a little while.
_____

Louis pushed the door open and stepped inside the changing rooms, the familiar clang echoing hollowly off the white tiles and worn benches. The smell hit him first — stale sweat, damp socks, the faint trace of grass and dirt clinging stubbornly to scuffed trainers. It was a scent he’d grown up with, one that wrapped around him like a second skin, even if it was a smell most would find unpleasant.

He felt the weight of the room settle on his shoulders as he moved deeper inside. The chatter and laughter of the football lads surrounded him like a low hum, but Louis didn’t hear most of it. His thoughts were thick and restless, like a storm that wouldn’t break.

School had always been a battle he never wanted to fight. For as long as he could remember, he hated it. The classrooms with their cold walls and endless noise. The teachers with their clipped voices and impossible expectations. The endless parade of people who pretended to care but really just wanted to make him feel smaller.

Football was the only thing that made any of it bearable — the only place where the noise faded into the background and he could lose himself in something real, something physical. But even here, surrounded by his teammates, the distance between him and the others felt like a canyon.

He spotted Stan first — leaning casually against the wall, eyes sharp and calculating as always. Louis hated the way Stan always seemed to watch him, like waiting for him to slip up. But today, Louis didn’t care. He was numb to it.

A few yards away, Liam was quietly tying his gloves, calm and steady. Liam always had that unshakable patience, like he saw things differently, like he could read the room but chose to stay above the noise. Louis gave him a small nod as he passed.

“Alright, Louis,” Liam said softly, his voice like a steady hand on a rough day. “Catch you out there.”

The words felt like a lifeline, small but real. Louis managed a tight smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Harry was already seated on the bench, quiet as ever, focused on tying his boots. Louis’s stomach tightened. He could feel the familiar tension twist inside him — the tangled mix of resentment and something he wouldn’t quite admit even to himself. They didn’t talk. They barely looked at each other. But the silence between them was loud.

Louis shoved his bag onto the bench and pulled out his kit. His fingers fumbled with the fabric, pulling his jersey over his head. The rough material scratched at his skin, grounding him in the moment.

He tried to push down the thoughts, the feelings that always bubbled to the surface when Harry was near. The bitterness. The frustration. The envy that Harry somehow made everything look effortless, even when Louis was burning to prove himself.

Louis didn’t want to admit it, but sometimes he wondered if Harry felt the same — if beneath that calm exterior there was a storm too. Maybe that’s why they kept their distance, neither brave enough to break the silence, both trapped in their own walls.

The noise of the other lads filtered through — Jake showing off, Marcus trying to keep the peace. They were all distractions, but none of them really mattered to Louis right now.

He took a deep breath, the air thick with sweat and expectation. It was just practice. Just another day. But for Louis, it was the only place where the world made a little sense.

Louis pulled his jacket on over his training kit, slinging his bag over one shoulder. The chatter in the changing rooms dimmed behind him as he stepped outside, the sharp spring air hitting his face and clearing some of the fog in his head.

The school football pitch stretched out before him, the grass freshly cut but still holding the dampness from the morning dew. Around the edges, the familiar clump of cheerleaders were gathered, stretching and chatting with the easy confidence of people who belonged here just as much as the footballers.

Louis spotted Elenor instantly — her brown hair catching the sun, her bright smile like it was meant for someone else. She was halfway between chatting with the others and scanning the field, waiting for Louis or maybe just watching the game.

He felt the familiar knot twist in his chest — a mix of irritation and something he couldn’t quite name. Elenor had been around forever, or at least it felt that way. She’d come to nearly every match, every practice when she could. Always hovering just close enough to be noticed, but never quite part of his world.

“Hey,” she called as he walked near, voice light but with an edge that Louis couldn’t ignore.

He shrugged on a half-smile, not meeting her eyes. “Hey.”

“Ready for practice?” she asked, stepping closer, the cheerleaders laughing quietly behind her.

Louis shrugged again, more out of habit than anything. “Yeah, it’s just practice.”

Elenor tilted her head, eyes searching his face like she was trying to find the boy she thought she knew underneath the layers he kept so well hidden. “You’ve been quiet lately. Everything okay?”

Louis snorted softly, a bitter sound that he didn’t bother hiding. “Everything’s always okay. Just school, you know.”

She didn’t press further, just gave a small nod like she understood but maybe didn’t really want to. “If you need anything…” she started but caught herself, voice trailing off as if unsure whether to offer real support or just empty words.

Louis looked away, toward the pitch, the grass and the goalposts waiting. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

There was a pause, the kind that stretched between people who wanted to say more but never did.

Elenor smiled then, softer this time, maybe even genuine. “Well, good luck out there.”

Louis gave a small nod in return before turning toward the field, the noise of the cheerleaders and their easy laughter fading behind him. He tried to push the complicated feelings down, the flicker of something unresolved between them, and focus on the game ahead.

The pitch looked the same as always — an escape, a battlefield, a place where maybe he could find a piece of himself that school and everything else kept trying to steal.
_____

Boots thudded against grass, echoing sharp commands and shouts across the pitch. The sun had dipped just enough to cast long shadows over the field, but training wasn’t slowing down. If anything, it was just heating up.

Louis jogged back into position after a drill, sweat sticking to his neck, his shirt clinging uncomfortably to his back. His fringe was damp, clumped to his forehead, and his thighs were already aching. He liked that though—aching muscles meant distraction. Distraction meant silence. Silence meant peace. Sort of.

Across the pitch, Harry adjusted the hem of his shirt, then shifted into position as coach barked for another round. His face was all calm and quiet, brows drawn in concentration as he readied himself. It pissed Louis off for some reason he didn’t want to look too closely at.

Zayn had long since slinked off toward the stands, not part of the team but always lingering close enough to loiter with the rest after practice. Liam was between the posts, gloves on, crouched and focused as ever. Stan and the others were busy trying to one-up each other on the sideline. Niall, sat on the benches near the cheerleaders, was already loudly munching crisps and yelling useless commentary across the field like he was on Sky Sports.

“Move it, Styles,” Louis muttered as he brushed past him, elbow sharp and too intentional.

Harry’s eyes flicked over, cold and clipped. “I’m literally standing where coach told me to, mate.”

Louis scoffed, turning his back without a second glance. “Didn’t realise you suddenly listen to people. Or maybe that’s just when it’s not me talking.”

He heard Harry exhale sharply—one of those tight, tired sighs—but he didn’t respond. He never did. That always wound Louis up more than it should. It wasn’t that he wanted a fight… but he didn’t not want one, either.

They broke into a scrimmage, and from the start Louis had it out for him. Always near Harry, always intercepting. Not illegal, not foul-worthy—but tight, clingy, pressuring. Every time Harry touched the ball, Louis was there within a breath. Sometimes just close enough to crowd his space, other times nipping it off him with a pointed smirk.

“Bit slow today, Haz. Everything alright at home?” Louis tossed out, voice syrupy-sweet with venom.

Harry didn’t answer, just passed off and moved to find space. Calm. Controlled. Always infuriatingly level-headed.

Coach blew the whistle. “Reset, lads—run it again!”

As they jogged back into place, Liam clapped Louis on the back. “Ease up, mate,” he said quietly, voice low and good-natured. “You’re playing like someone nicked your last cigarette.”

Louis huffed out a laugh, brushing him off. “Nah, just allergic to posers.”

He didn’t wait for Liam’s response before jogging back into formation. And again—like clockwork—he ended up near Harry.

The ball snapped across the field from one side to the other. Harry’s footwork was decent, tight as he weaved through, but Louis saw it coming and slipped in to intercept. He stole the ball clean, maybe with a bit more force than necessary, shoulder catching Harry’s chest as he passed.

“Oops,” Louis said, not even bothering to fake sincerity.

Harry’s eyes narrowed as he turned sharply. “Try keeping your elbows to yourself.”

“What, can dish it but can’t take it?” Louis taunted, dribbling lazily just out of reach. “Thought you were meant to be tough, Styles.”

Harry lunged, took the ball back without a word, but not without fire. For the first time that afternoon, Louis saw something shift. A crack in that cool facade. A little twitch in Harry’s jaw.

Good.

Louis wasn’t even sure what he was doing anymore—why it mattered, why winding him up made training feel less shit—but it had become a sport of its own.

Coach called for a break. Water bottles were passed around, some of the lads collapsing to the grass. Liam chucked his gloves to the ground and wiped his brow.

Louis leaned back against the post, sipping slowly, watching Harry stretch his shoulder just a few feet away. His eyes traced the tension there—the lines of his back, the muscles in his arms—and he hated himself for noticing.

He turned away sharply, hurling his empty bottle toward Niall on the bench. “Oi! Get us another, would ya?”

“You’ve got legs, ya goblin!” Niall yelled back, already tossing one in the air anyway.

As Louis caught it, he glanced back once more—Harry watching him now, expression unreadable.

Neither of them said a word. But the air between them was electric. Charged.
___

Coach hadn’t even finished calling the next drill before Louis was back in motion. He didn’t look at Harry now. He didn’t have to. Just knowing he was close was enough to keep the blood rushing hot under his skin.

Liam shouted something from goal—something about staying tight on marking—and Louis barely registered it. The whistle blew again. They were off.

The ball spun fast across the grass, Harry taking possession with ease near the edge of the centre circle, feet light and controlled. He passed wide to Stan, who barely kept it in play, then darted forward again for the return. Louis clocked it early, turned sharp on his heel, and cut across the line.

“Don’t fuck it up now, prince charming,” Louis called as he closed the space.

Harry didn’t rise to it. Of course he didn’t.

He caught the return, bounced the ball up, and tried to break around the corner. But Louis had already stepped in—too fast, too close—and this time his shoulder clipped hard against Harry’s side, knocking him off balance. Not enough for a proper foul, but enough to make a point.

Harry stumbled slightly but stayed up, regaining the ball and letting it roll under his foot. He looked up at Louis then. Directly.

For a second it was dead silent around them. Stan whistled low somewhere behind. The slap of boots on turf faded beneath the stretch of tension pulling between them.

“You seriously got a problem?” Harry asked. Quiet, but sharp. His voice was low and tight—controlled still, but only just.

Louis smirked. “Only when you open your mouth.”

And that was it.

Harry stepped in, chest nearly touching Louis’, and pushed him back—not a full shove, not even angry in the usual way, but solid. It caught Louis off guard. He blinked, stumbling half a step before regaining balance.

“You want to fight with someone, pick someone who gives a shit,” Harry snapped. “I don’t. Never have.”

Louis’ mouth curled in something bitter and disbelieving. “That why you always look like you’re about to cry when I nick the ball off you?”

Harry scoffed. “You think that’s what gets to me?” he said, voice low. “You’re pathetic.”

Coach’s whistle blared through the moment.

“Cut it out!” he barked. “The pair of you, back in line! Now!”

They didn’t move at first. Just glared. Something unspoken fizzing hot in the air between them.

Then Liam was there, slipping between them with a hand out to Louis’ chest, gently steering him back.

“Come on,” Liam said under his breath. “Don’t let him get to you.”

“Me?” Louis barked a laugh, pushing Liam’s arm off. “He’s the one who snapped.”

Harry turned without a word, jogging back toward the line. The others watched, silent now. Stan muttered something to one of the other lads, a grin tugging at his face.

Louis stared at Harry’s back as he walked away, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. His chest was tight, breath short and shallow, and he didn’t know if he was more annoyed by what just happened—or the way it made something inside him twist with something he didn’t want to name.

He dragged a hand through his hair and spat into the grass.

Fucking Harry Styles.

Always looking so above it all. Always so calm—until he wasn’t. And now he’d snapped, Louis should’ve felt victorious. Should’ve felt smug.

But he didn’t. Not quite.
____

The rest of practice passed in a blur of sprints, drills, and heavy silence.

No more jabs. No more shoves. Just football.

Coach wasn’t taking any more nonsense, barking orders with clipped sharpness that meant business. The lads all fell in line—Liam making quiet efforts to keep the tone light with harmless little jokes, Stan still chuckling with the other year twos over God knows what. But Louis barely registered it. His legs moved on autopilot, boots cutting into grass, sweat slicking his back under his training kit. His lungs burned. His mind didn’t shut up.

Harry kept his distance.

Louis noticed.

Didn’t matter how much he tried to act like he didn’t. He saw him. Always. In the corner of his eye, across the field, standing still at the edge of a formation, stretching beside the water bench, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt like it wasn’t a fucking distraction.

And that push… the way he looked at Louis, like something had cracked.

He’d seen Harry pissed before. Quietly irritated, rolling his eyes, calling him a knobhead under his breath. But not like that. Not with heat in his words. Not with actual fire.

Louis didn’t like it.

Didn’t like the way it made his chest feel tight. Or the way his hands kept curling into fists with no place to put them. Or how Liam kept side-eying him like he was waiting for him to explode again.

“Alright lads, wrap it up!” Coach called, voice cutting through the evening light. “Cool down, stretch, then get outta here.”

The team broke apart into loose groups. Conversations started back up. Stan launched a ball over the fence, laughing as someone swore and chased it. Liam passed Louis a water bottle without a word.

Louis flopped onto the grass, stretching out his legs with a grunt, spine clicking as he leaned forward.

He was knackered.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, flicking it into the grass. The sky had turned dusky pink, the floodlights casting long shadows across the pitch. The cheerleaders had gathered at the far end now, just near the edge of the track, Eleanor among them with her hair in that high ponytail she always wore when she came to watch.

He knew she was waiting.

He didn’t look over yet.

Instead, he glanced sideways.

Harry was sitting alone a few metres away, tying his laces, jaw tense. There was a scratch on his arm now, thin and angry red, probably from that earlier tangle. Louis felt the ghost of guilt rise—but stamped it down hard.

Didn’t matter. Harry hated him too.

Probably always had.

Still. Something about the way he was sitting—shoulders tight, eyes locked on the ground—made Louis sit with it all a little longer than he should have.

He stood eventually, brushing dirt from his legs. “See you, mate,” he muttered to Liam as he passed.

Liam gave him a nod. “Don’t overthink it.”

Louis didn’t reply.
_____

The house was quiet when Louis stepped inside. Not the peaceful kind of quiet—more like the empty, heavy-limbed kind. The kind that settled into the corners and made the place feel colder than it was. He shut the door behind him with a nudge of his shoulder, toeing off his muddy trainers in the entryway, the thud of them hitting the wall too loud in the stillness.

No one came running to the door.

Not that he expected them to.

“Mum?” he called, out of habit more than hope. Nothing. Just the humming fridge, the faint ticking of the kitchen clock, and the muffled sound of the telly left on low in the living room.

He didn’t need a reply. He already knew.

She was still at work. Overtime, probably. Again.

He dropped his kit bag at the bottom of the stairs and rolled his neck, shoulders stiff from training and something deeper, something like frustration he couldn’t shake. The house smelled faintly of toast and shampoo, and the upstairs hallway light was on, casting a sliver of gold down the staircase.

He found Daisy and Phoebe in the front room, curled up on the couch under a mismatched blanket, cartoons flickering on the screen. Daisy was fast asleep, thumb in her mouth, Phoebe blinking slowly like she was fighting to stay awake.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured, stepping closer.

Phoebe looked up, smiled sleepily. “Hi Lou.”

“Did you eat?”

“Lottie made beans on toast.”

“Yeah? That good?”

She nodded, eyes already slipping shut. He crouched down and gently lifted Daisy into his arms, blanket and all. She was light, warm and soft against his chest, and didn’t even stir. He kissed her temple and whispered, “Come on then, time for bed.”

He carried her upstairs, flicked off lights as he went, stepping over scattered toys and a pair of Lottie’s trainers left in the hallway. He tucked the twins into their beds, pulled the curtains closed, and straightened their teddies in the corners. Phoebe murmured something about a story, but she was out before he even finished adjusting the duvet.

He lingered in the doorway for a moment, hand on the frame, watching them breathe.

Some days, he felt twice his age.

Down the hall, Lottie’s door was half open. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, phone in hand, scrolling. She glanced up as he passed.

“Alright?”

“Yeah,” Louis said. “They eat?”

“Yeah. You alright?”

He shrugged. “Long day.”

Lottie gave him a look—mature beyond her years, same one their mum wore sometimes when she was trying to read between the lines. “You coming down?”

“In a bit.”

He headed into his own room and shut the door behind him with a quiet click. The mess hit him immediately—clothes on the floor, school stuff still in his bag, half-done homework abandoned on the desk. A poster of Oasis was peeling slightly from the wall above his bed, and the only light came from the orange glow of the streetlamp outside seeping through the blinds.

He peeled off his kit, dumped it in the laundry basket, and sank onto his bed in just his joggers and a hoodie. His muscles ached. His brain wouldn’t shut off.

Harry fucking Styles.

Always in his head. Always in the way.

Louis clenched his jaw, staring up at the ceiling. He hated how much space Harry took up in his thoughts. Hated that the only time his heart actually raced was either mid-match or mid-argument. And most of all, he hated how calm Harry always seemed. Like nothing ever really got to him. Like Louis’s constant digs didn’t even scratch the surface.

But today, something had cracked.

That flash of heat in his voice, that snap—it replayed in Louis’s head on a loop. It should’ve satisfied him. Should’ve been the reaction he’d wanted for months.

So why did it feel so weird instead?

He rubbed his hands over his face, then dropped them into his lap. From down the hall, he could hear Lottie’s muffled laugh from a TikTok, the hum of the telly still on downstairs. The house felt more like a waiting room than a home—just a place to pause in between everything he had to hold up.

He reached over to grab his phone. Nothing from Eleanor. Not that he was expecting anything. She’d been quiet lately, only really messaging when she wanted to know if he’d be at practice or when she could tag along to one of the matches.

Not that he blamed her. He hadn’t exactly been trying.

He sighed again and leaned back, staring at the ceiling, letting the silence fill the cracks in him until he felt like he could breathe again. Just barely.

Louis didn’t sleep straight away.

He lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head as shadows from the streetlight slanted across his walls. The room was too quiet without the buzz of voices, the sound of boots thudding against turf, or the ever-growing snide voice in his head reminding him he’d have to see Harry bloody Styles again tomorrow.

He sighed and turned on his side, pulling his phone into view again. Couple of Snapchats from some of the lads on the team—mainly Stan, who Louis mostly left on delivered unless it was something funny. There was a group chat message from Zayn, just a meme about one of the teachers, and Louis sent back a laughing emoji before locking his phone again.

His thumb hovered over Eleanor’s name for a second, but he didn’t tap it.

He didn’t really know what he’d say.

He shut his eyes instead, forcing his mind to empty. But it never really worked.

Not when Harry’s voice kept echoing—low, tight, angry from earlier on the pitch. “You really don’t shut up, do you?”

It had stuck with him more than he’d admit.

There’d been a crack in it. A sharp edge that had lingered behind Louis’s ribs since it happened. He’d wanted to get under Harry’s skin—and clearly, he had. But now that he had, all it did was raise more questions.

Why the hell did he care so much?

He scoffed under his breath and flipped onto his back again. His eyes were dry. His jaw ached from clenching. His whole body still felt like it was moving at practice pace, even though he was wrapped up in sheets and not grass stains.

Eventually, his body gave in. Not to peace. Just to exhaustion.

Chapter Text

Louis woke to the dull buzz of his alarm cutting through the early morning silence. The bedroom was still dim, shadows stretching across the cluttered floor. He lay there for a moment, staring up at the cracked ceiling, feeling the usual weight of the day pressing down before it even started. School. Same as always.

The sunlight tried to sneak through the curtains, but Louis pulled them tighter shut, wanting just a few more minutes of quiet. His mind drifted, replaying yesterday’s training — the easy digs, the way Harry barely reacted, but Louis could feel the tension simmering just beneath the surface. That made it worse somehow. Like poking a bruise that wouldn’t heal.

He sighed and rolled out of bed, his feet cold against the floor. The small room smelled faintly of last night’s leftovers and old sweat. His mum would be at work already — probably pulling another twelve-hour shift just to keep things running. Again.

Louis didn’t bother with breakfast; there was usually nothing worth eating anyway, or if there was, it was cold by the time he remembered. Instead, he got dressed in the faded school uniform — a shirt that had seen better days and a tie he never quite managed to get straight. He tugged on his jacket, grabbed his bag, and glanced at the small photo taped above his desk: Daisy and Phoebe, their faces bright and smiling, reminding him why he kept going.

He wasn’t ready to think about the twins just yet.

Outside, the world was already noisy — the usual early traffic, distant chatter of neighbours, and somewhere, a dog barking. Louis locked his door quietly and headed down the stairs, ready to face whatever the day might throw at him. But the thought of Harry lurking somewhere in the school halls twisted in his gut like a stone.

Another day. Another battle.
_____

Outside, the street was coming to life, and just as he locked his door, he spotted Zayns’s battered old car pull up. Niall leaned out the window with a grin, waving.

“Morning, Louis”

Louis couldn’t help but smirk.

As he climbed in, he spotted Harry and Niall walking a few steps behind. Harry caught Louis’ eye for a second — a quick flash of something — but looked away just as fast. Niall just nodded casually in Louis’ direction.

Louis shook his head, settling in the car. Today was just another day, but the usual complications were never far behind.
_____

The car rumbled to life, and Zayn’s easy chatter filled the small space between them.

“You reckon you’ll get a break from all that practice soon?” Zayn asked, glancing over with a teasing grin. “Or are you stuck doing laps till you drop?”

Louis snorted. “I’m not complaining. Football’s the only thing that makes school bearable.”

Zayn nodded, his grin softening. “Yeah, I get that. Though I swear, sometimes the teachers care more about their coffee breaks than teaching.”

Louis laughed quietly. “You’re not wrong.”

Outside, Harry and Niall fell into step behind them, their voices low but easy. Louis caught snatches of their conversation — something about the new drills Coach had added — but he tuned it out mostly, focusing on the familiar rhythm of the road.

When Zayn pulled up near the school gates, Louis grabbed his bag, throwing a quick thanks over his shoulder.

“Catch you later, Zayn,” he said, already scanning for Harry and Niall among the milling students.

They drifted closer, and Niall gave Louis a casual nod, while Harry’s eyes flicked away as if he’d rather be anywhere else.

Louis sighed internally but forced a neutral expression. Whatever the tension was, today wasn’t the day to let it take over. Not yet.
____

The classroom buzzed with quiet chatter, the kind that stretched into the edges of Louis’s thoughts like an unwelcome fog. He slumped deeper into his chair, eyes half-lidded, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling tiles above. School had never been his thing—never more than a necessary evil to get through. Football was his escape, the only place where things made sense.

He barely registered the teacher’s voice at first. “Alright, class, time to get started on the group project.”

Louis’s stomach tightened. Please, not him. Please, anyone but Harry.

Harry Styles. The name alone made Louis’s skin crawl. They had been at odds for as long as Louis could remember, a long history of silent tension broken only by Louis’s biting remarks and Harry’s quiet but sharp retorts. They didn’t speak, not really. More like a simmering war of glances and unspoken grudges.

Mr. Hayes continued, “I’m assigning partners today. Let’s see… Louis, you’ll be working with Harry.”

Louis froze mid-breath. His heart thudded hard in his chest. No way. Not Harry.

He forced a tight smile, standing up as Harry’s gaze flicked toward him. Harry looked annoyed, but there was no surprise in his eyes. Like he’d been expecting it, too.

Louis’s mind raced for a way out, but there was none. “Great,” Louis muttered under his breath, loud enough for Harry to hear.

Harry’s lips quirked, the barest hint of a smirk. “Could’ve been worse.”

Louis shot back, “Yeah, like who? The entire cheerleading squad?”

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t bite. Louis knew better than to push too hard today, but the urge was there, burning under his skin.

Liam, sitting a few rows over, chuckled low. “This should be interesting.”

Louis ignored him, dragging his chair back to sit beside Harry. The classroom seemed to shrink around them, the walls closing in with every beat of his heart.

As they sat, Louis tried to keep his thoughts in check, but they kept spiraling. Why does it have to be him? Why can’t I just get through this without the constant fight?

Harry tapped his pen on the desk, breaking the silence. “Look, we don’t have to make this a war.”

Louis scoffed. “No promises.”

Harry shrugged. “I’m just saying, maybe this time we keep it about the project and nothing else.”

Louis met his eyes for a moment, seeing the faint weariness behind the calm. He looked away, nodding slightly. “Fine. But don’t expect me to go easy.”

Harry smiled, a genuine one this time. “Wouldn’t want you to.”

The bell rang, and the room shifted back into the usual chaos of school life. But for a moment, Louis’s chest loosened. Maybe this project wasn’t the worst thing after all.
_____

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual midday chatter, trays clattering and trainers squeaking across the tile floor. Louis slumped down onto the bench across from Zayn, his tray untouched, his face already twisted into a familiar scowl.

Zayn looked up from his phone, lifting an eyebrow. “Bad class or just existing again?”

Louis shoved his tray forward with a huff. “Guess who I’m stuck with for this stupid project?”

Zayn didn’t even blink. “Harry.”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “You already knew, didn’t you?”

Zayn gave a slow shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile. “Might’ve heard it mentioned.”

Louis groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Unbelievable. Out of everyone in that bloody class—Hayes could’ve picked anyone—he puts me with him.”

Zayn popped a grape in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Maybe he thinks you need to learn teamwork.”

“With Harry Styles? The only thing I’m gonna learn is how to commit a murder and hide the body.”

Zayn snorted. “Wouldn’t be your first fake plan.”

“Not fake if I follow through this time.”

He paused, glancing across the cafeteria. A table near the windows had Harry and Niall sat close, Niall animated as always, arms flying while Harry just nodded with his quiet little smiles. Louis looked away before he could be caught staring.

Zayn followed his gaze anyway. “You know,” he said slowly, “you’re more bothered about this than usual.”

Louis reached for his juice box and deliberately squished it too hard, the straw nearly snapping. “Because it’s him, Zayn.”

“Sure,” Zayn said. “Definitely not because it’s him.”

Louis glared. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zayn raised both hands in surrender. “Nothing. Just saying. It’s weird how he bothers you so much, that’s all.”

“He doesn’t bother me—he’s smug and he walks around like he’s above it all, just ‘cause he’s got decent grades and kicks a ball straight.”

“You also kick a ball straight.”

“Exactly. Which is why it’s even more annoying when he acts like he’s the team’s gift to the world.”

Zayn leaned back, stretching out like he had all the time in the world. “Maybe he thinks the same about you.”

Louis blinked. “What?”

Zayn looked back down at his phone, like he hadn’t just dropped a small bomb. “Nothing.”

Louis stared at him, but Zayn didn’t offer anything else.

Across the cafeteria, Harry laughed at something Niall said, head tilted, curls bouncing. Louis turned away, the back of his neck warm for no reason.

He stabbed a fork into his sandwich and muttered, “This is going to be hell.”

Zayn finally looked back up, grinning. “You say that like you don’t secretly love drama.”

Louis threw a lettuce leaf at him.

Louis was mid-eye-roll at Zayn’s smirk when a familiar voice called out behind him.

“Lou!”

His entire body stiffened before he turned. Eleanor was making her way over from the cheerleaders’ table, a sugary smile plastered across her face and a purpose in her strut that made Louis wish he’d left lunch early.

Zayn clocked it instantly—the shift in Louis’s posture, the way he immediately sat up straighter, his jaw tight.

“Hey,” Louis said, forcing a grin as Eleanor slipped into the seat beside him, far too close.

She leaned in like they were alone, brushing a hand down his arm. “You didn’t text me back earlier.”

Louis glanced at Zayn, who was suddenly very focused on peeling the label off his juice bottle.

“Was in class,” Louis muttered.

“You could’ve just sent a heart or something,” she said, twirling a bit of her hair around her finger. “Anyway, I was thinking—I could come over tonight? We haven’t had a proper night in for ages. Just us.”

Zayn didn’t look up, but Louis could feel him listening.

Louis scratched the back of his neck. “I’ve got this stupid project now.”

“With who?”

Louis hesitated. “Harry.”

Eleanor made a face, all mock sympathy. “Ugh, the moody one?”

Louis bit back a smile. “Yeah. That one.”

“Well,” she said, wrapping her arms around his and resting her chin on his shoulder, “maybe I could help. I’m not completely useless, you know.”

Louis chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s fine. Probably better I just get it done and over with.”

She pouted. “You’re always busy lately.”

Louis didn’t respond. He just glanced across the table at Zayn, who finally looked up, eyes unreadable. He didn’t say anything, but something in his face told Louis he’d seen the whole scene for exactly what it was.

Eleanor started talking about cheer practice and how Leigh-Anne kept trying to choreograph a new routine, but Louis barely heard any of it. He kept nodding in the right places, but his mind was back on class, on that moment Harry had smiled for real.

He shook it off.

Eleanor was still going on when the bell rang, and Louis took the excuse to get up quickly. “Better get to English.”

Zayn followed, silent for a few beats as they walked down the hall.

“You alright?” he asked casually.

“Yeah,” Louis said. “Just tired.”

Zayn gave him a look but didn’t push it. “Right.”

As they parted ways near the stairwell, Zayn said, “Tell Harry I said good luck.”

Louis groaned. “Don’t start.”

But Zayn just laughed, already disappearing into the crowd.

Louis headed to class with Eleanor’s perfume still clinging to his jumper, and a headache already forming behind his eyes.
_____

Louis kicked the front door shut with his foot, dropping his bag in the hallway with a tired grunt. He barely got a step in before his mum’s voice called out from the kitchen.

“You’re home early for once.”

“School ended at the usual time, Mum,” Louis said, slumping into the kitchen doorway.

She was at the counter, scraping chopped veg into a pan, the telly humming low behind her. Her brown hair was tied up in a messy bun, dark circles smudged under her eyes, but she still smiled when she glanced over at him.

“You eating here tonight or out with Eleanor?”

Louis rubbed at his face. “Nah. Got a project. Partner work.”

She raised a brow. “And I assume you’re leaving it ‘til last minute like you always do?”

“Oi,” Louis said, grabbing a slice of cucumber from the cutting board. “I’ve matured.”

She snorted. “Right.”

He leaned against the fridge, watching her move around the kitchen. It was weird, having her home when the sun was still up. She was usually working late or picking up shifts on the weekends, the only peace in the house usually in the quiet that followed.

“You alright?” he asked.

She paused, gave him a tired smile. “Knackered. But fine.”

He nodded and moved to help, but his phone buzzed in his pocket. Tugging it out, he glanced down at the screen.

Unknown Number: Hope you’re not one of those people who hoard takeaway containers under your bed. I refuse to work on a project surrounded by old kormas.

Louis blinked, rereading it twice.

“What the—”

Another message popped up before he could respond.

Unknown Number: Don’t pretend this isn’t your number. Zayn gave it to me. Blame him.

Louis made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

“What is it?” his mum asked.

“Spam,” he lied quickly, walking backwards toward the stairs. “Er—gonna sort my room.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You are maturing. Scary.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Louis muttered, already halfway up.

In his bedroom, he stood frozen in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a disaster zone of clothes, half-empty bottles, and the unmistakable stink of gym socks.

His phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number: Anyway. I can come over, yeah? For the project. Don’t worry—I’m house-trained.

Louis stared, heart doing something weird in his chest. He finally typed out:

Louis: This Harry?

Harry: Depends. If you’re Louis, then yeah. If not, tell Louis I think his taste in music is criminal and he should re-evaluate his personality.

Louis couldn’t help the small, confused smile that tugged at his mouth. He huffed, shaking his head and typing again.

Louis: Project only. If you try and talk to me about Blur, I’m locking the door.

Harry: Oasis fan energy radiates off you. Tragic.

Louis was still blinking at that when another message followed:

Harry: Be there in twenty.

Panic surged. Twenty? Twenty minutes?

He flung open his wardrobe, kicked a pile of hoodies under the bed, grabbed stray mugs off the floor and dumped them in the bathroom sink. His heart was hammering and he didn’t know why. It was just Harry. Stupid, smug, curly-haired Harry.

He yanked a can of body spray from the shelf and blasted the room like it was an exorcism.

Somewhere downstairs, he heard his mum shout up, “Is someone coming over?”

“Don’t ask questions!” he yelled back, frantically making his bed.

He barely had time to breathe when the doorbell rang.

Louis froze. Glanced at the clock. Exactly twenty minutes.

Of course.
____

Louis padded down the stairs two at a time, fingers twitching at the seams of his joggers, heart doing this idiotic jitter thing in his chest like he was on trial and the jury was waiting at the front door.

He turned the corner into the hallway, already preparing to intercept, to make it quick and painful and get Harry up the stairs without—

“Oh, you’re Harry!” his mum said, voice a bit too cheerful.

Louis stopped dead halfway down.

There, standing in the doorway with his stupid curly hair and smug little smirk, was Harry bloody Styles. And of course he was already charming his mum.

“Hiya, yeah,” Harry said, scratching at the back of his neck in that fake modest way that made Louis want to launch himself into traffic. “Sorry for just dropping round. Zayn gave me the address.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” his mum beamed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Always nice to meet Louis’s… friends.”

Louis made a strangled noise.

“I’m not— He’s not—” He stormed the last steps and shoved his way between them like he was rescuing her from a burglar. “We’re doing a project. That’s it.”

Harry blinked at him, all wide-eyed and innocent. “Right. Project. Just thought I’d be professional and come in person.”

His mum gave Louis a look. “You could take a few notes.”

“Cheers, Mum,” Louis muttered, dragging the door further open so Harry could step in. “We’ll be upstairs. Don’t follow us.”

His mum only laughed as he turned and stomped away, Harry trailing after with slow, smug steps.

“Nice to meet you, Harry!” she called sweetly.

“You too, Ms. Tomlinson.”

“Call me Johannah!”

Louis groaned loud enough for them both to hear. “Stop flirting with my mum, you freak.”

“I wasn’t,” Harry said casually, brushing past him at the top of the stairs. “She started it.”

Louis shoved open his bedroom door, heart still annoyingly unsteady, and gestured inside. “Whatever. Don’t touch anything. Don’t sit on my bed. And don’t look at my posters.”

Harry paused, one brow raised as he stepped in. “That’s a lot of rules. You sure you’re not the one who’s nervous?”

Louis shot him a glare. “Just sit at the desk.”

He didn’t look, didn’t dare watch Harry take in his room — which looked fine, for the record, even if he’d panic-cleaned it like a madman.

“You got any pens?” Harry asked, dropping his bag down.

Louis chucked one at his head.

Harry caught it with a grin. “Friendly as always.”

Louis shrugged, trying to act casual but feeling the tight knot in his chest. “Well, someone’s gotta keep you in check.”

Harry dropped his bag next to the bed and sat on the edge, pulling out a notebook. “So, this project — we have to pick a scene from Romeo and Juliet and do our own version, right?”

Louis groaned, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, and I hate everything about it. Shakespeare is dead, and so is my motivation.”

Harry laughed softly. “Come on, it’s not that bad. We just have to rewrite and act it out a bit. Could be fun.”

Louis shot him a sharp look. “Fun? You’re joking, right? I’m stuck doing this with you.”

Harry shrugged, but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes. “Hey, I didn’t pick the partners.”

Louis snorted. “No, but you’re definitely the worst choice.”

Harry smiled but didn’t answer. Instead, he tapped his pen on the notebook, eyes on Louis. “So, which scene do you want to do?”

Louis hesitated, then said, “Probably the balcony scene. You know, where Juliet’s all mopey and I have to be this love-struck idiot.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “So you want to be Romeo, then?”

Louis gave him a quick nod eager to be Romeo.

Harry grinned wider. “You’re stuck with Juliet, mate.”

Louis stared at him, disbelief hitting him hard. “What? No! You’re joking.”

“Not a chance,” Harry said, folding his arms. “You’re perfect for it. Don’t make me laugh.”

Louis clenched his jaw, then flopped back in his chair, glaring at the ceiling. “This is so unfair.”

Harry’s smile softened. “It’s just a project.”

“Yeah, but so is school. And I hate this even more.”

Harry shifted, then said quietly, “We’ll get through it. Together.”
______

Harry spread his notebook on Louis’s desk, fingers tapping thoughtfully. “So, balcony scene, yeah? We can either keep it old school or give it a modern spin.”

Louis sighed, pushing his hair back. “I still don’t get why we have to do Shakespeare. I hate it.”

“Three weeks to make it decent,” Harry said with a shrug. “Not the worst thing.”

Louis grabbed a pen, tapping it against the desk. “Alright. What if Juliet’s waiting for Romeo to text back or something? Like, stuck in the 21st century.”

Harry grinned. “I like that. Romeo’s probably an idiot who keeps sending the wrong emojis.”

Louis smirked. “Exactly. ‘Wherefore art thou?’ replaced by ‘Where tf you at?’”

They started jotting ideas down, tossing lines back and forth, the tension between them eased just a little by the project.

Suddenly, a voice called up from downstairs, “Harry! You staying for dinner or what?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer—

“No!” Louis’s shout cut him off sharply before Harry could say a word.

Harry blinked, raising an eyebrow. “Alright, then.”

Louis muttered under his breath, already regretting how quick he was, but the tension with Harry wasn’t something he wanted to mix with his home life.
____

Harry had left half an hour ago, the door clicking shut behind him. Louis sat on his bed, the weight of the day pressing down on his chest like a heavy fog. The familiar sting of frustration buzzed at the edges of his mind — school, the project, Harry’s impossible calm, and now the looming dread of going downstairs.

Dinner was in thirty minutes. His mum would be waiting, maybe asking about his day, the project, his mood — all the things Louis wasn’t ready to talk about.

He stared at the ceiling, willing the time to slow down, but it crept forward relentlessly. Eventually, the sound of footsteps on the stairs echoed through the house.

“Louis! Dinner’s ready!” Jo called cheerfully from the bottom of the stairs.

Louis groaned, dragging himself up and out of his room, feeling like every step took more effort than the last.

As he reached the kitchen doorway, he spotted Jo’s hopeful smile and the warmth of the meal on the table — normalcy, but all Louis could see was the tight knot in his chest.

He sat down quietly, forcing himself to chew and swallow, the bitterness of the day still burning just beneath the surface.

Louis picked at his food, eyes fixed on the plate, the fork moving almost mechanically. Jo sat opposite him, watching with a gentle, concerned expression. She said nothing at first, just waited, giving him space.

After a few moments, she cleared her throat softly. “You okay, love? You’ve been a bit quiet today.”

Louis shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “Fine.”

Jo reached across and gave his hand a light squeeze. “You know you can tell me if something’s up, right?”

He hesitated, then nodded slightly, but the tightness in his throat stopped any words from coming out.

Jo smiled softly, her eyes kind but understanding. “No pressure. Just… I’m here.”

Louis swallowed, trying to force down the lump in his chest. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that said, I’m here with you, even if you don’t want to talk.

For now, that was enough.

Louis stared down at the plate like it held the answers to a test he hadn’t studied for. Why did Harry have to come over today? He could still feel the awkward tension lingering in the air, like an unwelcome guest that wouldn’t leave. It wasn’t just the project — it was everything. The forced smiles, the biting comments, the way Harry seemed so calm and collected while Louis was ready to snap.

And now dinner with Mum… Louis wished he could just disappear under the table. He hated how Jo looked at him — like she could see through him. Like she already knew something was wrong, but didn’t want to push.

Maybe it’s nothing, he told himself. Just school stuff. Just Harry being Harry. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t that simple.

He chewed slowly, mind spinning with thoughts he didn’t want to admit even to himself. The project, the constant reminders of Harry’s presence, the way everything seemed to crowd in at once. He hated that he felt this way. Hated that he cared what Harry thought, even if he acted like he didn’t.

Louis swallowed hard. Just get through dinner. Just get through today.

Chapter Text

Louis trudged down the concrete path toward the locker room. The hum of distant voices and the sharp sound of balls thumping against the pitch echoed in the background. He kept his head down, mind spinning with everything except the looming presence he already felt—a weight heavier than the sweat and grass stains that would cover him soon.

He could feel it before he even turned: those emerald eyes on him, cool and unyielding. Harry. Of course.

Louis tightened his jaw and slipped into the changing room, grabbing his kit from the bench. The sound of lockers slamming and chatter buzzed around him, but he barely registered it. His fingers fumbled with the laces of his boots, heart beating a little faster—not from the run ahead, but from the cold tension wrapping around him like a noose.

He focused on the rhythm of his breathing, the rough feel of the fabric against his skin, trying to drown out the voice inside that wanted to snap, to push back. This was just training. Just football. Nothing more.
_____

The familiar mix of voices—shouts, laughter, and the thud of boots on turf—filled the air. Louis stepped onto the field, the weight of his kit heavy on his shoulders, but heavier still was the pit growing in his stomach whenever he caught Harry’s gaze.

Harry was already there, stretching casually near the sideline, his calm demeanor a sharp contrast to the storm inside Louis. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments—Louis’s glare burning with hatred, Harry’s cool and unreadable. Neither looked away first. The unspoken war was there, loud and clear to anyone who cared to notice.

Coach’s whistle blew sharply, pulling everyone into focus. “Alright lads, warm-up laps. Move it.”

Louis jogged off, but his mind was elsewhere. Every step was measured, trying not to let his resentment show, but it simmered like molten lava beneath his skin. Harry ran beside him, unbothered, occasionally stealing glances that Louis was certain were just as charged as his own.

Back to drills, the lads scattered across the pitch. Louis tried to lose himself in the rhythm of passing and sprinting, but it wasn’t easy. Whenever Harry was near, Louis’s fingers clenched involuntarily, his jaw tight.

At one point, Harry passed the ball smoothly to Louis, a slight smirk curling his lips. Louis responded with a sharp pass that was just a little too forceful, catching Harry off guard. Harry’s eyes flashed, but he held his tongue.

Later, the coach called for a small scrimmage. Louis and Harry ended up on opposing teams, their rivalry flaring with every tackle, every intercepted pass. Louis couldn’t stop himself from making snide remarks under his breath, poking at Harry’s pride like a prodding thorn.

But Harry wasn’t the type to explode easily. Instead, he absorbed it all, his own shots and passes calculated and precise, each one a reminder that despite the tension, he was as good—maybe better—than Louis.

The atmosphere thickened as the scrimmage heated up, the other lads starting to notice the tension between the two. Liam tried to keep things light, shouting encouragements to both, but even his good-natured teasing couldn’t break the ice.

When the session finally ended, sweat dripping and muscles burning, the lads trudged off the pitch. Louis’s glare lingered on Harry a moment longer before he turned sharply, boots kicking at the dirt in frustration.

Harry caught up beside him, voice low but steady. “You gonna keep this up all season, or…?”

Louis didn’t respond, just quickened his pace, his hatred simmering but unspoken, an invisible barrier between them no matter the project, no matter the training.
____

Louis zipped up his jacket, the familiar weight of the fabric doing little to calm the tight coil in his chest. He shoved his locker closed, glanced once more toward the empty benches, then stepped out of the locker room, anticipation already souring his mood.

Just outside the door, Zayn leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, his usual calm aura intact. Harry stood a few feet away, talking quietly with him. Louis froze for a moment, the sight hitting like a splash of cold water.

Zayn wasn’t the type to chatter much — he was quiet, laid-back, a man of few words. So why was he standing here, deep in conversation with Harry? And why did that bother him so much?

Louis’s jaw tightened as he pulled his hood up and made a beeline for Zayn.

“Hey,” Louis muttered, forcing casual. “What’re you doing talking to him?”

Zayn glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “Just talking about the project stuff. Nothing weird.”

Louis didn’t bother hiding the bitterness in his voice. “Figures.”

Zayn didn’t argue. “You coming?”

Louis hesitated, then shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

As they walked away from the training grounds, Louis’s mind was already twisting — Harry and Zayn, talking. How close were they really? And what did that mean for him?

Zayn’s car smelled faintly of old leather and something spicy—maybe incense from earlier. Louis slid into the passenger seat with a sigh, trying to shove the tension from training out of his mind. Zayn clicked the door shut behind him and reached down beside the seat.

With a small grin, Zayn pulled out a crumpled brown paper bag. Louis’s eyes flicked to it instantly.

“You brought it?” Louis asked, raising an eyebrow.

Zayn shrugged, that chill, laid-back vibe always intact. “Thought we could chill a bit. Help you relax after all that griping at practice.”

Louis felt a knot twist in his stomach. He knew he probably shouldn’t, not with football and all the training and pressure. But honestly, who was he to say no?

He gave a short laugh. “Yeah, why not? What’s one time, right?”

Zayn tossed the bag onto the dashboard and started pulling out a joint. Louis watched quietly, fingers tapping nervously on his jeans.

They passed the joint back and forth, the smoke curling lazily through the air as Louis let his mind drift. Part of him hated that he needed this to unwind, but the rest of him welcomed the break from the constant swirl of frustration and confusion.

“Feels like the world’s got it in for me sometimes,” Louis muttered, exhaling slowly.

Zayn gave him a knowing look. “Yeah, well, that’s life. But you don’t have to face it alone.”

Louis glanced out the window, watching the streetlights blur past. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.
____

Louis barely made it through the front door before he knew he’d messed up.

The warm scent of dinner still lingered in the air, but it was the sound of plates clinking and low voices from the kitchen that stopped him dead. He froze in the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him far too loudly. His mum was home. And she wasn’t alone.

Shit.

He blinked, tried to steady himself. His eyes felt like sandpaper, his limbs a fraction too slow to respond. His mouth was dry, and when he swallowed, it did nothing. It was like the smoke still clung to the back of his throat.

“Louis?” her voice called out from the kitchen, casual and far too close.

He rubbed at his face quickly, trying to force some kind of alertness back into himself. “Yeah?” he replied, wincing at how rough his voice came out.

She stepped into view then, drying her hands on a tea towel, a smile on her face that immediately faltered the second she saw him. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Louis muttered, walking past her without looking her in the eye, hoping the hallway light didn’t make his eyes too obvious.

“You look knackered,” she said, eyes narrowing just slightly. Her tone shifted — still soft, but more cautious now.

“Yeah, football training. Just shattered. Gonna go up and shower or something.”

Before she could say anything else, he started up the stairs, taking them slower than usual so he wouldn’t stumble or trip and make it more obvious.

When he reached his room, he shut the door behind him and leaned back against it, exhaling. He felt like the entire house could smell it on him. The weed. The laziness in his limbs. His mum wasn’t stupid. She’d know eventually.
____

Louis lay sprawled across his bed, trainers still on, jacket half off, staring up at the ceiling like it might give him a way out of this. The buzz from earlier had dulled, leaving behind that tired floaty nothingness and the tiniest bit of guilt sinking somewhere in his chest.

His phone buzzed against the blanket.

Eleanor
“Please. Just a quick call. Miss u x”

He didn’t reply. Just groaned into the sleeve of his jumper and let the message sit there like a bad smell. But three minutes later, it buzzed again.

Eleanor
“Five minutes. Promise.”

Louis sighed, dragging his hand over his face. He couldn’t be arsed for this tonight. But the longer he didn’t answer, the more texts she’d send, and he already knew she’d pull the “you’re being off again” card tomorrow at school.

He hit call.

“Hi, babe!” Her voice was far too chipper. “Took you long enough.”

Louis rolled onto his side. “Was busy,” he mumbled, voice flat.

“Doing what?” she asked, too quickly. “You didn’t say you had plans.”

“Was with Zayn. Then came home.”

A pause.

“You sound… weird. You okay?”

He closed his eyes. “Just tired. Training was long. Mum’s home too, so can’t really talk long.”

“Oh. Right. Well, I just wanted to hear your voice. Haven’t seen you properly all week, and you were off with me at lunch again.”

Louis bit his tongue. “Didn’t mean to be.”

“You could’ve sat with me instead of Zayn, y’know.”

Here we go.

“He’s my mate,” Louis said, sharper than he intended.

“I know,” she said quickly, but it had that tone. That you always pick someone else undertone. “I just feel like we’re drifting a bit lately, that’s all.”

Louis sat up slowly, rubbed his face again. “You said five minutes.”

Eleanor went quiet.

He felt bad. But not enough.

“I’ve got loads of work to do,” he added, lying. “That stupid Romeo and Juliet project.”

“You and Zayn?”

He paused. “Nah.”

“Oh. Who then?”

Louis hesitated. “Harry.”

The silence that followed was icy.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“I just… didn’t think you’d want to be paired with him, that’s all.”

“I don’t. Wasn’t my choice.”

More silence.

“Fine,” she muttered. “Whatever. I’ll let you go if you’re tired.”

“Thanks,” he said, flat again. “Night.”

She hung up before he could.

Louis dropped his phone on the bed beside him and stared at the wall. He didn’t know what pissed him off more — the conversation, or the way he didn’t care nearly as much as he should.
______

The corridors of Sycamore High always felt a bit like a jungle after the first bell — noise ricocheting off the walls, trainers squeaking against scuffed linoleum, lockers slamming, teachers shouting half-hearted warnings down the hall.

Louis walked like he always did: hands shoved deep in the pockets of his blazer, head ducked slightly, jaw tight. Zayn ambled beside him, quiet as usual, hood half-up even though it wasn’t allowed. They didn’t speak. They never really needed to. Their pace was in sync, a mutual rhythm carved out over years of shared detentions, skipped lessons, and low-effort school days.

Ahead, laughter rang out. Louis’ gaze flicked up.

Harry.

He was walking backwards as he spoke to Niall, the mop-headed Irish lad grinning wide at something Harry had said. They were loud — not obnoxious, just… noticeable. And Harry, as always, looked too put together for someone who was apparently just born that way. Shirt tucked in. Tie loose but still neat. Hair somehow perfect.

Louis rolled his eyes, picking up the pace slightly.

“You alright?” Zayn asked, barely glancing at him.

“Peachy,” Louis muttered.

“Right,” Zayn said, like he knew better.

They were about to pass each other — Louis and Zayn on one side, Harry and Niall on the other — and for a second, all four of them slowed. Not enough to be obvious, just the kind of subconscious pause that happens when tension settles like a cloud.

“Romeo,” Niall greeted with a smirk, eyes on Louis.

Louis stopped walking. “You what?”

“Project,” Niall said innocently, glancing at Harry. “Thought you’d be rehearsing your love confession by now.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He looked at Louis for a heartbeat too long, expression unreadable. And that was the thing about him — he never cracked first. Never snapped or rolled his eyes. Just stared, steady, like he was always five steps ahead in a game Louis didn’t want to be playing.

Louis scoffed, stepping closer. “Keep talking, Niall, see where that gets you.”

Niall raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Jeez, mate, calm down. Was just messing.”

“You always are.”

Zayn gave Harry a nod — one of those silent exchanges that said everything and nothing — and then nudged Louis lightly with his elbow. “Come on.”

Louis didn’t move. He looked at Harry instead, sharp and unapologetic.

“What?” he snapped.

Harry shrugged, and that smirk — the one Louis hated, the one that knew how to get under his skin — tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Nothing,” Harry said. “Just wondering how Juliet’s lines are coming along.”

Zayn groaned under his breath. Niall snorted.

Louis stepped forward again, eyes dark. “Say that again.”

But Harry was already walking past, Niall in tow. “Wouldn’t want you to get too worked up,” he called over his shoulder. “Might forget your monologue.”

Zayn grabbed Louis’ arm before he could turn around. “Not worth it,” he muttered.

Louis stood still, breathing through his nose, fingers curling into fists in his blazer pockets.

The corridor buzzed around them, life moving on. But Louis — he was already plotting a comeback.

He always was.
_____

The classroom smelled like cheap whiteboard markers and the kind of heating that somehow made everything feel colder. Louis slumped into his usual seat near the back, tossing his bag down with a sigh that was heavier than it needed to be. The buzz of early morning chatter filled the room, chairs scraping, pages flipping, someone dropping their water bottle twice.

Zayn was already there, legs sprawled under the desk in his usual too-cool-to-care way, hood up despite the teacher’s repeated protests about “classroom uniform standards.” He gave Louis a nod, barely looking up from his phone.

Liam dropped into the seat in front, twisting around to grin. “Did you finish the maths?” he asked, holding up his half-completed worksheet.

Louis groaned. “I looked at it. That counts, right?”

Zayn snorted, finally putting his phone away. “That’s the spirit.”

“Can’t wait to fail together,” Liam said cheerily, flipping back around just as the teacher entered the room.

Louis let his gaze drift across the classroom out of habit. Niall was in the far corner, gesturing animatedly about something — probably football, judging by the little flicks of his hands mimicking a pass. And next to him, of course, was Harry. Head down at first, but when he looked up, their eyes met for a heartbeat too long.

Louis scoffed under his breath and looked away fast enough to get whiplash. He hated how easily Harry could still get under his skin just by existing. Just by being so… Harry.

“You good?” Zayn asked lowly, not missing the tension in Louis’s jaw.

“Peachy,” Louis muttered.

“Peachy sounds fake,” Liam added, still half-tuned into their conversation.

“Didn’t ask for commentary, Payne.”

The teacher launched into instructions for some mind-numbing worksheet, and the room shifted into that lazy morning silence filled only by the scratch of pens and the occasional cough. Louis tapped his pen against his knee. He wasn’t actually writing anything, just… watching. Letting his thoughts spiral while his hand pretended to move.

Zayn leaned over and whispered, “Still got that project to do?”

Louis didn’t answer at first. His eyes drifted over to Harry again, who was laughing at something Niall said, that stupid dimple showing, curls falling into his face like it was scripted. He looked annoyingly good for a Tuesday morning.

“Yeah,” Louis finally said, voice flat. “Still gotta deal with Romeo himself.”

Zayn chuckled. “Bet he’s writing sonnets about you as we speak.”

Louis shot him a glare. “I’ll throw your phone out the window.”

“Do it,” Zayn whispered, smirking. “I need a reason to drop out.”

Liam turned slightly. “Is this about the English project?”

“Unfortunately,” Louis muttered, flipping his pen between his fingers. “Turns out group work’s a nightmare when you’re paired with someone you loathe.”

Liam gave him a look. “I dunno. Harry doesn’t seem to loathe you back.”

That earned him an immediate eye roll. “That’s ‘cause he’s a manipulative—”

“Oh my God,” Zayn cut in, “you two are gonna kill each other before you hand in the first paragraph.”

Louis didn’t answer. Because maybe that was the plan. Or maybe not. He didn’t know anymore. He just knew that every time he looked at Harry, something twisted in his chest — something he didn’t have a name for and didn’t want to think about too hard.

Especially not when Harry turned his head again, caught Louis watching, and raised a single brow like he knew exactly what he was doing.

And Louis? He looked away first. Again.
____

The classroom was a slow drip of time, minutes ticking by like molasses. The teacher — a wiry man with glasses that always slid down his nose — was half-heartedly going through a passage on poetic devices, but nobody was really paying attention. Not properly.

Louis sat hunched in his chair, eyes flicking back and forth between his worksheet and the whiteboard, though his pen hadn’t moved in about five minutes. He was aware of everything — the way Zayn occasionally nudged him with his knee, the quiet squeak of Liam’s chair every time he leaned back, and somewhere from the corner, that warm rumble of Harry’s laugh again.

It grated.

Behind them, a trio of girls were whispering about something — probably drama. It always was. “I swear she said that to his face,” one of them hissed, loud enough for half the room to hear.

“She didn’t,” the other insisted. “You think she’s got the guts?”

Liam turned slightly and shot them a look that said shut up, please, but they didn’t notice. Zayn, meanwhile, was chewing the end of his pen and pretending to be confused about the worksheet.

“Can’t believe they expect us to understand this crap,” he muttered to Louis under his breath, tapping the line that read ‘My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep.’ “Boundless? Sounds like a budget after-school club.”

Louis huffed a laugh despite himself. “Honestly, wouldn’t be surprised if Harry wrote this.”

“Didn’t Shakespeare do time or something?” Zayn added vaguely.

“No,” Liam said immediately, not even turning around. “You’re thinking of someone else.”

Zayn shrugged. “Still. Probably had enemies. Wouldn’t trust anyone who talks like this.”

Louis let his eyes drift back to Harry without thinking. The way he sat, one leg stretched out under the table, casually confident. Like he didn’t even have enemies.

Which made Louis bristle, because wasn’t he supposed to be Harry’s? Yet the lad barely blinked.

They were meant to hate each other, and Harry had the audacity to act like Louis was just another name on the register.

The low hum of conversation continued. Chairs shuffled. Someone sneezed. The teacher muttered something about “tone and mood” and scribbled on the board while half the class whispered through their boredom.

From across the room, Niall turned around briefly and gave Louis a lazy salute before going back to talking to Harry, who said something in response that made Niall burst out laughing.

Louis tore his gaze away, fingers tightening on his pen.

“I should ask for a new partner,” he said suddenly, not even really meaning it — just needing to say something.

Zayn raised an eyebrow. “And say what? ‘Sir, can you put me with someone less insufferably perfect and tall and curly-haired’?”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “Are you actually my mate or what?”

“Just observing,” Zayn said, smirking. “Painfully.”

Liam turned again, this time leaning in between their desks. “He’s not that bad, you know.”

Louis didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

His eyes said everything.

And from across the room, for the third time that morning, Harry turned his head like he felt the stare and looked right back.

This time he didn’t smile.

This time, Louis didn’t look away.

The bell rang shortly after, startling half the class as they scrambled to collect their things. The scrape of chairs filled the air, the clatter of bags being yanked up and slung over shoulders. People filtered out in lazy waves, still chattering about everything except the lesson.

Zayn stood, stretching. “Lunch?”

Liam nodded. “I’ll meet you there, gotta ask Miss something.”

Louis gathered his things slowly, then followed Zayn toward the door.

As he passed Harry and Niall, Harry’s voice caught his ear. “Might work on it tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis said flatly, without stopping.

Zayn glanced over at him as they walked out into the corridor. “You know,” he said, “you could just pretend to be civil. Might make this easier.”

Louis didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

His silence was an answer all its own.
____

The corridor felt longer than usual, packed with bodies and noise, a tidal wave of backpacks and trainers squeaking against the floor. Louis walked with his hands in his pockets, shouldering through the crowd like he had somewhere better to be, even though he really didn’t. Zayn was a few steps ahead, glancing back every so often to make sure Louis hadn’t veered off or disappeared.

He was halfway to the canteen when he heard her.

“Louis!”

He winced before turning. Of course.

Eleanor caught up with him, ponytail bouncing, that too-bright smile on her face like she was posing for a photo no one had taken. Her cheer uniform looked perfect. It always did. Everything about her looked perfect — to everyone else.

“There you are,” she said, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve been looking for you all morning. Didn’t you see my texts?”

Louis shrugged. “Phone’s in my bag.”

She pouted a little, tugging at his arm. “You could still reply, y’know. I wanted to tell you we’re doing cheer practice after school, and you promised you’d come watch.”

“I didn’t promise,” Louis muttered. “I said maybe.”

“That is a promise, Louis. You never listen.”

Zayn slowed down ahead of them, pretending to check his phone. He wasn’t good with tension, and Louis knew it. The silent pause that followed was heavier than it needed to be.

Eleanor rolled her eyes, too loud. “God, why are you being so moody lately? Is this about Harry again? You’re obsessed. Honestly, it’s embarrassing.”

Louis felt his jaw tighten. “Can we not do this in the middle of the hallway?”

“Why? Scared someone’s gonna hear the truth?”

Louis pulled his arm away. “Go to practice, El.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Fine. Be like that.” And with a huff, she flipped her ponytail and stormed off, the sway of her hips sharp with attitude.

Louis exhaled, steadying himself. Zayn looked over but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

And from a few metres behind, near the lockers, Harry had seen the whole thing.

He wasn’t even trying to hide it. Leaned casually against the wall beside Niall, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other resting on his bag strap. His eyes — those damn unreadable green eyes — were fixed on Louis.

Niall was saying something, animated as always, but Harry barely nodded along. His focus was elsewhere. Sharp. Curious. A little smug, maybe. But not cruel.

Just observant.

Louis felt the back of his neck heat up.

He hated that Harry had seen that. Hated that he was probably judging him, probably thinking figures he dates someone like her.

And worst of all?

He hated that he cared what Harry might think.

“C’mon,” Zayn said quietly, nodding toward the canteen doors. “Let’s eat before all that pasta’s gone.”

Louis followed, stomach knotted, Eleanor’s voice still ringing in his head — and the echo of Harry’s gaze still burned into the side of his face.

He didn’t look back.

But he felt it linger.
____

The canteen buzzed with lunchtime chaos — trays clattering, chairs scraping, the low hum of overlapping conversations. Louis slid onto the bench at the usual table with the rest of the football lads. The table was half-filled already, plates of chips and sandwiches scattered between crumpled napkins and unopened water bottles. The air smelled of grease and something slightly burnt.

Stan was already mid-story, waving a chip around like it was a mic. “—and I swear she was eyeing me the whole time. Like, yeah, love, I know you’ve seen me play.”

Liam chuckled politely, though his eyes were down on his tray, stabbing at some half-eaten pasta. Another lad — Jordan or maybe Reece, Louis didn’t care enough to remember — leaned in with a scoff. “You and your ego, mate. Honestly.”

Louis smirked faintly, dropping his bag beside him, but his eyes scanned the room almost without meaning to.

Harry and Niall were at a table across the canteen, off to the side where it was quieter. Niall was laughing about something, the kind of laugh where his whole body shook and his voice carried — always too loud. Harry sat across from him, a small, relaxed smile tugging at his lips as he picked at his food. They looked… normal. Easy.

Too easy.

“Oi, Louis,” Stan said, nudging his arm with a half-empty bottle of Lucozade. “You still got that project with Styles?”

Louis didn’t look away fast enough. He’d been staring. Again.

He turned back slowly. “Unfortunately.”

A few of the lads chuckled. Jordan leaned forward, grinning. “Bet he wrote his half in cursive with glitter pens or something.”

“And cried after,” someone else muttered, biting into a sandwich.

“Harry bloody Styles,” Stan mimicked in a posh voice, crossing his legs dramatically. “‘Tragic end for Romeo. Someone hold me, I simply can’t go on.’”

Laughter burst around the table.

Louis huffed through his nose, forcing a chuckle he didn’t feel. He hated that this was what it always turned into. Some joke. Some performance. He hated that it made him feel weirdly defensive.

“He’s not like that,” Liam muttered, barely audible over the noise, but Louis caught it. So did Stan, apparently, who turned with raised brows.

“Didn’t know you were his spokesperson now, Payne.”

Liam looked up finally, calm and unbothered. “Just saying. Doesn’t mean you have to be a prick.”

“Oof,” Niall’s voice piped from behind suddenly. He and Harry were walking past their table, trays empty now. “Someone’s had their Weetabix.”

Louis’s eyes darted to Harry automatically.

He was looking right at him.

Green eyes steady. Blank. Cold.

Louis stiffened.

“Enjoy the gossip circle, lads,” Harry said smoothly, letting his eyes skim over the group, barely sparing anyone more than a second. “Let us know when you grow up.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, heading for the canteen doors with Niall at his side. Niall shot them all a quick shrug like what can you do? and followed him out.

Silence lingered at the football table for a second before Stan scoffed. “Bit touchy, innit?”

Louis didn’t answer. His fingers tapped against his drink bottle restlessly, eyes still locked on the now-empty door.

Zayn should’ve been here. He’d texted Louis that he was skiving, again, something about needing a “mental health break” from literally everyone — Louis included, probably. And Louis didn’t blame him.

But it meant he was stuck here with the noise, the lads, the heat of resentment curling under his collar.

Harry’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of his head. Let us know when you grow up.

Louis clenched his jaw.

He didn’t need Harry Styles to act like he was better than him.

He already felt like he was.
____

The final bell had long rung, the corridors emptied to a hush. Louis’s boots scuffed lazily against the linoleum as he wandered past lockers and scratched noticeboards, bag slung over one shoulder and tie half stuffed into his blazer pocket. His phone buzzed — a text from his mum asking if he was on his way — but he ignored it for now. He just needed to find Zayn.

Except… Zayn was nowhere.

Louis frowned, pushing through the double doors that led to the car park. His eyes scanned the rows, the familiar cluster of battered student cars and the rusted staff vehicles. But Zayn’s beat-up Honda wasn’t parked in its usual crooked spot near the tree. It wasn’t anywhere.

“The fuck?” Louis muttered under his breath, pulling out his phone and checking for a message. Nothing. No text. No call. No warning that his ride home had decided to disappear off the face of the Earth.

His heart sank. He didn’t want to walk. That’d be over an hour on foot — longer if he stopped for food like he usually did when Zayn bailed. He could already feel the ache in his legs from training, and the thought of trudging all the way back through that shitty shortcut near the garages made him want to scream.

He started to turn, deciding he’d just go back in and wait for someone to leave he could bum a lift off — when his eyes caught a flash of black. Sleek, shiny black.

His stomach twisted.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

There he was. Leaning against a spotless black Range Rover like he was doing a bloody car commercial, phone in one hand, backpack at his feet. Hair fluffy from the wind. Tie loose. That smug little smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, like he knew exactly how irritating his entire existence was.

Harry bloody Styles.

Louis stared for a second too long. Just enough to convince himself to turn back — pretend he hadn’t seen — walk around the school the long way and wait out the universe’s cruel sense of humour.

But then Harry looked up. Met his eyes.

And smiled.

A full, blinding, I-know-you-need-me kind of smile.

Louis sighed so hard his shoulders slumped with it.

Kill me.

He shifted his weight, glancing once more toward the empty stretch of pavement behind him like Zayn might miraculously roll up blasting some terrible playlist and save him. But no. Nothing.

“Need a lift?” Harry called, pocketing his phone with one hand and jerking his head toward the passenger side door. Like he was doing Louis a favour. Like he hadn’t spent all week making Louis’s life hell by just existing and breathing and, worst of all, smiling during that stupid Romeo and Juliet scene talk.

Louis stayed rooted to the spot for a second longer.

He didn’t want to owe Harry anything. Not a ride. Not a conversation. Not air shared in the same enclosed vehicle.

But his legs ached, and his house felt further away than ever.

“I’m good,” Louis muttered, almost to himself.

Harry raised an eyebrow. Didn’t move.

Louis sighed again. “Zayn bailed. Didn’t tell me.”

“I figured.” Harry’s voice was maddeningly casual, like this wasn’t some victory to him. “C’mon, I’m going your way anyway.”

Yeah, sure you are. Like you don’t live ten minutes in the opposite direction.

Louis shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, gritting his teeth. “You’re enjoying this.”

Harry didn’t deny it. Just opened the passenger door with a click and leaned back, like he had all the time in the world.

Louis swore under his breath, dragging himself forward because what choice did he have? Pride wasn’t going to get him home any faster. And if this ended with them killing each other in a car park, well, that’d be the school’s problem, wouldn’t it?

He climbed in and slammed the door harder than he needed to.

“I’m not talking to you,” Louis muttered, refusing to look in Harry’s direction.

Harry just smirked, adjusting the volume on the radio. “That’s alright. I enjoy the silence.”

Louis stared out the window and scowled.

This day couldn’t get any worse.

Chapter Text

The front door clicked shut behind Louis with a dull thud, the sound oddly hollow despite the usual creak of the hinges. He barely had time to kick off his trainers before his mum called out from the kitchen.

“Lou?” Her voice was oddly careful—measured. Too soft to be casual, too light to be serious.

“Yeah, it’s me.” His voice echoed back as he dropped his bag in the hall, frowning. Something was off. The air didn’t feel right. He could always tell when something was up—whether it was the silence, or the way the house seemed to tense around him.

She met him in the doorway, a tea towel in her hands, eyes flicking over him too quickly like she was checking for a mood.

“Everything alright?” Louis asked, tone clipped.

She offered a thin smile. “Fine, yeah. Just… your dad’s here.”

He blinked. The words hung in the air, stupidly heavy. “He’s not my dad.”

She sighed. “Louis—”

“No,” he cut in, sharper now. “Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t call him that. He’s not—he’s not anything to me.”

“He’s just here to talk.”

“To talk?” Louis scoffed. “We don’t talk. We argue, or he throws some guilt trip, or he acts like I’m the problem because I won’t play happy families with him.”

She looked down at the floor, rubbing the towel between her hands like it might ground her. “He’s trying, Lou.”

“I didn’t ask him to.”

“Just—can you not start something?” she said, tired now. “Just be civil. For me.”

Civil. Right. Because that always worked so well before.

Louis bit the inside of his cheek, jaw tense as he stepped past her. The living room door was cracked open and through it, he could already hear the low murmur of the television. Football, of course. Probably pretending he cared about what Louis liked.

He stepped in, arms folded, heart thudding.

Mark looked up from the sofa like it was nothing, like he hadn’t poisoned every memory of Louis’ teenage years with passive aggression and power trips. Same slicked-back hair, same leather jacket like he was twenty years younger than he was.

“Alright, Louis?”

“Get out of my house.”

Mark leaned back, casual. “Not even gonna say hello first?”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to talk. Man to man.”

“You’re not a man. You’re a leech.” Louis felt the snap in his voice, but didn’t care. “You think just showing up makes you important again?”

His mum stood in the doorway now, hands clenched by her sides, clearly caught between the two of them.

Mark exhaled, still seated. “I made mistakes—”

Louis barked a bitter laugh. “That’s what you’re calling it? ‘Mistakes’? Walking out, leaving Mum to handle everything? Treating me like shit every time you were around? Right, okay.”

“Don’t twist it.”

“I don’t have to twist anything. You did that all by yourself.”

There was silence, stretched thin.

Mark sat up straighter. “I was trying to be there for you, but you never made it easy.”

Louis took a step forward, chest burning. “You were never there. You showed up late, talked down to me, made me feel like everything I did wasn’t good enough. And now you’re here playing dad again? Nah. You don’t get that role. You don’t deserve it.”

“I did what I thought was right.”

Louis felt his jaw twitch. “Yeah? Then I guess your idea of ‘right’ looks a lot like neglect.”

His mum tried to step in then. “Louis, please—”

“No, Mum.” His voice cracked. “You always make excuses for him. Always. Like I’m the one that needs to try harder. I’ve spent years hating myself for not being able to pretend he didn’t fuck everything up.”

Mark stood now, arms crossed. “You done?”

“No.” Louis stared him down. “I’m never done. You don’t get to walk in and think this is salvageable. You made your choices. I’m not some little kid anymore waiting for you to act like a parent.”

They stood across from each other, both rigid with unsaid things, all the years of damage simmering just beneath the surface.

“Maybe I should go,” Mark muttered.

“Yeah,” Louis snapped. “You should’ve done that ten years ago and stayed gone.”

Mark hesitated—one last look at Louis’ mum—then walked past her and left, the front door slamming hard enough to rattle the frame.

Louis stood there, breathing heavy, fists clenched at his sides. The silence that followed was deafening.

His mum didn’t say anything at first, just stood there with glassy eyes and a worn-out look.

“I didn’t want a fight,” she said quietly.

“Yeah, well,” Louis murmured, not looking at her. “That’s all he brings.”

He turned, walking away without another word, and climbed the stairs to his room. The door clicked shut behind him and he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor.

His heart was still pounding. His eyes burned, but he refused to let it fall—refused to cry because of him again.

He reached for his pillow, smothered his face into it, and screamed.
___

He sat motionless for a moment.

Then the tears came.

Not the loud, dramatic kind—just hot, quiet ones, slipping down his cheeks before he could stop them. He blinked fast, dragged his sleeve across his face like that would somehow erase the feeling too. But it didn’t. It just smeared the hurt around.

Louis hated crying.

Hated the way it made him feel small. Weak. Like the same kid who used to sit in his room listening to arguments downstairs, fists over his ears, counting down until Mark slammed the door and left. Again.

He pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes. “Fuck.”

Why did it still get to him? Why did one stupid visit, one smug look, one casual “Alright, Louis?” leave him feeling like he’d been kicked in the ribs?

He hated him. He hated how much space he still took up in his head.

He should’ve been numb to it by now. Should’ve built thicker walls, higher ones, stronger. But the second Mark walked into the house it was like he was ten again, just hoping someone—anyone—would choose him, protect him, stick up for him.

And his mum, God. He knew she was trying. That she always had. But why was it always him that had to fold? To be the mature one? To let things go?

Why did she still let that man through the door?

Louis slumped back onto his mattress, arms flopped wide, staring up at the ceiling. He could feel the tears drying, skin tight where they’d tracked down. His chest ached like he’d been holding something in for too long.

“Why does he get to show up and make everything feel like this again?”

He said it out loud, voice cracking into the quiet room. No answer, of course. Just the stillness that followed.

He curled onto his side, arm beneath his head, and squeezed his eyes shut again.

Maybe this was why he kept everything so locked down. Why he brushed off emotions and pushed people away, acted like he was fine when he wasn’t. Because the second he let one crack show, it all came pouring out.

It was too much.

Mark had done everything, ruined his interests. Louis was done with him.

Louis sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and let his mind spiral.

What would’ve happened if Mark had actually tried? If he’d stuck around and been decent? If he’d cared about football games and school and what Louis was good at? What if Louis had felt like he mattered?

Maybe he wouldn’t be this bitter. This guarded.

Maybe he wouldn’t be stuck in a relationship with Eleanor, pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t but should be. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so… detached. Like he was walking around pretending to be someone everyone else wanted.

Maybe he wouldn’t look at people like Harry Styles and feel something he couldn’t name. Something that terrified him. Maybe he wouldn’t hurt and lash out at him.

He groaned, rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling again.

Why was everything so bloody complicated?

He hated Mark. That much was simple.

But the rest—his feelings, his future, who he even was outside of football and being “fine” all the time—that was a mess. A heavy, tangled mess he wasn’t sure how to start unraveling.

His chest rose and fell with one long, shaky breath.

It wasn’t fair. None of it. But he knew life didn’t really care about fairness.

He’d survive. He always did.

He just wished, for once, someone would look at him and see through the survival. See the version of him that was still trying to figure it all out.
____

There was a soft knock on the door—barely there, like whoever was behind it wasn’t sure if they wanted to be.

Louis didn’t answer.

Didn’t even flinch.

Another knock, then the door creaked open.

“Lou?”

Lottie’s voice. He should’ve known.

He wiped his face with his sleeve again and kept staring up at the ceiling, not even turning to look. “What?”

She stepped in, closing the door behind her gently, like she was afraid to startle him. Louis hated that—being tiptoed around, like he was some animal that might lash out or break.

He heard her footsteps cross the carpet. Felt the mattress dip slightly as she sat on the edge of the bed.

He still didn’t look at her.

“You alright?” she asked.

He let out a breath that was more scoff than sigh. “What d’you think?”

Silence for a moment.

Then: “He didn’t come here to cause drama.”

Louis laughed bitterly, still not moving. “Yeah? Is that what he told Mum, then?”

“Lou—”

“Don’t,” he snapped, finally sitting up. His eyes were bloodshot, jaw clenched tight, but his voice was shaking with fury more than anything. “Don’t come in here and try to make this about him not causing drama. Just ‘cause he walked in here all calm and fake polite doesn’t mean he didn’t do damage just by breathing the same air as me.”

Lottie’s face pinched. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just… he’s trying, alright?”

Louis stared at her, eyes hard. “Trying what? To pretend he didn’t make my entire childhood hell? Trying to smile his way back into a house he left a thousand times? He doesn’t get to try now. Not with me.”

“He’s been around,” she said carefully, like she was picking her way through a minefield. “He checks in. Helps Mum out sometimes.”

Louis blinked. His mouth twisted. “Then maybe he’s your dad.”

Lottie’s brows shot up.

Louis stood now, pacing a few steps, then turned back around, words tumbling out sharp and fast. “You get that, yeah? He’s not my dad. He never was. Not by blood. Not by love. Not by anything that fucking matters. He’s just Mark. A dickhead named Mark who ruined me before I even had a chance to know who I was.”

“Louis—”

“No,” he said, chest heaving now. “You don’t get it. You don’t know what it was like. You didn’t hear the shit he said to me when Mum wasn’t around. You didn’t feel what it’s like to be looked at like you’re wrong just for existing. He never saw me. Never cared. I was just this… this nuisance. A problem. Some reminder of someone who came before him.”

His voice cracked.

Lottie stared at him, lips parted, clearly unsure of what to say.

Louis dragged a hand through his hair and sat back on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor. “I spent so many years convincing myself it didn’t matter. That if I just kept my head down, played football, did what I was supposed to, he’d leave me alone. And when he finally did, it was supposed to be over. Done.”

His fingers curled into fists.

“But every time he walks in this house, it’s like I’m fourteen again. Like I’m not enough. Like I’ll never be.”

Lottie’s voice was quiet now. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“Yeah,” Louis muttered. “Well. I didn’t really talk about it, did I?”

She hesitated, then reached out, placing a hand on his arm. He didn’t pull away—but he didn’t lean into it either.

“I just want you to be okay,” she said. “And I don’t want there to be tension every time he comes round. It makes everything heavy, and I hate seeing Mum stuck in the middle.”

Louis looked at her, expression carved from something jagged and tired. “She’s not in the middle. She chose him.”

Lottie’s mouth opened, then closed.

He looked down again, voice low. “I’m not asking you to take sides. But don’t ask me to make peace with a man who never gave a shit about me. I’m not doing it. I can’t. Not for Mum. Not for you. And especially not for him.”

Lottie nodded slowly, eyes wet.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”

Louis swallowed hard and finally let his head drop forward, shoulders sagging. Lottie stayed beside him, silent, and for a long while neither of them said a word.

Just the low hum of the house around them, the weight of shared history sitting heavy in the room.
____

Saturday mornings used to feel like something.

When he was younger, they were footie days—muddy boots, breakfast in his lap, shouting over his sisters while he laced up. Later on, it was lying in bed until noon, phone in hand, pretending he didn’t care about anything or anyone.

Now? Now they were just long. Long and loud in his head.

Louis blinked up at the ceiling, his room dim with early light. His head ached—not a proper hangover, just leftover tension from crying too hard the night before. His eyes were still puffy. He didn’t even have the energy to care.

The first thing that came into his head, as if summoned by the gods of misery?

The party.

Niall’s stupid house party.

He was supposed to go. With Eleanor, of course.

Fantastic.

He dragged the covers over his face and groaned into the fabric, muffling the sound but not the feeling. The idea of standing in some crowded house, music thumping, people drunk and messy and everywhere, all while Eleanor clung to his arm and he tried not to flinch every time she touched him—it made him want to hurl.

He should be looking forward to it. Any normal lad would. A party, his mates, his girlfriend. But nothing about it felt right. Eleanor had been on at him for days about going—about “making an appearance,” about “being fun,” about “not acting like a miserable little shit.”

He hated how she talked to him lately. Like he was some misbehaving kid. Like he owed her something.

He knew she’d be all over him tonight, expecting him to play the doting boyfriend act she loved so much in public. Arm around her waist. Smiling when she looked at him. Laughing when she said things that weren’t funny.

He could already picture it—the way she’d pull him closer if she saw him talking to someone else, the way she’d scowl if he had a drink in his hand for too long, the passive aggressive digs. The way her tone changed when she saw Harry, always sharp, always cold.

Louis shut his eyes harder. Just for a moment.

Harry.

God.

Why did he think of him? Of all people?

But the image crept in anyway—those stupid green eyes, the constant quiet stare like Harry was always two steps ahead, like he saw things Louis didn’t want anyone to see.

He sighed and shoved the covers off, rubbing at his face like he could scrub the thoughts away.

He sat on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, elbows on his knees.

A party.

With Eleanor.

Surrounded by people he half-liked and half-loathed, and one boy he hated more than anyone, except maybe not, because there were times—moments—when the hate felt a little too much like something else.

He clenched his jaw.

He was tired of this. Tired of pretending. Tired of the whole damn thing.

But he’d go. Of course he would.

Because that’s what Louis did—he went, he smiled, he played the part.

He was brilliant at pretending everything was fine.
____

Louis stepped down the stairs quietly, the wooden steps creaking beneath his feet in the otherwise still house. The tension hit him like a wall the moment he reached the bottom.

In the living room, Lottie sat curled up on the sofa, her eyes fixed on the muted TV, but the slight tightness in her jaw betrayed that she wasn’t really watching. Across the room, his mum moved about the kitchen, her movements sharp but careful — a practiced calm that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The twins were giggling in the corner, playing with their toys, blissfully unaware of the heavy silence strangling the air around them.

Louis felt numb, like he was watching everything from far away, wrapped in a bubble of quiet desperation. The sound of his own breathing was loud in his ears.

Lottie glanced over, her eyes softening just a little, but she said nothing. His mum’s hands paused as she chopped vegetables, the knife tapping rhythmically against the board, but she didn’t meet his gaze.

“Louis, can you set the table?” his mum finally said, her voice steady but distant.

He nodded wordlessly, feeling like a ghost moving through the motions. The weight of Mark’s visit — his presence lurking somewhere just beyond the walls — pressed down on him, stealing the air from the room.

The twins’ laughter suddenly pierced through the silence, a reminder of everything that should feel normal but didn’t. Louis blinked, focusing on the clatter of plates and silverware, trying to push down the storm swirling inside.

He wanted to scream. To run. To disappear.

Instead, he just set the table, each movement robotic, detached.

Lottie called out from the sofa, voice softer this time. “Louis… You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

He swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t go down. All he could do was shake his head, retreating further into himself.

Because sometimes, even when you’re surrounded by people, you feel more alone than ever.
___

It was just about seven o’clock when Louis finally stood in front of his mirror, pulling the collar of his shirt a little straighter, trying to steady the lightness in his chest that had been rare these past few days. Tonight, he wanted to look good. Not for Eleanor — no, definitely not for her — but for himself. For the small part of him that still wanted to feel normal, like things could still be simple.

His fingers brushed over the collarbone tattoo he’d gotten last year, tracing the lines almost absentmindedly. A reminder to stay strong, he told himself.

Just then, his phone buzzed sharply on the bedside table. Eleanor.

“On my way. Be there in 20 x”

Louis rolled his eyes, biting back a groan. She always seemed to have perfect timing for whenever he was just starting to breathe.

He typed back a quick “See you soon” and set the phone down, then grabbed it again to message Zayn.

“You coming tonight?”

Almost instantly:

“Yeah, me and Harry.”

The moment he saw Harry’s name, the lightness vanished. His chest tightened, and his jaw clenched without thinking.

Why the hell did Harry get under his skin like this? It wasn’t just that they were forced to work together on that stupid project — no, it ran deeper than that.

Louis blinked, the frustration curling in his gut. He knew the answer, even if he hated admitting it.

Harry was the one person who seemed to see through all of Louis’s walls, all the crap he put on to hide how messed up he really was. And worse, Harry never tried to use it against him. He just… understood. Maybe better than anyone ever had.

And that scared Louis more than anything else.

He shook his head, trying to shove the thought away. Tonight was about the party, about pretending everything was fine. About being with the people who didn’t make his skin crawl.

But as he slipped on his jacket, Louis couldn’t stop the small part of him wondering if maybe, just maybe, Harry wouldn’t be as bad as he feared.
____

The street was a maze of headlights and music pumping faintly from open windows. Cars lined both sides of the road like they were guarding the party inside — some sleek and polished, others beaten up and forgotten. Louis squinted against the evening glare as the Uber slowed to a stop right outside the house.

Eleanor practically pulled him out before the car had fully halted, her fingers curling possessively around his arm like a leash he wasn’t sure he wanted to wear tonight.

“Come on, Lou,” she said, voice bright, like everything was perfectly normal, like this wasn’t a party he was dreading.

Louis let out a quiet sigh, his mind already spinning through every possible scenario. The sea of people waiting outside — laughing, shouting, pushing past each other — made his chest tighten. It wasn’t just the crowd. It was that invisible weight dragging at the back of his thoughts.

He glanced sideways at Eleanor, whose grin was fixed and practiced, as if this was just another night out. But Louis could feel it — the way her hand squeezed his arm just a little too hard.

They stepped onto the cracked pavement together. Music rolled out from inside the house, bass vibrating through the ground beneath their feet. Louis kept his eyes low, heart thudding, wondering how many of those faces would be here, and which ones would look at him with judgment — or worse, pity.

But Eleanor was already leading the way, dragging him into the swirl of bodies. Louis didn’t resist. Not yet.
____

Niall was exactly where he always was — leaning casually against the doorframe, a big grin plastered across his face like he was the king of this chaotic castle. His bright eyes flicked between Louis and Eleanor, sparkling with that endless mischief that somehow made everything feel a little less heavy.

“Look who finally decided to show up!” Niall called out, voice loud enough to cut through the hum of music and chatter behind him.

Louis forced a smile, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. Niall always had that effect — like a warm burst of sunlight on an otherwise cloudy day.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re here,” Louis muttered, trying to sound nonchalant, but the tightness in his chest hadn’t quite loosened.

Eleanor gave Niall a polite nod, all smiles and sunshine. “Thanks for having us, Niall.”

Niall stepped aside, swinging the door open wider. “No problem, come in, come in. The party’s just getting started. You’re in for a good one tonight.”

Louis glanced past Niall into the house — the familiar mix of noise, movement, and energy flooding the room. He took a steadying breath, his mind still spinning with all the reasons he didn’t want to be here, but part of him clung to that tiny hope maybe, just maybe, tonight could be different.

“After you,” Niall said, with that cheeky grin again.

Louis stepped inside, the weight of the evening pressing on him already. But for now, he had to play along.
____

Eleanor practically dragged Louis through the noisy party, weaving past clusters of chatting and laughing students until they reached a corner where the cheerleaders were gathered — Perrie and her friends, all buzzing with energy and laughter. Louis recognized them instantly: the loud, confident girls who ruled the school with their sparkling smiles and sharp wit.

He adjusted his black button-up shirt—a few buttons undone to reveal the tattoo stretched across his collarbones—and smoothed the fabric over his black skinny jeans that hugged his curves perfectly. Classic Vans finished off the look, and his hair was just a little fluffy, tousled perfectly as if he’d barely tried.

Eleanor beamed and introduced him quickly. “Louis, these are the cheerleaders. Girls, this is Louis.”

Perrie was the first to look him up and down, her eyes flickering over his outfit with a playful smirk. “Ooh, black on black, huh? That looks good on you.” She glanced at the tattoo peeking out from his shirt collar. “And that’s pretty badass.”

Louis gave a small, polite smile, his cheeks warming a bit. “Thanks. It is what it is.”

One of the other girls with long, shiny hair -Louis thinks her name is Leigh-anne off the top of his head- chimed in, “Seriously, you’re pulling off the whole mysterious vibe. Like, very ‘I-woke-up-like-this’ but better.”

Louis nodded, keeping his tone even and polite. “Appreciate it.”

Eleanor grinned, clearly pleased with the exchange. Louis tried to stay relaxed, but inside, he was still scanning the room, part of him distracted by everything else going on. For now, though, he kept his cool and returned their smiles, grateful for the brief moments of normalcy.
____

Louis finally managed to slip away from Eleanor’s relentless chatter, weaving through the crowded room until he found himself at the bar. He leaned against the counter, grateful for the brief pause from all the noise and expectations. His mind was swirling with everything—the tension at home, the stupid project with Harry, and Eleanor’s clinginess—but now, with a drink in hand, he could almost pretend it wasn’t all there.

Then, out of nowhere, a familiar voice cut through his foggy thoughts.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Louis turned slowly to find Harry standing beside him, casually cool in a dark grey fitted tee that hugged his lean frame and black jeans worn just enough to look effortless. His hair was messy in that perfectly undone way, and those emerald eyes locked onto Louis with a mix of something unreadable.

Louis couldn’t help but scan him, an involuntary flicker of admiration sneaking in despite everything.

“What do you want?” Louis muttered, trying to sound unimpressed.

Harry’s grin was easy, almost disarming. “Just thought I’d see how the night’s going.”

Louis shook his head, fighting the unexpected flutter in his chest. “You’re relentless, aren’t you?”

Harry’s grin widened, mischief sparkling in those emerald eyes. “Relentless? I prefer ‘persistent.’ Like a certain someone I know.”

Louis rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Keep dreaming, Styles.”

Harry stepped a little closer, lowering his voice just enough to tease. “You know, I’m starting to think you enjoy this as much as I do.”

Louis shot him a glare, but it wasn’t enough to mask the warmth spreading under his skin. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Before Louis could say more, Harry clapped a hand on the bar and called out, “Oi, Niall! Come on, let’s find the others.” He gave Louis one last amused look before weaving through the crowd.

Louis stared after him for a moment, then let out a shaky breath and downed the rest of his drink. The burn was sharp but welcome — a small anchor in the storm of thoughts swirling in his head.

Just get through tonight, he thought, and maybe tomorrow will be easier.
____

Louis swayed slightly, his vision swimming between the flashing lights and the haze of the music. He had no idea how many drinks he’d downed, or how much time had passed. Eleanor’s voice was just a distant echo now, somewhere far from his tangled thoughts.

He stumbled through the crowd, eyes scanning the room in a desperate search for something familiar. But all he saw was a blur of faces and laughter, none of it making sense.

Then—thump—he collided into someone solid.

“Oh, sorry—shit,” Louis mumbled, trying to steady himself as he looked up, blinking through the haze.

Standing there, calm and steady, was Harry. His dark hair tousled perfectly despite the late hour, his sharp eyes meeting Louis’s with a mixture of amusement and something softer.

“You look like you’ve had one too many,” Harry said, a teasing smirk curling at his lips.

Louis blinked, struggling to focus. “You’re… quite the observation expert, Styles.”

Harry chuckled softly, then leaned in a little closer. “Come on. Let me get you some water before you completely disappear.”

Louis hesitated, then nodded, grateful for the unexpected lifeline. As Harry gently guided him toward the quieter side of the house, Louis felt a flicker of something he wasn’t quite ready to name.

Louis pulled back slightly, trying to keep his balance but mostly trying to keep his distance. “I don’t need water, thanks. I’m fine. Honestly. I’m totally—”

Harry cut him off with a grin, clearly entertained. “You’re a stubborn one, huh? Sworn enemy and all that?”

Louis snorted, slurring his words just a bit. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep the rivalry alive. Otherwise, what’s the point? You’re lucky I haven’t thrown a drink in your face yet.”

Harry laughed, shaking his head. “I’m counting on that. You’re a real pain, you know.”

Louis smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief despite the haze. “And you love it. Admit it.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, amused. “Maybe I do.”
____

The music from downstairs was a dull thump, muffled through the walls. Louis found himself in a small, dimly lit room, far away from the noisy crowd in the main party space. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying to will himself into feeling less miserable. Then he heard footsteps.

Harry slid the door closed behind him, a small smirk playing on his lips as he held up a half-full glass of water. “Come on, Louis. Just a sip. I promise I’m not trying to poison you.”

Louis eyed the glass suspiciously, shaking his head. “No thanks. You can keep your witch’s brew.”

Harry chuckled softly, stepping closer, lowering his voice so only Louis could hear. “It’s just water. Nothing fancy, but it helps. Just a little.”

Louis’s lips twitched like he wanted to smile but caught himself. He looked away, biting his bottom lip. The tension between them was there, but it felt… different now. Less like a battle, more like an unspoken truce, fragile and strange.

“Fine,” Louis muttered, snatching the glass from Harry’s hand and taking the tiniest sip.

Harry hummed approvingly, eyes bright. “See? Not so bad.”

Louis rolled his eyes but took another tiny sip, then another. “I don’t get why you’re even here, y’know. We’re meant to be rivals. You should hate me.”

Harry’s smile softened. “Maybe I do, but that doesn’t mean I want you to suffer alone.”

Louis blinked, surprised by the unexpected sincerity. He fiddled with the rim of the glass, thinking.

“Well, it’s not like I’m enjoying this whole thing,” Louis said finally, voice low. “School’s a mess. The project’s a nightmare, and I swear, every time I see your stupid smug face, I want to just—”

“Punch me?” Harry offered, amused.

“Yeah. Punch you.”

Louis glad Harry finished the sentence for him because he really wasn’t if punch was the word that was going to end the sentence.

Harry laughed, but the sound was quieter now, more genuine. “Good to know where I stand.”

Louis shifted on his feet, suddenly feeling a bit less guarded. “I don’t know why I’m talking to you like this. Usually I’d be telling you off or walking away.”

“Maybe because you don’t hate me as much as you think.”

Louis scoffed, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something softer. “Don’t flatter yourself Styles.”

They stood there, the silence stretching comfortably between them.

“Ever think about… I dunno, why things got so twisted between us?” Louis asked suddenly, surprising himself.

Harry shrugged, leaning against the wall. “I guess it’s easier to fight than to understand. You make it hard to like you.”

Louis snorted, a genuine laugh bubbling up. “Right back at you.”

Harry grinned, eyes warm. “Maybe we’re just too stubborn to admit we want the same thing.”

Louis raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

“To not feel so alone, even when we’re surrounded by all this noise.”

Louis looked away, his throat tight. The words settled heavier than he expected.

“ Yeah as if but maybe I’m less mad at you than I thought,” Louis admitted quietly.

Harry hummed, reaching out to nudge Louis’s shoulder gently. “That’s progress.”

Louis smiled, a real one this time, the kind that crept up slowly but stayed. “Yeah.”

And for the first time that night, Louis didn’t want to leave the quiet room or the company beside him.
____

through the door as Harry glanced at his phone again. “I should probably find Eleanor,” he said gently. “Make sure you get home all right.”

Louis shifted uncomfortably, his voice low and hurried. “No. I don’t want Eleanor finding me. And I don’t want you looking for me either.”

Harry paused, eyes searching Louis’s face, wanting to ask why, but sensing it wasn’t the right time. So he didn’t.

Instead, he softened his tone. “Okay. How about I just give you a lift home then? No fuss.”

Louis hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Harry gave him a small smile. “I’ll grab my coat.”

Louis let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, feeling oddly relieved that Harry wasn’t pushing him. Sometimes the quiet kindness was enough.
____

The hum of the engine was the only sound in the car, the night wrapping around them in shadows and quiet. Louis stared out the window, his reflection flickering in the glass like a ghost he wasn’t sure he recognized anymore. The streetlights blurred past, but his mind wasn’t on the passing world. It was miles away, trapped in the knot of dread coiling tight in his chest.

Home. The word tasted sour. It should mean safety, comfort — somewhere warm and familiar. But for Louis, it was a trigger. The thought of walking back through that front door made his skin crawl, his heartbeat spike with a wild, panicked rhythm.

Mark’s there.

Just thinking about him made his throat dry and his hands twitch nervously on his lap. The man was a shadow Louis refused to live under, a presence he hadn’t invited but couldn’t seem to shake. Mark wasn’t his dad — not by blood, not by heart, not by a thousand silent, scarring ways that refused to heal.

He’s not my dad. Never will be.

The memory of last night, the argument, the rage, the walls Louis had tried to build up only to watch crumble, sat heavy in his chest. He’d been so furious, so broken. And now? Now the thought of facing it again, of pretending everything was fine, made something inside him fracture a little more.

Harry glanced over, his eyes catching Louis’s in the dim light. There was something there—something dark, unsettled—buried deep beneath the surface.

“Lou, what’s up?” Harry asked softly. The name made Louis flinch. He hated it, really hated it, but tonight it felt different. Not terrible. Just… quiet. Maybe because Harry said it with no pressure, no weight.

Louis swallowed hard, heart thudding. The words escaped before he could stop them, raw and urgent.

“I… I can’t go home,” he blurted, voice cracking. “No. No, I can’t.”

The car seemed to grow quieter, the air heavier. Harry’s face didn’t change—no judgment, no surprise, just steady calm.

“Okay,” Harry said after a beat. “I guess you can stay round mine, then. Or Zayn’s. I can maybe see if he’s home yet?”

Louis’s mind spun. Zayn’s place felt like a safe thought, but then his practical side kicked in.

Harry’s is closer.

Closer meant easier. Less time driving, less time alone with that gnawing anxiety. Closer meant something.

He nodded, barely trusting his voice. “Yeah. That’s… that’s probably better.”

His thoughts churned in a whirlwind.

Why do I feel like this? Like I’m trapped in this endless loop of not-belonging?

Why does Mark’s shadow loom so large over everything?

Why do I even let it get to me so much?

Harry’s eyes flicked to him again, patient and gentle.

“I don’t have to ask, do I?” Harry said quietly.

Louis shook his head, blinking back a sudden prick of tears he wasn’t ready to name.

I don’t want to be weak.

I don’t want to be this mess.

But I can’t go home. Not tonight. Not ever.

The car rolled forward into the night, the promise of Harry’s place a fragile thread pulling Louis just a little out of the dark.
____

The car pulled up outside Harry’s house, the night calm and still around them. Harry cut the engine and turned to Louis, voice low and careful.

“My mum’s working the night shift,” he said softly, glancing toward the dark windows. “My sister’s asleep, so we’ll have to be careful with noise.”

Louis nodded wordlessly, already feeling the weight of needing to keep quiet pressing down on him. He wasn’t really paying attention to the words anyway. His eyes were tracing everything.

Harry’s house looked smaller from the outside than Louis had expected. It was neat, humble, with a soft glow leaking from one window. Somehow it felt… real. Less polished than the facade Louis often saw on the outside world, less heavy with expectation.

Louis followed Harry through the front door, kicking off his shoes quietly. The faint scent of lavender and something like freshly brewed tea floated in the air. It felt like a home.

As they made their way through the quiet hallway, Louis’s gaze flicked everywhere — the framed photos on the walls, Harry’s sneakers lined up neatly by the door, the subtle clutter that made the place lived-in and lived-with.

He tried not to think too much, but it was impossible.

This is Harry’s world. His safe space.

And I’m just crashing it.

But somehow it didn’t feel intrusive. More like stepping into a quiet corner of peace Louis hadn’t realized he was desperate for.

Harry opened a door and gestured inside. “This is my room.”

Louis stepped in slowly, eyes scanning the space with a mix of curiosity and disbelief.

The bed was massive — a king-sized fortress draped in white and teal sheets that looked impossibly soft. Louis found himself imagining sinking into it after the chaos of the day, just for a moment of calm.

On the wall, a Manchester United calendar was pinned, but what caught Louis’s eye was the page — October, already turned. He chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head.

It’s September 30th, mate. Always prepared, always on top of things.

His mind raced with the tiny details that made the room so Harry — the way his desk was meticulously tidy, everything stacked and sorted, but not sterile. There was life here.

Plush stuffed animals sat perched at the head of the bed, an odd collection that made Louis smile. A tiny, faded panda with one ear slightly torn. A unicorn with a sparkly horn that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale. It was a stark contrast to the tough, confident guy Louis always saw on the pitch.

Louis’s eyes drifted to the shelves lining the wall — a scattered assortment of books, a few old trophies, a framed photo of Harry and someone Louis assumed was his dad, both grinning wildly, a dog bounding between them.

It felt normal. Warm. Real.

His gaze caught the window, half-open, curtains fluttering softly with the night breeze. The faint streetlights cast long shadows across the floor, and Louis suddenly felt like an intruder and a guest all at once.

He sank down on the edge of the bed, breathing it all in.

This is Harry.

This is the side he never shows.

And somehow, being here, seeing this, it makes everything else — the hate, the grudge, the mess between us — just… shrink.

He thought about the silence, the careful quiet they’d have to keep so as not to wake Harry’s sister. He thought about the long, complicated nights ahead, about how different this felt from home.

Maybe this is okay. Maybe I’m okay here.

Louis looked up at Harry, who was leaning against the doorframe, watching him with those emerald eyes that made Louis’s chest tighten in a way he wasn’t ready to understand.

Harry hesitated a moment, then glanced around his room. “Wait here,” he said softly, disappearing down the hall.

Louis sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on him, his mind a jumble of tired thoughts and lingering buzz from earlier. He glanced at the king-sized bed again, feeling the soft teal sheets beckoning, but the heavy fog in his head made everything seem distant, blurry, like he was watching life through a haze.

A few minutes later, Harry returned, holding a small pile of clothes. He gave Louis a tentative smile.

“I found some stuff,” Harry said, holding up a simple black t-shirt and a pair of loose gray joggers. “Not exactly fashion week, but… they should fit, I guess. I mean—” He stopped himself, eyes flicking down to Louis’s smaller frame compared to his own tall, lean build. “Well, I hope so.”

Louis couldn’t help but grin a little at the awkward way Harry fumbled around the height difference — the way the joggers looked a little too big, the shirt obviously more oversized than anything Louis would normally wear.

“Thanks,” Louis murmured, voice low and a little shaky.

Harry led the way out of his room. “I set up the guest room for you,” he said, nodding toward a smaller door down the hall.

Louis froze.

The thought of being alone, even in a different room, suddenly felt heavier than he expected. His limbs felt like lead. The haze was thick. He swallowed, trying to steady himself.

“Actually,” Louis said quietly, voice awkward, “Can I just… stay in your room?”

Harry blinked, surprised.

Louis’s eyes dropped to the floor, cheeks warming. “I know it’s weird, I’m— I’m just… a bit fragile, and— I don’t want to be awkward.”

Harry’s face softened in a way Louis didn’t expect — the usual teasing sparkle replaced by something gentler, more patient. He gave a small, reassuring smile that eased some of the tension curled tight inside Louis’s chest.

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. “You can stay. No awkwardness.”

Louis blinked, the sincerity in Harry’s voice sinking deep. It was like being handed a lifeline.

For the first time that night, Louis felt safe enough to let some of the walls drop.

Chapter Text

Louis woke slowly, the remnants of last night’s haze thick in his mind, a dull throb pounding behind his eyes. He blinked against the soft morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. His fingers twitched, clutching something warm and oddly reassuring. Confused, he opened his eyes fully—and froze.

He was curled up against Harry.

For a moment, disbelief stalled his breath. Harry. The one person he’d been certain he hated, the source of so much frustration and tangled feelings. And yet here he was, skin to skin, tangled in Harry’s warmth, safe in a way Louis hadn’t expected—or wanted.

His brain scrambled, trying to piece together how he’d gotten here, how he’d ended up begging for this when he should have been furious, distant. The bitter edges of last night’s anger blurred with a confusing softness as he realized just how close they’d become, in the quiet dark.

Louis’s heart hammered—he was supposed to be enemies with Harry. Supposed to despise him. And yet, here they were, tangled up like this, and Louis couldn’t deny the strange comfort it brought.

Louis’s mind raced, a chaotic tangle of disbelief, confusion, and something softer—something he wasn’t ready to name. How the hell did I end up here? The thought repeated over and over like a broken record, each replay twisting his insides a little more. I’m supposed to hate him. I should be angry, pushing him away. But…

He felt the warmth seeping from Harry’s side, steady and real. It made his chest ache in a way he didn’t understand. His fingers tightened just slightly, subconsciously holding on as if that contact was the only thing keeping him grounded.

What if he wakes up and regrets it? The panic flared, sharp and sudden. What if I should regret it?

Louis swallowed hard, heart thudding in his ears. I hate that I’m thinking like this. But the truth wouldn’t be ignored. For all the arguments and glances filled with resentment, the silence between them had been quieter last night—so much quieter.

Then, stirring broke the stillness. Harry shifted beside him, a soft groan, eyes fluttering open. Louis’s breath hitched, suddenly feeling far too exposed.

“Morning,” Harry murmured, voice thick with sleep, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Louis’s thoughts stalled, and all he could do was stare, caught somewhere between wanting to run and wanting to stay.

Louis blinked a few times, trying to clear the fog in his head, but the sight of Harry looking so calm, so unbothered by the chaos swirling inside Louis, made his heart thump unevenly.

“Morning,” Louis finally whispered back, voice hoarse and barely more than a breath.

He turned slightly, careful not to disturb the fragile quiet between them, but still aware of the warmth pressed against his side. How did this happen? The question hovered, unanswered.

Harry’s eyes searched Louis’s face, a flicker of something gentle there that Louis wasn’t used to—maybe never had seen before. “You okay?” Harry asked, voice low.

Louis wanted to say no, wanted to say everything was a mess and he hated it, hated himself for needing this, for feeling this close to someone he was supposed to despise. But instead, he just shook his head slowly.

“Not really,” he admitted, the words tasting bitter. “But… better than I thought I’d be.”

Harry nodded, and for a moment neither of them spoke, just letting the silence stretch comfortably.

Louis’s mind was a mess of tangled thoughts — guilt, confusion, a small spark of something warm and dangerous. Maybe it wasn’t all hate.
____

Louis shuffled awkwardly beside Harry, his oversized joggers rolled up at the ankles and the hoodie sleeves swallowing his hands. The clothes hung off him like he’d borrowed them from a giant. He tried not to think about how out of place he felt as they quietly headed downstairs.

In the kitchen, Anne was standing by the kettle, mid-pour, when she spotted them. Her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Louis, clearly still not quite himself. “Oh—Louis?” she said, her voice catching slightly. “I wasn’t expecting you down so early… and looking like you raided Harry’s wardrobe.”

Louis flushed, mumbling a barely audible reply, but before he could say much, Gemma appeared from the hall, arms crossed and brow furrowed in suspicion. She gave Louis a sharp once-over, then glanced at Harry with a knowing look. “What’s going on here then? You’ve got him all wrapped around your finger, haven’t you, mate?” Her tone was teasing, but there was something cautious beneath it—as if she wasn’t quite sure what to make of the situation.

Harry just smirked, but didn’t deny it. Louis tried to hide his discomfort behind a half-smile, feeling every eye on him. His thoughts were racing — How much do they know? How obvious am I? Yet despite the awkwardness, a small part of him felt strange relief in being here, in this moment, even if it was with Harry.
____

Louis poked at his toast, the quiet kitchen noise humming around him. Then his phone buzzed on the table. He picked it up, and the screen was full of messages — first from Zayn.

“Yo, where you at? Tried your mum, she didn’t pick.”

Another popped up right after:
“Wait… you at Harry’s??????”

Louis blinked, fingers hovering over the screen before another message came through — this time from Eleanor.

“Louis? Where did you go? I’ve been trying to reach you all day. I’m worried.”

His chest tightened. He hated this — the questions, the pressure, the constant checking up on him. He wanted to just shut it all out, but he knew he couldn’t.

He typed back to Zayn first, trying to keep it casual:
“Yeah, I’m at Harry’s. Needed a place.”

Then to Eleanor, careful with his words:
“Sorry, didn’t mean to worry you. Just needed some space.”

He stared at the screen for a moment before putting the phone down. He could almost feel the weight of those messages pressing down on him, but at least for now, he was somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere he could breathe.

Harry glanced over at Louis, who was still staring at his phone, fingers hovering uncertainly above the screen as if debating whether to send more replies or just shut it off entirely. The tension in the room was quiet but heavy—like the air was thick with all the unspoken stuff between them.

Anne popped her head around the kitchen doorway, glancing at Louis with a raised brow.

Louis gave a small, polite nod, voice hoarse. “Morning, Mrs. Styles.”

Gemma, Harry’s sister, appeared behind Anne, arms crossed, eyes narrowing just slightly as she gave Louis a once-over. Her expression was almost… suspicious? Like she was trying to figure out what exactly was going on but wasn’t quite ready to ask.

Harry jumped in smoothly, trying to break the weird vibe. “Louis stayed over last night. Said he needed a place.”

Anne softened but still looked a little concerned. “Well, you’re welcome anytime, Louis.”

Louis swallowed, feeling some warmth from that simple kindness. He glanced back at his phone again — no more messages from Zayn or Eleanor for now — and finally looked up, meeting Harry’s eyes. Something unspoken passed between them, subtle but there.

“Thanks,” Louis muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry just gave him a small smile, eyes gentle.

The morning rolled on with the usual breakfast chatter, but Louis felt different—uneasy, but also strangely lighter, like maybe this could be a fresh start, or at least a pause from all the chaos.
____

The quiet hum of the morning had slowly filtered in through the slightly cracked window. Louis had barely touched his breakfast, eyes flickering between his phone screen and the table, nerves chewing at the pit of his stomach. The air was oddly still for a Sunday. Tense. Like something was waiting to snap.

He hated Sundays.

Training days were never his favourite, but after the night he had, and everything at home… he really, really didn’t want to go back there.

Harry sat across from him, comfortably chewing through his toast, acting like it wasn’t weird that Louis was still here. Acting like this wasn’t complicated.

Louis cleared his throat softly, avoiding eye contact. “I should probably go.”

Harry looked up immediately, chewing slowing. “You sure?”

“No,” Louis admitted before he could stop himself, thumb brushing a crumb on the counter. “I don’t wanna go home.”

Harry didn’t say anything for a beat. Just looked at him. Louis hated how seen he felt under that stare. How it made him feel like someone had finally turned the lights on in a room he’d been sat in alone for years.

“You don’t have to,” Harry said simply, setting his toast down. “I’ve got a spare training kit from when I was younger. Should fit. Kinda.”

Louis laughed, short and dry. “You say that like I have a choice.”

“You do,” Harry said, quiet but sure. “You always have one.”

Louis bit his tongue at that, looked away. Didn’t respond.
•

Fifteen minutes later, they were in Harry’s room again, Louis standing awkwardly as Harry dug through drawers. A few shirts were thrown aside — a pink one, a Chelsea one (which Louis had immediately cursed out), then finally a dark red training top and a pair of black shorts with the Man United crest.

“Here,” Harry said, holding them up. “This one’s not cursed.”

Louis raised a brow, taking the clothes. “You really do have a shrine to United in here, don’t you?”

“I take my obsessions seriously,” Harry grinned, not the least bit ashamed. “Besides, you’re lucky I even have a spare kit. Most of my old stuff I gave away.”

Louis pulled off his hoodie, not caring that his curls were a mess or that he had pillow lines down his cheek. The weight of everything still lingered on his shoulders, but Harry’s room — Harry’s presence — felt oddly like a buffer against all of it.

He tugged the shirt on, then the shorts.

“Oh my god,” he muttered. “These are not regulation fit.”

Harry turned around and — immediately burst out laughing.

“Jesus, Lou, you look like you’re going to a Calvin Klein shoot.”

Louis flipped him off. “These shorts are practically painted on me.”

Harry tried to keep a straight face but failed miserably, leaning against his desk, grinning like a fool. “You’re the one with the thighs of a Greek god. Not my fault.”

“You really didn’t have any from, like… last year?”

“Nope.” Harry popped the p. “You’re making it work though. Can’t say I’m mad about it.”

Louis gave him a flat look, but the corners of his mouth tugged up despite himself. “You’re an idiot man i swear.”

“You’re welcome.”
____

As soon as the car slowed outside the school’s pitch, Louis felt the tension rise in his chest. Like a coiled spring being held back by nothing more than skin and nerves. He hadn’t been here since Friday’s training, and now, pulling up in Harry’s car, still wearing Harry’s too-small training kit, he felt like the biggest walking headline the team had ever seen.

Harry cut the engine.

For a second, neither of them moved. Then Harry stretched lazily, his curls brushing the roof of the car as he glanced sideways. “Ready to face the wolves?”

Louis shot him a look. “I’m the one in your kid-sized shorts. You look like you just rolled out of a Hugo Boss campaign.”

Harry smirked. “So you’ve noticed.”

“Shut up.”

They stepped out of the car at the same time, bags slung over their shoulders. It only took half a second before Louis heard it.

A low whistle. Then laughter.

He didn’t even need to look up to know it was Niall.

“Oi oi!” Niall called across the field, stretching one arm above his head. “Didn’t know they were offering bed-and-breakfast at the Styles’ place!”

Liam, standing beside him in a zip-up, lifted an eyebrow. His gaze flicked between them once. Twice. He didn’t say anything, but the look said enough.

Louis tried to act unfazed. He adjusted the strap on his bag and muttered, “Ignore them.”

“Can’t,” Harry said brightly. “They’re too loud.”

They hadn’t even reached the pitch yet and Louis already wanted to melt into the earth.

But the moment that really made his stomach twist wasn’t Niall’s teasing or Liam’s raised brow.

It was the subtle shift in energy when they passed the cheerleaders.

They were gathered near the bleachers, all in their training gear, stretching and laughing. Eleanor stood front and centre, a water bottle in one hand, chatting easily with Perrie and Jade.

Until her eyes landed on him.

Louis clocked it instantly — the way her smile faltered for a heartbeat, the way her brows pinched just slightly, like she wasn’t sure if she was seeing right.

Perrie noticed too. She leaned toward Eleanor and whispered something, eyes flicking briefly to Louis and Harry.

Jade followed the glance, and then so did Leigh-Anne, and Jesy after that.

Just like that, he could feel their stares crawling down his spine. Could feel the moment his entire Saturday night — the drinks, the texts, the borrowed shorts — became public domain.

He didn’t even need to look at Eleanor again. He could feel the question forming in her chest. The accusation hidden in the confusion.

He wasn’t hers, not properly. Not anymore, not in the way it used to be. But he was meant to be. Wasn’t he?

Harry nudged him lightly with his elbow as they neared the changing rooms. “You good?”

Louis kept walking. “Peachy.”

He could hear the whispers already starting as they disappeared inside.
___

The locker room buzzed with energy — half the team already in kits, laughing and bantering while pulling on socks and boots, the sharp scent of muscle rub and sweat in the air. It should’ve felt normal, routine. But for Louis, everything felt off.

Too loud. Too close. Too many glances thrown his way. Too much… Harry.

He was right beside him,peeling off his hoodie and talking about something to Niall — Louis wasn’t even listening. He couldn’t. His brain was busy doing backflips, trying to make sense of the chaos in his head.

Because here was the thing: he was supposed to hate Harry Styles.

Supposed to.

That had been the rule. The unspoken, blood-pact level law they’d lived by since… well, forever.

But now?

Now Louis was sat beside him in borrowed training kit, still sore from sleeping in Harry’s bed, still echoing with the soft sound of Harry saying, “You can stay if you want.”

And worse — worse — Louis had wanted to. Still wanted to. If Harry offered again, he wouldn’t say no.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

“Oi,” Harry’s voice cut through the haze. “You good?”

Louis blinked, realising he’d been sat there staring at his laces without actually tying them. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Harry nodded, easy as anything. “Fair enough.”

But Louis could feel his eyes on him a second longer than necessary.

No. Not fair. Not fair at all.

He yanked on his(Harry’s)boots and forced his face into something casual. Something smug. Something that said, I’m still in control.

They were separated into drills — passing, sprints, short-sided games. The same as always, but Louis couldn’t stop looking over. Couldn’t stop the spirals every time Harry’s laugh cut across the field. Couldn’t stop how his stomach did that dumb twist.

Jesus Christ.

He didn’t even realise he’d zoned out until Liam barked, “Louis! Ball!”

Too late. It smacked against his shin and bounced away. Harry, from across the pitch, let out a low whistle.

“You alright, Lou-is?” he called. “Want me to walk you through how football works again?”

Louis scowled, cheeks hot. “Didn’t realise the pitch came with a running commentary.”

Niall piped up. “It’s called concern, mate. You’ve been looking like someone swapped your shampoo with vodka all morning.”

The team laughed. Louis forced a grin and doubled down.

“I’m just trying not to be blinded by Styles’ shitty ego. Should’ve come with sunglasses.”

The banter worked. Mostly. It covered the silence that might’ve given him away.

Because underneath the jokes, his brain wouldn’t shut up.

He’s not that bad.
He let you stay.
He didn’t even ask why.
He called you Lou.
You didn’t mind it then.

He kicked a ball a little harder than he meant to. It sailed off-target, earning a sarcastic cheer from Ollie down the pitch.

“Nice one,” someone shouted. “Aim for the goal next time!”

Louis flipped them off over his shoulder.

Harry jogged over as the whistle blew for a water break. He tossed Louis a bottle and raised an eyebrow. “You always this grumpy when you sleep well?”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”

Harry leaned in slightly, low enough that only Louis could hear. “Too late.”

And then he jogged off again, curls bouncing, smug and sunlit and everything Louis didn’t want to think about anymore.

He took a long drink from the bottle, water cold on his tongue.

You’re not supposed to like him.

But his chest felt weird. Like something was shifting there. Something dangerous and warm.

So instead of thinking, Louis shouted after him.

“Oi, Styles — race you in sprints. Bet you’re still slow as shit.”

Harry turned, smirk lazy. “Loser buys the other lunch?”

Louis rolled his eyes. “You wish.”

But he was already moving, already chasing after him, heart thumping louder than it should’ve — and not from running.
_____

The sun sat high over the pitch, catching on sweat-slicked foreheads and glinting off scattered water bottles as the team gathered on the sideline for sprints. Coach shouted out pairings, lining everyone up for timed races.

Louis stood off to the side, bouncing on his toes, heart still pounding from the last round of drills. His hair stuck to his forehead, cheeks flushed, muscles warm and twitchy with leftover adrenaline. He caught sight of Harry across the field, jogging in place like he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Show-off.

His brain, unfortunately, hadn’t shut up all morning.

You’re not meant to enjoy this. You’re not meant to laugh at his jokes. You’re not meant to look at him and wonder if he meant it when he smiled at you like that. And for God’s sake—

“Oi!” Louis called out, loud enough to grab attention. “Styles!”

Harry turned, brows raising. A slow grin spread across his face as he jogged over.

Louis folded his arms. “You still up for that race? Or you gonna keep pretending you’re not scared of getting shown up?”

A few of the lads nearby ooohed like a Year 9 science class watching a Bunsen burner explode. Even Coach glanced over, smirking under his cap.

Harry cocked his head, voice smooth. “You want to lose in front of everyone that bad?”

Louis scoffed. “I’d rather lose my last brain cell than to you.”

“You’d be starting with less,” Harry shot back, eyes twinkling.

Louis flipped him off and stalked toward the starting line, biting back a smile.

This is fine. Totally normal. Just two people who loathe each other, doing competitive cardio in front of an audience. Completely. Fine.

They lined up beside each other, trainers digging into the turf, tension crackling like static between them.

“Alright, lads,” Coach called, blowing his whistle and raising a hand. “On my count. Three… two… one…”

The whistle blew.

They both exploded forward — Louis low and fast, Harry long-legged and annoyingly smooth. Grass blurred beneath their feet. Shouts erupted behind them. Louis could hear his own breath, feel Harry just a stride behind him, pushing.

No way. No way was he going to lose to Harry fucking Styles.

He forced a burst of speed, legs burning, arms pumping.

And he crossed the line a split second ahead.

He stumbled to a stop, panting, hands on his knees, sweat dripping into his eyes — but he was grinning.

“YES!” he shouted, spinning around. “SUCK IT, STYLES!”

Harry slowed beside him, slightly flushed, chest heaving — and smiling, dammit. Like he didn’t even care he’d lost.

“Bit dramatic, aren’t you?” Harry said between breaths.

Louis wasn’t done. “Who’s slow now, huh? Bet that one stings, yeah? I’ll take lunch now mcdonald’s please.”

He was buzzing.

“Alright, alright, calm down,” Harry said, laughing. “Don’t pull a hamstring celebrating.”

Louis tossed an arm around Harry’s shoulders just to be extra obnoxious. “Look at us. A loser and a legend, walking side by side.”

Harry glanced at him — and for a second, the laughter softened. “You’re daft.”

Louis didn’t let go. “And you’re weirdly chill for someone who just got outpaced by a guy shorter than him.”

Harry hummed. “Maybe i let you win.”

Louis blinked. “What?”

Harry didn’t clarify. Just smirked and jogged off to grab water, curls bouncing.

Louis stared after him, face hot — and not just from the run.

He shoved a hand through his hair and muttered to himself, “What the hell is wrong with me?”

And somewhere deep in his chest, something traitorous whispered:

You liked that he let you win.
_____

Louis was still breathless when he peeled off from the rest of the lads, cutting across the pitch toward the changing rooms. His hair clung to his forehead, sweat beading at his temples, shirt sticking to his back. But his smirk hadn’t faded — not after beating Harry in the sprint and absolutely milking it.

As he approached the school building, a familiar burst of perfume hit his nose before he even saw them. He barely had a second to prepare.

Perrie was the first to spot him. “Louis,” she sing-songed, and he instinctively flinched at her tone.

The others flanked her — Leigh-Anne, Jade, Jesy — and right at the end, of course, stood Eleanor. Arms crossed. Smile tight.

“Alright?” Louis asked, trying to walk past, keeping it casual, but Perrie stepped in front of him.

“Just curious,” she said, eyes narrowed. “What’s going on with you and Harry Styles?”

Louis blinked. “What?”

“You lot are, like… suddenly not hating each other like you literally smile at him,” Jade added, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Since when are you besties with the guy you used to call a walking pride parade?”

Louis scoffed, tried to laugh it off. “You lot love to dramatise everything, don’t you?”

Jesy raised an eyebrow. “Is it dramatic to notice when someone starts cuddling up to a boy he’s been slagging off since Year 9?”

Louis jaw tightened ever so slightly “i’m not cuddling up to him one training session doesn’t mean anything.”

Eleanor finally spoke then, voice quieter, but it cut deeper than the rest. “Are you… gay now too, or something?”

It hit him like a slap.

He stopped walking, heart thudding in his chest, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He didn’t answer immediately. Didn’t know how. Because suddenly he wasn’t sure what he was angry about.

Was it them asking?

Or the way they said “gay” — like it was some unwanted diagnosis, like it was laughable, pathetic, shameful?

He wasn’t gay. He didn’t think so. Not properly. But Harry — Harry had been getting under his skin for months now, making him question things, making him feel things he couldn’t label. And now everyone could see it? Just from a few sprints and jokes and the way he’d let himself enjoy Harry?

“I’m not gay, we are literally dating Eleanor” Louis muttered, but it sounded limp. Defensive. Hollow.

Jesy pipped up “Your acting weird it’s not Louis.”

Louis clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together. He wanted to snap back, say something biting, mean, shut it all down. But nothing came.

Because he is changing.

And he didn’t know what he was more pissed off about — the idea that people were judging him for supposedly liking a boy, or the fact that, deep down, he wasn’t sure he even did.

“Maybe don’t talk about people like that,” he said finally, quieter but firmer, eyes flicking from Perrie to Jesy. “Like being gay’s something to joke about.”

Perrie looked taken aback. “We didn’t mean it like—”

“Doesn’t matter how you meant it,” he cut in. “You lot don’t know what you’re on about anyway.”

He turned to leave, jaw still clenched, fists tight at his sides. But Eleanor called out after him.

“So what, you’re not gonna explain?”

He paused, halfway to the door, and without turning back, said, “Don’t owe you anything, El.”

And then he disappeared into the changing rooms, heart racing, head spinning, furious at the way everything felt like it was unravelling — at how little he understood about himself, and how visible it was becoming.

At how it was getting harder and harder to keep up the act.

And most of all, at how none of this — not the lads, not Eleanor, not the girls or their questions — mattered as much as the way Harry Styles made him feel when he smiled like he knew Louis was lying to himself.
___

Louis sat on the bench just outside the locker rooms, fiddling with the laces on his boots even though they’d been off for ten minutes. The grass clung to his socks, and his borrowed training kit clung to his skin in places it shouldn’t — the shirt a bit too loose, the shorts a bit too snug. He could still feel the echo of Harry’s smug little laugh from earlier, still hear the shout of “Bet you were dreaming about beating me last night, Tomlinson!” across the pitch.

Idiot. Loud. Flirty. Infuriating.

Louis exhaled through his nose, glancing at his phone. 1 new message.

Zayn: Outside. U still alive or nah

He stood up instantly, something tight in his chest loosening. He could finally leave.

He didn’t even say goodbye to the others — just slipped out the side entrance and jogged across the car park. Zayn’s old black Golf was waiting with the window half-down and smoke curling lazily out the crack.

“Get in loser,” Zayn said, deadpan.

Louis rolled his eyes but slipped into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him with a sigh that felt like it emptied half his chest.

“Fuckin’ hell, I thought you were gonna marry the lad, the way you were looking at him during sprints,” Zayn said casually, pulling off with one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the volume of whatever lo-fi beat was playing low on the stereo.

Louis didn’t even try to answer at first. Just stared out the window, watching the field disappear in the side mirror.

“I’m glad you came,” he said after a second. “Couldn’t be arsed with more Styles today.”

It sounded like the truth.

It wasn’t.

Not really.

Zayn snorted. “Yeah, you look devastated, mate.”

Louis shot him a sideways glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just saying, you’re sat there like your dog died, and you just said you were glad to get away from him.” Zayn drummed his fingers on the wheel. “So which is it?”

Louis slumped lower in the seat. “Dunno. Maybe I’m just tired.”

But he wasn’t tired. Not really. He was restless. It was in his legs, his hands, his chest. In the way he couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stop thinking about how Harry’s curls had flopped into his eyes when he ran, or how his voice dropped just slightly when he’d asked if Louis was okay the night before. Or how he’d let him stay, no questions asked.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? Harry hadn’t even asked.

And Louis — Louis didn’t know why that made his throat ache.

Zayn lit another cigarette, cracked the window, and stayed quiet for a few minutes. Then, like he could read the storm in Louis’ head, he said, “He likes you, you know.”

Louis blinked. “Who does?”

Zayn gave him a look.

Louis scoffed. “Harry doesn’t like me. He pities me. Thinks I’m some sad little case he can feel good about helping.”

Zayn didn’t bite.

“He’s always smiling like he knows something I don’t. Like I’m a joke or a… project.”

“Yeah,” Zayn muttered. “Or maybe he just sees past your bullshit.”

Louis turned back to the window, jaw clenched. “Whatever. I’m glad I don’t have to see him.”

But the second he said it, the words hung there. Empty. Wrong. Like chewing gum that lost its flavour too fast.

Because the second he’d climbed in Zayn’s car, a part of him had hoped — just for a second — that maybe Harry would come running out. Say goodbye. Even just yell something across the car park.

He hadn’t.

And Louis wasn’t glad at all.
_____

The car was filled with the hum of the engine, the soft thud of bass, and the occasional lazy drag of Zayn’s cigarette. Louis leaned his forehead against the cool window, watching trees blur into each other as they sped through town.

Zayn cracked the silence first, voice casual but precise.

“So…” he started. “You gonna tell me what your whole problem with Harry even is?”

Louis didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just muttered, “Don’t have a problem.”

“Mate.” Zayn gave a dry laugh. “You talk about him like he personally ran over your cat and spat on your trainers after.”

Louis rolled his eyes. “He’s just… annoying.”

“Annoying how?”

“Just is. All smug and grinning and always has something clever to say, like—like he thinks he’s above it all or something.”

Zayn arched a brow, keeping his eyes on the road. “That’s funny. Sounds a bit like someone else I know.”

Louis shot him a glare. “I’m nothing like him.”

Zayn blew out a stream of smoke. “Sure. Except for the whole deflection, sarcasm, never-talk-about-your-actual-feelings thing. Totally different.”

Louis didn’t answer. His jaw clenched.

Zayn pressed. “I just don’t get why you hate him so much. He’s not that bad. Like—Harry’s actually… alright. Solid guy. Bit dramatic, yeah, but so are you. He’s never once been a dick to you, not really.”

“He winds me up.”

“Everyone winds you up. You’ve hated Eleanor in Year 10 and your now dating her.”

Louis mumbled under his breath at that. “Don’t remind me.”

Zayn glanced at him. “So if he’s just annoying… why’d you go to him that night?”

That shut Louis up.

For a long moment, the only sound was the soft friction of rubber tires on tarmac, the music barely audible beneath it.

Zayn’s voice was gentler this time. “You had loads of people you could’ve called. Me. Niall. Even Perrie. But you didn’t. You went to him. Why?”

Louis stared ahead, eyes fixed on the road but mind far away. He didn’t want to think about the way Harry hadn’t hesitated. How he’d just nodded and said “yeah, you can stay at mine then” like it was nothing. Like Louis wasn’t a hurricane in human form.

“I dunno,” Louis mumbled. “Didn’t think. Just… happened.”

“Right.”

Another pause.

Zayn shifted in his seat. “Look, I’m not trying to push or anything, but… I think you’re confused.”

Louis frowned. “About what?”

“About him. About how you feel.”

“I’m not confused.” It came out too sharp, too fast. Defensive.

Zayn smirked. “That so?”

Louis huffed, leaning back into the headrest, folding his arms tight across his chest. “I hate him.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

“Zayn—”

Zayn turned down the music a notch, then said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “You think about him all the time. You notice everything he does. You talk about him more than anyone else. And you can’t even handle being in the same room without trying to get a rise out of him.”

Louis blinked, silent. The words sat in his chest like a weight.

“I think,” Zayn added softly, “you hate how he makes you feel.”

Louis looked away.

His throat felt tight, and he didn’t like that. Didn’t like how warm his ears got, how that sentence sat heavy in the middle of his chest like something he didn’t want to name. Like truth knocking with both fists and he was refusing to answer the door.

He blinked out the window, jaw tense, the streetlights blurring into orange smears.

“No,” he said flatly. “No, that’s not it.”

Zayn didn’t push. Just let the silence sit there, open, patient.

Louis filled it with sharper words.

“I hate him because he’s unbearable. He’s cocky, and smug, and always has something to say. He’s not even clever—just knows how to get under your skin. It’s his whole personality. And he acts like everyone loves him, and they do, because he’s Harry bloody Styles and he’s charming and glittery and whatever, but he’s a knob. And I see through it. That’s all.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow, glancing sideways. “You done?”

Louis inhaled, nostrils flaring. “I don’t like him. I’m allowed to not like people. This isn’t—there’s nothing deeper.”

A beat. Zayn let the quiet stretch long enough to make it obvious he was biting back what he really wanted to say. Then he just sighed, long and tired.

“Alright, mate.”

It was the way he said it that got to Louis. Not sarcastic. Not mocking. Just disappointed. Like someone watching a boy hammering nails into a door he didn’t need to close.

“What?” Louis snapped.

Zayn shook his head with a little smile. “Nothing. You’re just… so stubborn sometimes, it’s almost impressive.”

Louis folded his arms tighter. “I’m being honest.”

“You’re being scared,” Zayn muttered, quiet enough Louis could pretend he hadn’t heard.

They rode in silence after that. The kind of silence that had shape and weight and meaning. Louis kept his face to the window, as if that could anchor him, keep his thoughts from tipping over the edge. From spiraling into memories of soft sheets and teal duvet covers and the feel of Harry’s warmth beside him, even when he hadn’t meant to notice.

He clenched his jaw. Shoved it all away. No. That wasn’t what it was.

He didn’t like Harry.

He hated him.

He had to.

Didn’t he?

Chapter Text

Louis stepped out of Zayn’s car, pulling the door shut with a soft thud. His trainers hit the pavement, and before he even looked at the front door, his eyes darted to the driveway.

Empty.

Mark’s car wasn’t there.

He let out a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding, his shoulders dipping as if someone had finally taken a backpack full of bricks off his back.

Zayn gave him a small nod from behind the wheel. “You gonna be alright?”

Louis nodded, offering a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah. Thanks, mate.”

Zayn didn’t look convinced but didn’t push. “Text me if anything’s weird.”

“I won’t,” Louis said, smirking faintly. “But you’ll probably text me first anyway.”

“Fair.”

Louis watched Zayn pull away before turning to the front door. He slipped his key into the lock and quietly let himself in, trying not to make a sound in case one of the twins was napping.

But the second he stepped into the hallway—

“Louis!” His mum’s voice came flying from the kitchen like a bullet. “Oh my god—”

He barely had time to shut the door before she rounded the corner, still in her slippers, apron tied on, hair falling out of a messy bun. Her eyes were wide, frantic.

“I’ve been worried sick, love, where were you?! You didn’t answer your phone, I called Zayn’s mum—”

“I was fine,” Louis muttered, toeing off his shoes, not meeting her eyes.

“You can’t just disappear and not say anything! Especially after the way yesterday was—”

“I was in a better place than this,” he said, sharper than he intended, walking past her toward the stairs.

That stopped her. “Excuse me?”

Louis turned at the bottom step, jaw clenched. “You heard me.”

“Louis Tomlinson, don’t talk to me like that,” she said, her voice lowering into something steadier. “I’m your mum.”

“I know you are,” he snapped, arms folding. “That’s why I came back at all.”

She flinched a little at that. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” His voice dropped. “You know it’s true.”

His mum let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Look, I know things are tense, alright? I know it’s not perfect but—”

“It’s not tense, Mum,” Louis cut in. “It’s unbearable.”

She looked at him then — properly. Saw the dark circles under his eyes, the slump in his shoulders despite his defiance, the way he still hadn’t taken his jacket off.

He didn’t look angry. He looked tired.

“You can’t avoid him forever, Louis,” she said quietly. “He might be living here again.”

“I lived here first.” Louis’ tone was steel now. “And I’m not the one who made this house feel like a prison.”

His mum flinched again, eyes darting toward the front window like she was worried a neighbour might hear. “He’s trying.”

“Trying?” Louis barked a laugh. “He’s trying to control everything I say, everything I do. He tries to act like I’m his bloody son. I’m not.”

“I didn’t say you were,” she replied, gentler now. “But he—he cares.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Louis snapped. “He cares about being in charge. He cares about me being some version of a son he wants. Not me.”

She didn’t say anything for a beat. Just looked at him.

Then: “You know I won’t take sides.”

“That’s funny, because it doesn’t really feel that way.”

“I’m not!” she insisted, stepping closer. “But I’m trying to keep this family together, Louis. For the girls. For you.”

Louis’ voice cracked without warning. “I don’t want a family like this.”

It landed hard between them.

His mum blinked, visibly hurt. “Louis…”

“I just…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I just want to be left alone. I’ll eat, I’ll go to training, I’ll come home when I have to. But I don’t want to talk to him. Don’t ask me to.”

“I didn’t—”

“You were going to,” he cut in. “You always do. You want me to talk to him, to let it go, to ‘get along.’ I’m not doing it.”

His mum looked down, arms wrapping around herself. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“Neither am I,” Louis said, jaw clenched. “So don’t try to play mediator.”

She was silent for a long moment.

Then she nodded, slowly. “Alright.”

Louis blinked. “What?”

“I said alright,” she repeated. “You don’t have to talk to him. Not unless you want to.”

He stared at her. “Really?”

“I won’t force it. I won’t ask again. But you have to tell me next time, Louis. If you’re not coming home… just tell me. Please.”

He hesitated… then nodded.

His mum stepped forward and placed a hand on his cheek, soft. “You’re not the problem here, okay? But you’ve got to let me in a little. I can’t help if I don’t know where you are.”

Louis didn’t answer. Just nodded again.

She stepped back and smiled faintly. “Go shower. You stink.”

That pulled a reluctant smirk from him. “Cheers, Mum. Real kind of you.”

“You’re welcome.” She kissed his forehead lightly as he walked past her.
_____

Louis took the stairs two at a time, desperate to escape the lingering sting of that conversation with his mum. He could still hear her bustling around downstairs, trying to act normal — humming, opening a cabinet, the familiar squeak of the fridge door. It was all too loud, like the world was pretending everything was fine.

But it wasn’t.

Not really.

Not when just the idea of Mark walking through the door made Louis’ stomach knot.

He reached the landing, turned to go to his room, but—

“Nice shorts.”

Louis startled, whipping his head to the right.

Lottie was leaning against her doorway, one brow cocked, arms crossed. She had a towel wrapped around her damp hair and a tube of mascara in one hand. Her tone was teasing, but there was that glint in her eye — sharp, sister sharp — that told him she wasn’t just talking about the shorts.

He blinked. “What?”

She motioned to his legs with the mascara. “Those. The shorts. Kind of a look, if you’re into squeezing your circulation off.”

Louis glanced down at himself and felt heat crawl up his neck. The borrowed training kit was definitely on the… snug side, to put it nicely. The shorts were clinging to him in ways he absolutely had not considered when he’d left Harry’s house.

“They’re not mine,” he muttered, tugging at the hem. “Had to borrow them.”

“From?”

He hesitated. “Harry.”

Her brow arched higher. “Styles?”

“No, bloody Potter,” he snapped without heat, brushing past her to go to his room. “Obviously Styles.”

But Lottie didn’t let him escape that easily.

She followed, standing in his doorway as he tossed his bag onto the floor and flopped onto the bed face-down. His head was pounding — hangover still lingering, tension in his shoulders, and now Lottie, playing detective.

“Wait—” she said slowly, stepping in. “Are those his actual shorts? Like from when he was younger?”

“Yeah,” came Louis’ muffled voice from the pillow.

“So let me get this straight.” She leaned against his wall now, tapping the mascara against her hand. “You disappeared all night, didn’t text anyone, Mum was losing it, and now you’re back wearing Harry Styles’ childhood football kit?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” she said easily. “But you do have some explaining to do.”

Louis rolled onto his side, fixing her with a glare. “Nothing happened.”

“You’re wearing his shorts.”

“Because I didn’t go home. Because I couldn’t go home. Mark was here, alright? I didn’t want to deal with it.”

Lottie’s expression softened slightly, but she still looked skeptical. “So you ended up at Harry’s?”

“Zayn offered his, but Harry’s was closer.”

“Mhm.”

“And he offered,” Louis added, like that made a difference. “It wasn’t some big plan.”

She tilted her head. “Okay. Still doesn’t explain the shorts.”

“Jesus Christ, what is it with the shorts? Is this a crime now?”

“No, but it is a choice.”

Louis groaned and dragged a pillow over his face. “Can you just go?”

But she didn’t.

Instead, she sat on the edge of his bed, quiet for a moment.

“I’m not trying to be annoying,” she said gently. “I’m just… checking. You’ve been off lately. Snapping more. Zoning out. Coming home less.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He didn’t answer.

“You can hate him if you want,” she said, watching him. “Harry, I mean. Or say you do. But if he’s someone who made last night feel a bit safer — even for a second — maybe stop fighting it so hard.”

Louis peeked out from the pillow. “I didn’t ask for a therapy session.”

“You never do.”

He sighed and closed his eyes again. Lottie stood, brushing her hand over his hair briefly before heading toward the door.

“You should probably tell Mum where you actually were, though,” she added over her shoulder. “Or she’ll assume worse.”

“She already thinks the worst.”

Lottie paused. “Maybe. But I don’t.”

Louis opened his eyes.

She smiled at him. “The shorts are still tragic, though.”

“Get out.”

“Love you too.”
____

Steam fogged the bathroom mirror as Louis stepped out of the shower, water dripping from his hair. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist, moving slowly, the weight of the day dragging at him.

He pulled on one of his oversized T-shirts. It hung loose on his frame, offering a small comfort, before he headed to the counter for his phone.

The screen lit up with a message from Eleanor.

Eleanor: “Lou, I’m sorry for how I acted earlier. I know you’re not gay. I love you. Just wanted you to know.”

Louis stared at it, thumb hovering. His chest tightened, but he didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to explain or make things messy.

He typed back shortly, his fingers moving stiffly:

Louis: “Okay.”

He set the phone down without looking again, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers up.

The silence around him was heavy, but he didn’t want to fill it.

Sleep came quickly, or maybe he just pretended it did.
____

Louis sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the neatly pressed school uniform laid out before him. The white shirt, crisp and clean, the striped tie waiting to be knotted just right, the navy blazer folded carefully over the chair. Slowly, methodically, he began to dress, buttoning his shirt with precise fingers, looping the tie around his neck and tightening it with a practiced tug.

His mind wasn’t on the routine though. It wandered—back to last night, to Harry’s place, to the awkward closeness that still didn’t make sense. I’m not meant to want this. I’m supposed to hate him. So why does it feel so damn complicated?

He pulled the blazer on, the fabric stiff against his skin, then grabbed his school bag. The weight of everything pressed down on him, but he shoved it deep and stood, heading downstairs.

The kitchen was quiet, save for the low hum of the radio. His mum was already off to work, her briefcase gone from the table. Lottie sat at the table, flipping through a magazine, while the twins—oblivious to the tension—were arguing over cereal boxes.

“Morning,” Louis muttered, grabbing a piece of toast and sitting down. Lottie glanced up, her eyes sharp but gentle.

“You alright?” she asked, voice soft.

Louis just shrugged, not ready to talk yet. The noise of the twins filled the room, a strange comfort against the silence he felt inside.
___

Louis pushed open the school gate, the familiar creak echoing in his ears. Zayn had decided to skip school this morning—something about needing a break—and just dropped Louis off. That left Louis to walk the corridors alone, with nothing but his own thoughts buzzing louder than usual.

As he navigated the maze of lockers and scattered groups of students, Louis caught a few glances. Or maybe it was just his imagination playing tricks on him, making him feel like all eyes were on him. Probably just paranoia, he told himself, trying to straighten his shoulders and keep his pace steady.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he spotted Eleanor—already hovering by the lockers, practically glued to him. Typical.

Louis took a deep breath, plastered on what he hoped passed for a cheerful smile, and headed her way.

“Hey,” he said, voice light but wary.

Eleanor beamed up at him, arms immediately wrapping around his waist in a way that made Louis stiffen. She was definitely in clingy mode today.

“Missed you this morning!” she chirped, squeezing him a little too tightly.

Louis forced a chuckle. Happy boyfriend, yeah, right. “Yeah, you too,” he mumbled, hoping the bell would ring soon so he could escape.

Louis was forcing a smile next to Eleanor, every word from her feeling like a weight he had to carry. The hallway buzzed with the usual morning noise, lockers slamming, chatter drifting, footsteps echoing.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Harry approaching from the other end of the corridor.

Harry’s pace was casual, almost effortless, his eyes briefly locking with Louis’s as he walked past. For a split second, everything else faded — the noise, the crowd, even Eleanor’s endless talking.

Louis felt that odd flicker in his chest again, and before he could stop it, a small, almost mischievous smirk played on his lips.

But as soon as Harry disappeared past him, the moment was gone.

Louis blinked, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it, then turned back to Eleanor, pushing the feeling down. No way was he going to let Harry get to him.

“Hey, did you hear about—” Eleanor started, but Louis wasn’t really listening.
_____

Louis stepped into the English classroom with a sigh, the weight of another Monday dragging at his shoulders. The room buzzed with low chatter, paper rustling, pens clicking. And there, already at their usual spot by the window, was Harry.

Of course.

He was leaned back in his chair, legs stretched too far under the desk, hair in his eyes as he smiled lazily at something someone had said across the room. Louis didn’t want to go over. He wanted to turn around, walk back out, and fake a stomach ache. But their names were already written on the project list in permanent marker. Fate sealed.

He dropped into the seat beside Harry with a soft thud, keeping his bag on the desk like a barrier.

Harry turned, giving him a small grin. “Mornin’, sunshine.”

Louis didn’t respond. Just opened his book and stared at the table like it had wronged him personally.

Harry leaned closer, voice quiet. “Still mad at me or is that just your default face now?”

Louis scoffed under his breath. “Just don’t want to be here.”

Harry hummed. “Same. Except for the part where I get to annoy you for an hour. That’s always a highlight.”

Louis shot him a look. “You’re not funny.”

“People say otherwise,” Harry said, unbothered, drumming his fingers on the table. “Anyway, I still owe you lunch, don’t I?”

Louis blinked. “What?”

“From training. The bet. Sprints, remember? You beat me, fair and square. I’m a man of my word.”

“I don’t want lunch from you,” Louis muttered, but his voice lacked bite.

Harry shrugged. “Doesn’t have to be a date or anything. Calm down.”

Louis shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His fingers fidgeted with the corner of his book. Why did everything Harry say make him feel like he was constantly being challenged?

Harry added, quieter, “But seriously. You pick the day. I’ll bring something decent.”

Louis didn’t reply. He didn’t want to admit that the idea of Harry remembering that kind of thing—of him actually following through—made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t have a name for.

So he just said, flatly, “Whatever.”

Harry smiled to himself, like that was enough.

Louis hated how smug it looked.

He turned to stare at the board and tried very, very hard to pretend Harry Styles didn’t exist.

Again.

And failed.
____

Lunch came around too fast.

Louis stood at the edge of the canteen, tray in hand, eyes scanning for the usual. He half-expected Zayn to be waiting at their usual table. The loud one. Middle of the room. Football lads.

Zayn wasn’t there.

He was at 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 table.

But not just by himself but with —Harry. Zayn was sitting with Harry Styles, talking animatedly to Niall and even laughing at something Liam said. Louis squinted like that would change what he was seeing.

He didn’t even know Zayn spoke to those three outside of getting him from training. Let alone sat with them like they were mates.

He felt that stubborn bitterness rise in his chest, the kind that said don’t you dare give in to the fact Harry’s bearable, and without thinking too hard about it, he pivoted and made his way to the football table instead.

“Louis!” Stan grinned across the table as he plopped down. “We thought you’d finally decided to ditch us for Romeo.”

Louis blinked. “What?”

“You know. Harry bloody Styles. Don’t act like you haven’t been playing house with him since Saturday.” Stan nudged one of the lads beside him, snickering. “Didn’t think he was your type, but fair.”

Louis froze, the smile on his face falling in half a second.

“It’s not like that,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

Another one of the guys leaned in, grinning. “You did rock up to training in his kit, though. Tight little shorts and all.”

Laughter erupted around the table.

Louis clenched his jaw and looked down at his tray, appetite gone. “It was just for training. Didn’t have mine.”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “You’re weirdly obsessed with him, you know that?”

Stan raised both hands in mock defence. “Just saying what everyone’s thinking. Don’t get pissy with me just ‘cause you finally realised you’re one of them.”

Something in Louis snapped.

“You mean gay?” he said, voice sharp, loud enough to make a few heads turn. “Is that what you’re trying to say, Stan? That it’s wrong to be gay?”

The laughter died fast.

Stan sat back, eyes wide. “Whoa. Chill, mate. Didn’t say it like that.”

“You implied it.”

“I was joking.”

Louis shoved his tray away and stood. “Funny how the joke’s never on you.”

Louis only made it about four steps before something twisted violently in his gut.

It was hot and sharp and buried under a week’s worth of bullshit—Eleanor, Mark, sleepless nights, awkward mornings, borrowed training kits and borrowed feelings—and Stan’s smug voice still echoing in his head like he owned it.

And Louis couldn’t do it. Not this time.

He spun back around. Stan was still talking—laughing now like he’d won something—but he didn’t get to finish whatever dumb joke he was in the middle of because Louis was already moving. Fast.

One step. Two.

Crack.

His fist connected with Stan’s jaw so cleanly it stunned the whole table. The sound was sharp and echoing, followed by Stan toppling backwards off the bench in complete disbelief, holding his face.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Louis shook out his hand once, flexing his fingers. He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

He turned around and made his way across the hall.

People were staring—half the canteen either wide-eyed or whispering. Some snorted. A few girls gasped. One of the prefects looked like they were about to stand but hesitated when Louis didn’t flinch under the attention.

He didn’t slow, didn’t look up until he reached the table in the centre of the room.

Harry, Niall, Zayn and Liam were mid-conversation until they clocked him. Zayn raised his eyebrows in surprise, already shuffling his tray over to make room. Harry blinked, glancing between Louis’ tense frame and the table behind him.

“You alright, mate?” Niall asked carefully, lips twitching like he was fighting back a grin.

Louis sat down without answering, still breathing heavy, knuckles burning. He picked up one of Zayn’s leftover chips and popped it in his mouth like nothing had happened.

“Stan’s a prick,” he muttered, chewing.

Zayn smirked. “Took you this long to figure that out?”

Harry leaned slightly closer, voice softer than the rest. “You really punched him?”

Louis finally looked at him. “Wouldn’t you have?”

And Harry just… smiled.

Grin soft, a bit crooked, and—annoyingly—fond.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I probably would’ve.”

Louis blinked at him, then away quickly, pretending to be more interested in Zayn’s drink.

And for the first time all day, something settled in his chest. Like maybe—just maybe—he was in the right place.

Even if he didn’t fully understand why.

The lunch hall hadn’t gone silent after the punch — far from it. But as Louis slumped into the seat beside Zayn at the corner table, it might as well have. His pulse still buzzed in his ears. His hand ached faintly from where it had cracked against Stan’s jaw. Niall was halfway through some joke about how he’d been “dying to do that for months, you legend,” and Zayn was pretending to roll his eyes — but Louis wasn’t really listening.

His arms crossed over his chest. His shoulders curled slightly inwards.
And most importantly — he didn’t look left.
Didn’t look where Harry was. Even though Harry was right there. Sitting at the same table.

That thought alone made his stomach coil.

He could hear Harry’s voice — soft, amused, unmistakable. Probably talking to Liam. Probably pretending he didn’t care that Louis was being weirdly mute, probably being infuriatingly Harry about it. Like everything was fine. Like they were just… mates now. Like Louis hadn’t just detonated his entire social standing by leaving his own football table to sit here.

He stabbed a fork into his tray. The chips went flying.

“Subtle,” Zayn muttered beside him.

Louis gave him a look. “Piss off.”

Zayn smirked.

From somewhere to his left — god, he felt Harry looking at him — someone asked, “You alright, Louis?”

He didn’t look up. Just nodded once. He wasn’t sure who had asked. Didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to meet anyone’s eyes, least of all Harry’s.

The silence from him stretched on.
And on.

Eventually, it kind of wrapped around the table like a weird blanket. Everyone else was still talking, but lower now, like they weren’t sure if Louis was about to explode again or just… disappear into the seat. Zayn kept glancing between him and Harry. Liam and Niall were trying to hold a conversation about training drills, but it kept stalling.

Louis sipped his water just to do something. Stared straight ahead. Didn’t notice until too late that Harry had turned slightly, tray nudged a bit closer, like he was going to say something.

Louis beat him to it — or at least, cut him off preemptively with a muttered, “Don’t.”

It wasn’t loud. But Harry paused.

No one else noticed. But Harry did.

Louis didn’t have to look to know the shift in his body — shoulders pulling back slightly, quiet hesitation in his breath. Louis hated that he could read him like that now. Hated it more that it made his throat tighten.

Still didn’t look over. Still sat there like his skin was one size too small.

“Alright,” Harry said quietly. Like he meant it. Like he wasn’t angry at all.
And that was the worst part.

Louis shoved a chip in his mouth and bit down hard.

Chapter Text

It was Wednesday.
Three days since he punched Stan.
Three days since he stopped sitting with the football lads.
Three days of awkward lunches where he sat across from Zayn and avoided eye contact with Harry like it was a sport of its own.

Louis slid into the usual seat at the now-familiar table: Zayn, Niall, Liam, and Harry. The others were mid-conversation when he arrived — something about P.E. kits smelling like “literal death” — but it quieted briefly when he sat down. Not in a bad way. Just that flicker of awareness. He could feel Harry clock him, but Louis didn’t look up. He pretended to dig through his bag for a snack he definitely didn’t have.

He didn’t know what this was yet.
He wasn’t close with Harry — still disliked him, definitely — but it felt easier to sit here. Less like performing. Less like being stuck with lads who still laughed when Stan made those stupid jabs.

“Alright, Tommo?” Niall asked around a bite of his sandwich.

“Yeah,” Louis muttered. “Buzzin’ for the match.”

That was today’s anchor. The first match of the season. Home game. Full squad. New shirts. Buzz in the corridors all morning. And even though he was trying not to care too much, he couldn’t deny the little thrum in his chest. Football was simple. Football made sense.

“Think Coach’ll start Stan?” Liam asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Doubt it,” Zayn said, grinning sideways at Louis. “Bit of a bruised ego situation.”

Louis just rolled his eyes and took a sip of his drink, but something about the way Harry huffed a laugh made his skin itch. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t cruel. It was just… amused. Easy. And that annoyed him more.

“What?” he snapped, looking up.

Harry blinked. “Nothing. You just look extra fighty today.”

“Do you want to get punched too, or…?”

Harry grinned like he liked that answer far too much.

Louis kicked him lightly under the table — not that he’d admit it was light on purpose — and returned to ignoring everyone.

⸻

By final period, it was all anyone could talk about. Shirts were already under uniforms. The sports hall was closed for setup. Someone said the rival team had a striker who played for an academy. Louis zoned out most of it, bouncing his leg under the desk as he stared at the clock.

When the final bell rang, Louis didn’t wait. He was already halfway to the changing rooms when Zayn called after him.

“You better not get sent off, Tommo!”

“No promises!” he shouted back, but there was a grin on his face.

⸻

In the locker room, there was a different kind of energy. Laced with nerves. Stan was sulking near the back, benched for the match after “disciplinary reasons” (a.k.a. Louis’ right hook), while the rest of the lads were focused.

Harry was already changed.
Of course he was.
Hair tied back. Jersey fitted too well. Calm like he’d done this a thousand times.

Louis peeled off his shirt and tugged on his training top, trying not to think about it. About him.

“Nice of you to show up,” Harry said, not looking up from tying his boots.

“Someone’s gotta arrive with style,” Louis quipped. It landed a little awkwardly. Banter didn’t come easy between them. Not real banter. Not yet.

But Harry just smirked again, and Louis had to look away.

⸻

As the team jogged onto the pitch, Louis blinked against the low evening sun, scanning the crowd out of habit.

Parents lined the side-lines in folding chairs, scattered in hoodies and scarves, clapping and chatting in little knots. There were teachers near the front, a few younger students with plastic horns already blowing them obnoxiously. He kept searching—eyes darting past familiar faces.

Zayn wasn’t here yet. Not that he expected him to be.

But it was his mum he was looking for.

And she wasn’t there.
Of course she wasn’t.

No Mark’s car in the lot. No figure wrapped in a coat with a weak smile and too-tired eyes. Not even a text. And for some reason, even though he’d long stopped expecting it, it still lodged in his chest like a rock.

He looked away quickly, jaw tightening. No point thinking about it now.

Instead, his eyes landed on the cheerleaders. The corner of the pitch where they were gathered in neat rows, pompoms already out, ponytails bouncing as they chatted.

Eleanor was at the front. Obviously.
With Perrie and Jade flanking her, Leigh-Anne tying her shoelace, Jesy swigging from a water bottle.

She looked good. Looked like Eleanor. Same perfect hair, same smug sort of presence. She caught his eye, waved, gave that little practiced smile of hers like they were the golden couple or something.

Louis didn’t even lift a hand. Just nodded once and looked away.

It wasn’t like he hated her.
He just… didn’t feel anything. Not like he used to.

Something had cracked. Maybe weeks ago. Maybe months. But now the only thing keeping them tethered felt like routine. Like if he didn’t stir the pot, it might just fix itself. If he kept going, maybe it’d go back to normal.

Whatever “normal” was.

He ran a hand over his face, knuckled at his eye.

“Focus,” he muttered to himself. “Don’t be soft. It’s a game.”

He dropped into formation next to Harry, who didn’t say anything but glanced over once. Not smug. Not grinning. Just… noticed him.

And that, annoyingly, made Louis stand straighter.
____

The whistle blew sharp and clear, and Louis instantly felt the familiar pulse of adrenaline kick in.

Right behind Harry, who was stalking the front line like a predator, Louis settled into his attacking midfielder role, feeling the weight of responsibility more than ever. Niall was at right-back, solid as a rock, while Liam stood tall in goal, eyes sharp and scanning. The pitch was buzzing, the crowd a distant roar.

Louis’s head was cool but racing, fingers tingling with anticipation. For once, the usual knot of nerves wasn’t there. Instead, everything was… clicking.

He watched Harry shift his weight, ready to make a run. Louis felt it before he even thought it — a silent connection, the kind that only comes with too many training drills and long hours side-by-side.

Louis let the ball settle at his feet, eyes flicking quickly to Harry, then to Niall overlapping on the right.

Passing wasn’t just about hitting a target today; it was like painting a masterpiece, each pass threading the needle through defenders, carving space for the team.

Twenty-one minutes in, the moment came. Louis spotted Harry sprinting toward the near post, cutting inside just enough to lose his marker.

Louis rolled the ball forward, smooth as silk, perfectly weighted, and Harry met it with a clinical finish — a tap-in, calm and effortless.

The crowd erupted, but Louis barely registered the noise. He felt the spark of something unfamiliar — pride mixed with an almost guilty thrill that it had come off so well playing alongside Harry.

At halftime, Louis wiped sweat from his brow, chest heaving but mind sharp. The coach barked instructions, but Louis was already plotting his next moves in his head.

He was ready.

Minutes before the final whistle, in the 87th minute, the ball curled in from a Harry corner.

Louis positioned himself at the edge of the box, heartbeat pounding in his ears.

He timed his jump perfectly, rising above a defender, neck straining just right.

The header connected — solid, sweet — and the net rippled.

His teammates swarmed, but Louis’s eyes sought out Harry’s first.

Harry grinned, nodding, breathless and alive.

Louis’s lips twitched into a smirk.

Maybe, just maybe, the hate wasn’t so simple anymore.
____

The final whistle blew, sharp and triumphant, echoing through the stadium. The scoreboard glowed bright: 2-0. Victory.

Louis’s chest swelled with a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration as the crowd’s cheers washed over the pitch. Despite everything — the complicated feelings, the tangled emotions — right now, this was pure.

He scanned the stands almost instinctively, eyes searching for a familiar sight. And then he saw them — Zayn standing with Lottie, Daisy, and Phoebe, their faces glowing with pride and excitement.

A genuine, wide smile broke across Louis’s face. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

He broke into a run, the lingering sweat and dirt forgotten as he pushed through the crowd.

“Zayn!” he called out, his voice cracking with emotion. The girls giggled, their smiles infectious.

As soon as he reached them, Louis pulled them into a tight hug, feeling the warmth and steadiness he’d been craving.

Zayn’s arms wrapped around him, firm and comforting, while Lottie squeezed his hand, and Daisy and Phoebe pressed close.

For a moment, the noise of the stadium and the complicated drama with Harry faded to the background.

Here, with them, Louis felt grounded — like he was exactly where he was meant to be.

“Good game,” Zayn said quietly, a knowing look in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Louis breathed, a soft laugh escaping him. “Good game.”

Louis pulled the twins into a warm hug next, their small arms wrapping tightly around his waist. Daisy and Phoebe’s eyes sparkled with pride, their smiles wide and genuine.

“You were amazing out there, Louis,” Daisy said, her voice filled with awe.

“Yeah,” Phoebe chimed in, “You looked so cool with that header. We’re so proud of you!”

Louis felt a sudden rush of warmth, a softness that cut through the tension he’d been holding onto for weeks. He smiled, ruffling their hair gently. “Thanks, you two. That means a lot.”

Lottie stepped forward, her usual bright energy softened with care. “Mum’s still at work, which isn’t a surprise,” she said with a small laugh. “She sends her love, though.”

Louis nodded, understanding. It was a routine he’d come to expect, but hearing it still stung a little less today.

“And,” Lottie added, “Zayn actually offered to bring us all here. Said he wanted to be sure we could watch you play.”

Louis glanced over at Zayn, who gave a small, modest shrug but a proud grin. The support from his friends and family grounded him more than he thought possible.

“Thanks, Zayn,” Louis said quietly, his voice full of genuine gratitude.

The group shared a small moment of comfort and belonging amid the buzz of the stadium around them. For now, Louis could just be himself — surrounded by those who cared.
___

Louis pulled back from the twins with a small, genuine smile, then started walking toward the locker room, the buzz of the stadium fading a little as he made his way through the crowd.

But before he could get far, Eleanor suddenly appeared, weaving through the people until she was right by his side. Without hesitation, she threw her arms around him in a tight hug.

“Louis!” she whispered, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

He froze for a moment, caught off guard — but as the warmth of her touch settled on his skin, he felt… nothing.

No fluttering, no spark, not even the faintest pull.

Just empty space where something was supposed to be.

He pulled gently away, forcing a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, Eleanor,” he said softly, careful not to let his voice betray him.

She looked up, hopeful, but Louis already knew the truth—whatever they had wasn’t the same for him anymore.

Eleanor’s smile stayed bright as she stepped back a little, still holding his arm gently. “I’m really proud of you, Louis. You were amazing out there. I knew you had it in you.” Her voice was soft but sincere, like she was trying to bridge the gap between them.

Louis nodded absentmindedly, but his thoughts were elsewhere, flicking over to Harry. He wondered if Harry’s mum and sister had stayed to watch, if they’d seen his header, if Harry was smiling right now—maybe even proud.

Eleanor kept talking, but Louis was only half-listening, caught up in the mental replay of the game and the odd feelings swirling around Harry. He barely registered her words, his mind already drifting to what the afternoon might hold, and what it meant that he couldn’t quite shake the thought of Harry from his head.
_____

The locker room was alive with energy, a buzz of voices overlapping and laughter ricocheting off the walls. Louis stepped in, the familiar scent of sweat and leather grounding him as the lads crowded around, still riding the high from the win.

“Oi, Louis! That header—absolute rocket!” Niall grinned, slapping him on the back with more force than necessary. “You’re not just good at yapping, mate.”

Louis smirked, shrugging off the praise but secretly soaking it in. “Was a good cross from Harry, couldn’t miss.”

Harry, who was nearby drying his hair with a towel, caught the comment and shot Louis a small smile. “We’re a good team, yeah?”

“Yeah, who’d have thought?” Liam teased, nudging Louis. “You and Harry actually clicked on the pitch. That was something else.”

Louis rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Aw, c’mon, Lou! You might just like the guy,” Niall teased, elbowing him lightly.

“Like? I don’t even like him,” Louis muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.

Harry chuckled, tossing a glance Louis’s way. “Sure you don’t.”

“Right, enough of that,” Jack piped up from across the room, waving his phone. “Anyone want to see the replay? That goal was fire.”

The group clustered around Jack as he played the clip. Cheers erupted as Louis’s header smashed past the keeper.

“You can see the power, the placement—textbook finish,” Jack said dramatically.

“Show off,” Louis said with a grin, leaning against a locker.

“Alright, alright,” Harry said, shaking his head. “You’re the star today, mate.”

Louis’s cheeks warmed a little, but he kept his usual cool facade. The chatter continued around him—plans for the next training session, debates about tactics, and the usual banter that made the team feel like more than just teammates.

As the noise swirled, Louis felt a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name—belonging, maybe. Or the first real taste of something close to it.
_____

Louis is walking to Zayns car he’d already dropped the girls back home and now has to take louis.

When he got in the car he couldn’t believe his ears.

Zayn had said it casually—“We’re going for food. Come with.”

And Louis had blinked. “We?”

“Football lads. The usual post-win thing,” Zayn replied, sliding his phone into his hoodie pocket like it wasn’t anything. “They invited me. I’m going.”

Louis stared at him. “Since when do you care about the football lads?”

Zayn gave him a half-shrug, that classic lazy grin that somehow never gave anything away but also said everything. “Since food’s involved.”

Right. Of course.

But it didn’t sit right. Zayn wasn’t on the team, hadn’t been anywhere near training or a game unless it was through Louis. And Zayn didn’t like people—he tolerated them, at best. So why was he suddenly all in for dinner with a bunch of sweaty, loud, ego-stuffed football boys?

And Harry.

Because of course he’d be there.

The thought made Louis want to vanish through the floor.

“I’m not going,” Louis muttered, pulling the laces of his trainers a little too tight.

Zayn raised an eyebrow. “Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“You literally played like a demon today, assisted and scored, and you think you’re not gonna show up to your own post-match meal?” Zayn folded his arms, voice calm but final. “You are.”

Louis scoffed. “I don’t want to—”

“Why?” Zayn cut in smoothly. “Because Harry might be there? Because Eleanor might not be? Because you might actually have a good time and not know what to do with yourself after?”

Louis’s jaw tightened. “I just don’t feel like it.”

“Not good enough,” Zayn said, already pulling on his jacket. “You’re coming. You can sit at the far end of the table, scowl the whole time, and pretend to hate everyone. I’ll even sit next to you and you can pretend I’m your emotional support.”

Louis hated how much he wanted that.

He groaned, grabbing his coat. “If this is horrible, I’m leaving. Like—without warning. Just vanishing.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” Zayn said, grinning as he tossed Louis the car keys.
____

The place was buzzing when they arrived. One of those slightly too-small town places that tried to be posh with printed menus and mismatched candles but still smelled like cheap fries and Lynx.

Louis hesitated just outside the door, heart hammering for no real reason. He could already hear voices—Niall’s laugh was unmistakable. Then Liam. Then Harry.

God, this was stupid.

“Stop hovering,” Zayn said behind him. “You look like a creep.”

“Shut up,” Louis hissed, elbowing him, but he still didn’t move.

Zayn walked past him anyway and pushed the door open. A gust of warm air and noise hit Louis in the chest.

“Breathe,” Zayn muttered, low enough only Louis could hear.

They walked in together.

Louis felt the glances before he saw them.

A few of the lads looked over—Liam, Niall, even Stan waved(Cunt). A couple of the others just nodded. But Harry—Harry had looked up first.

And Harry had smiled.

It was small, barely a twitch of his mouth, but Louis saw it. Felt it. It burned.

Zayn veered left, settling at the empty seats on the end of the long table, and Louis followed without speaking. His heart was in his throat. It felt stupid. They were just having food. It was just a table of lads he trained with. It was—

“Didn’t think you’d come,” Liam said with a grin, leaning across the table.

“Zayn made me,” Louis muttered.

“Nice to see you’re as charming as ever,” Niall joked.

Someone laughed. Probably Stan. Louis wasn’t even sure.

He sat stiffly, arms crossed, leg jiggling under the table. Zayn chatted easily with Niall and Harry, who was sitting just three down. Louis didn’t even glance his way.

Not until a few minutes passed and someone asked Harry about the goal.

Louis didn’t mean to listen.

But he did.

“Wasn’t even looking,” Harry was saying, “but I swear the second he kicked it, I knew where the ball was gonna land. Like—I could’ve closed my eyes and still scored.”

“Mad chemistry between you two,” Jack added.

Louis could feel the smirk without even looking at him.

Harry let out a small laugh. “Guess we just get each other on the pitch.”

Louis hated how true that felt.

He dropped his gaze to the table, fingers picking at the edge of the menu. Zayn said something to him, but he didn’t really hear it. His head was all over the place.

Eventually, the food arrived. Niall was already begging people for chips before his plate hit the table. The conversation shifted to the next match. People were talking, joking, throwing straw wrappers at each other.

And Louis?

Louis was quiet. Not withdrawn, exactly. But watching. Processing. Sitting in the middle of a life he wasn’t sure how to live anymore.

He caught Harry’s eye once.

Just once.

Harry didn’t smirk or look away. He didn’t grin or raise an eyebrow. He just held it.

And Louis looked away first.

Because he always did.
___

“Oi, Louis!” Niall grinned, waving a breadstick like a sword. “Was just tellin’ them you were about to score a hat trick ‘til you decided to give the crowd some suspense!”

Louis rolled his eyes, but the tension in his chest loosened slightly. “Didn’t want to make it too easy. Gotta let you feel useful sometimes.”

Liam chuckled from his place at the end of the booth. “Play nice. You were class, both of you. Proper start to the season.”

“I’m just sayin’,” Niall announced, “if pigeons ever go rogue, we’re all doomed. They’re already fearless. One of them made eye contact with me for like ten seconds straight the other day. That’s not normal bird behavior.”

Harry let out a loud laugh, hand slapping the table. “Maybe it fancied you.”

“Wouldn’t blame it,” Niall winked. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Absolutely delusional,” Liam muttered, sipping his Coke like he was a fed-up dad.

Louis watched the chaos unfold, not quite ready to join in but not pulling away either. It was…nice. The sound of it all. The warmth of it. Zayn leaned closer, dropping his voice.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.”

“You haven’t said more than five words.”

Louis shrugged. “Just tired.”

Zayn didn’t push, just nodded, letting the space be what it was.

“So,” one of the defenders—Jake, Louis thought—leaned in with a grin. “Who saw that header from Tommo? Man rose from the ashes like a phoenix.”

“D’you always have to make everything so dramatic?” Liam asked.

Jake shrugged. “Man’s got a flair for the theatrical.”

“You should’ve seen him screaming at Harry,” Niall said through a mouthful of garlic bread. “You’d think he’d scored the World Cup winner, not a 2-0 in a school league.”

Louis scoffed. “He deserved it. Took him thirty minutes to figure out where I was sending the balls.”

Harry raised both hands. “And yet I got there in the end, didn’t I? Might say we’ve got chemistry.”

That word. Chemistry. It hit too deep, too fast.

Louis cleared his throat, reaching for his water. “Fluke.”

“Right,” Harry replied with a teasing tilt of his head. “So the twenty perfect passes before that were also flukes?”

“I’m just good.”

Harry laughed, that same laugh Louis had heard over and over, irritatingly light, almost infectious.

“I’m not arguing that.”

Louis didn’t know why that made his stomach flip.

He tuned out a bit after that, listening but not really speaking. Niall told a story about accidentally joining a hen party on his way home once. Zayn caught him staring at his untouched pasta and nudged him until he took a bite. Harry was talking with his hands again, eyes shining as he told some joke Liam didn’t find funny but still smiled at anyway.

“Alright, real question,” Niall said, pointing a spoon dramatically. “Who’s most likely to accidentally get famous on TikTok for something stupid?”

“Harry,” everyone said in unison.

Harry gasped, clutching his chest. “The betrayal!”

Louis rolled his eyes, but it came with a smile this time. Just a small one.

And maybe it was alright. Just for tonight.
____

Louis’ phone buzzed in his blazer pocket, the screen lighting up with Eleanor 💖.

He stared at it for a second, something already tightening in his jaw. She hadn’t texted him all evening—had barely said more than “congrats” after the match. And now she was calling?

He muttered something about needing air and slipped out of the restaurant, the low thrum of laughter and plates clinking fading behind him as he pushed open the door and stepped into the cooler evening.

The phone was still buzzing. He answered with a low, “Yeah?”

“Louis,” Eleanor’s voice came through sharp, tight. “Are you seriously at dinner? With them?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I just saw Zayn’s story. You’re out, and you didn’t think to tell me?”

“Didn’t realise I had to send a bloody permission slip,” he snapped before he could help it, heat rushing into his voice. “What’s the problem?”

“You don’t even like them,” she hissed. “You said they were annoying and fake. And now you’re suddenly best mates with Harry Styles of all people?”

Louis laughed, but it was humourless. “You serious right now?”

“You’ve barely spoken to me today, and now I find out you’re having some cozy dinner with people you don’t even like?”

“I didn’t plan it!” Louis hissed. “It just—happened. Zayn dragged me. And maybe I wanted a bloody nice night after scoring and actually feeling good for once.”

There was silence on the other end. Then: “I just think it’s weird, Louis. You never act like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like… I dunno. Distant. Secretive.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m tired, El. I’m not doing this now.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “Just… whatever. Text me when you’re home. If you remember.”

He hung up without replying, his chest buzzing—not just with annoyance, but confusion. About the whole thing. About her. About everything.

He sighed, staring down at his shoes for a second, trying to centre himself. And when he looked up—

Of course he was there.

Leaning casually against the low brick wall like he’d been summoned by the drama gods themselves, Harry Styles stood under the dim yellow light of the restaurant sign, arms folded, head tilted, curls a bit messy from the wind or the walk or just being alive.

Louis stared at him.

And for some reason, couldn’t stop.

God, he hated how easily his eyes travelled—first to the messy fringe falling into Harry’s eyes, the way the streetlight caught the green of them, soft and sharp at the same time. His mouth, slightly parted, like he was about to say something but hadn’t decided what yet. That stupid denim jacket with the shearling collar that made him look like a bloody indie film character.

And he was just standing there. Like he belonged there. Like he always did.

Louis’ heart thumped. He scowled.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “That looked fun.”

“Were you eavesdropping?”

“Wasn’t hard. You were practically yelling.” Harry shrugged, eyes still steady on Louis. “Everything alright?”

Louis didn’t answer. He just shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away. His heart was still racing, and he didn’t know if it was from the phone call or Harry’s dumb pretty face or the fact that—somewhere deep in his chest—he’d wanted Harry to follow him out. Like he knew he would.

And that was probably the worst part
_____

Harry didn’t move for a second, just kept watching Louis with that maddening calm he always had. Like he saw too much. Like he knew something Louis didn’t want to admit.

Then, before Louis could start picking a fight or storming back inside just for something to do, Harry stepped forward and grabbed his wrist—firm but not rough, the contact sending an immediate bolt of heat up Louis’ arm.

“Hey,” Harry said, tugging him slightly closer. “I know you hate me. We’re not friends. Blah blah blah. Got it.”

Louis rolled his eyes, tugging his wrist half-heartedly but not really pulling away. “Wow. Thanks for the summary.”

“But,” Harry continued, voice lower now, serious in that way that made Louis’ stomach twist. “I’m still here. Alright? If something’s shit—if you’re feeling shit—you can talk to me. I mean it.”

Louis stared at him.

God, he meant it. That was the worst part.

That soft-eyed, serious look—the one Harry always got when he talked about people’s feelings like it wasn’t terrifying. Like it was just normal. Easy. Not something Louis spent every waking moment avoiding.

He wanted to say something clever. Something cutting. Something to shove the moment back into the safe space of sarcasm.

Instead he blurted, “Don’t flatter yourself, Styles. You’re not that special.”

Harry gaped, gasping in mock betrayal. “Hey!”

Louis giggled before he could stop himself—quick and real, the sound escaping like a spark. His hand had somehow stayed exactly where it was, hovering near Harry’s wrist.

Harry’s mouth twitched. “There he is.”

“What? The rude little gremlin version of me you’ve imagined in your twisted head?”

“Yep. That’s the one.” Harry bumped their shoulders gently. “Better than watching you pout through dinner like you’d swallowed a cactus.”

Louis groaned. “Maybe I was just trying to survive Niall’s food commentary.”

“‘If garlic bread was a person, I’d kiss it with tongue’?” Harry recited, trying not to laugh.

“Exactly.”

They stood like that for a second—quiet again, but not the suffocating kind. The nice kind. The kind that felt a bit like when you stretch out your legs after being cramped all day. A strange sort of release.

Harry nudged him. “You okay though? For real.”

Louis hesitated. “No.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Fair.”

“I mean… I’m not dying or whatever. Just. You know. Life. People. Everything being a bit loud.”

Harry didn’t push. He just let the silence settle again, warm and steady.

Louis glanced at him, then muttered, “Still don’t like you, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep saying it,” Harry said, smirking. “Eventually you might even believe it.”

And before Louis could even process that—before he could snap back or smile or punch him in the arm—Harry turned and pushed the door open, walking back inside like he hadn’t just set Louis’s thoughts on fire.

Louis stared after him.

Mouth dry. Heart loud.

And yeah, he definitely, definitely didn’t like Harry Styles.

Whatever that meant.
_____

The bill had been sorted — mostly thanks to Liam being “dad” and wrangling everyone’s share while Niall tried to convince the waitress he could pay in football stickers. Zayn had given him a fiver just to stop him talking.

Plates scraped clean, glasses emptied, laughter still buzzing low in everyone’s voices as they pushed back their chairs and slowly began gathering their things.

Louis stayed quiet through most of it. Not tense, not uncomfortable—just quiet. Watching.

Harry, standing across from him, had his hands shoved in the pockets of his loose trousers, head tilted slightly as he listened to something Liam was saying. His curls were all soft from the warm restaurant air, shirt rumpled in a way Louis refused to find charming. Absolutely refused.

Zayn slung an arm lazily over Louis’ shoulder. “C’mon, we walking home or begging Liam for a ride?”

“I vote begging,” Niall piped up. “I don’t think I could walk to the door, never mind all the way back.”

“You say that like you didn’t order two desserts,” Liam muttered as he pulled on his jacket.

“They were small!”

“They were not.”

The group spilled out of the restaurant slowly, little clusters forming. Laughter carried down the pavement. Jesy and Perrie passed by on their way in, waving dramatically. Louis pretended not to notice Eleanor’s name lighting up on his phone again.

He felt full — not just with food, but with the night. The noise of it. The realness of it. The weird comfort that had crept in, no matter how much he’d tried to fight it.

“Zayn,” Liam called from a little ahead, “you still need a lift?”

“Yeah,” Zayn said, and then turned to Louis. “You coming with?”

Louis hesitated. Harry was still behind him, talking quietly to Niall now. A glance, a flicker of something unfamiliar in his chest.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, I’ll come.”

They made it to Liam’s car, shuffling and teasing, Louis shoved in the backseat between Zayn and Niall. Zayn was already half-asleep against the window. Niall had one foot on the dashboard and was muttering about needing chips again.

Louis looked out the window just before they pulled away.

Harry was still standing outside the restaurant, hands in his pockets, watching them go. The streetlight caught in his hair, painting it gold. And for a second, Louis didn’t look away.

Then he did. Leaned back into the seat, arms crossed, heart in his throat.

Just a night. Just a dinner. Just a boy he didn’t like.

He shut his eyes.

Definitely didn’t like.