Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sky over the trailer park was bruised purple — the kind of dusk that made everything feel a little softer and more dangerous at the same time. Clouds hung low and heavy, like they were waiting to break open, but the wind hadn't decided yet if it wanted to howl or hush. It tugged gently at the laundry lines and rusted tin roofs, stirring dust devils along the cracked asphalt paths that ran between sagging trailers like half-forgotten veins. Somewhere, a wind chime tinkled — a tired, hollow sound that barely rose above the groan of a distant pickup truck.

Harry Styles, thirty-three and comfortably slouched in a recliner that had seen better decades, nursed his third beer like it might carry him somewhere other than here. The recliner squeaked every time he breathed wrong, and the springs poked through the fabric like tiny steel ribs. A patchy throw blanket had fused to the armrest from years of smoke and sweat. His trailer smelled like things that once mattered — cheap pine-scented air freshener that clung to curtains, the sour tang of old cigarettes, and a low, constant undercurrent of loneliness. Regret had soaked into the floorboards, the walls, the very breath of the place. Even the lightbulbs seemed tired.

In the corner, a busted guitar leaned against the wall, its strings loose and rusted. The body was chipped, the wood dry, its neck slumped like it had given up waiting to be picked up again. Harry glanced at it briefly. Once, that guitar had filled smoky rooms and summer porches. Now, it was just furniture. Like him.

He dragged a hand over his face — rough stubble scraping across equally rough skin — and blinked slowly at the flickering TV. The screen flickered between dull colors and shadow, like it was struggling to keep up with the game it was trying to play. Soccer rerun. No volume. No one cheering. Just the ghost of a crowd he couldn’t hear, and memories he didn’t want.

The last time someone cheered for him, he’d been twenty-six and full of false bravado, standing under yellow bar lights with a mic in one hand and a bottle in the other. His voice then had been gritty, aching — something people paid attention to. Back when his heart still cracked open wide enough to let the music pour out. Now? Now he worked odd jobs fixing things other people gave up on. Ceiling fans. Radio antennas. A porch swing once, for a woman who thanked him with a lukewarm Coors and a look that said she remembered what hope felt like.

Outside, he could hear Stevie — all bracelets and cigarette smoke — dragging folding chairs across gravel and setting up her latest attempt at community spirit: a bonfire in the park's communal patch of dirt. She had this way of trying to knit broken people together like mismatched buttons on a coat, always throwing little gatherings and calling them “necessary.” Tonight's excuse was “new people in town.” She’d tapped on his window earlier with her acrylics and said, “You better come out, Styles. There’ll be fresh faces. Maybe even ones that smile.”

He hadn’t answered. She told him to shave. He didn’t.

Instead, he stayed inside and listened to the clink of kindling being stacked and the soft echo of Stevie humming to herself — something bluesy and half-remembered. The kind of tune that drifted through screen doors and made you nostalgic for things you’d never had.

Harry shifted, chair squeaking, and looked toward the window. The world outside glowed faintly orange now — bonfire light licking at the edges of the evening, drawing shadows like promises or warnings. He told himself he’d go out when his beer ran out.

But he was already reaching for the next one.

Meanwhile — elsewhere in the city, far from the scent of cheap beer and the crackle of a communal fire — Louis Tomlinson was pacing the scuffed floorboards of his too-small apartment, a half-finished outfit hanging off one hip and a full-blown storm brewing between his brows.

“I’m not wearing that,” he snapped, swatting Niall’s hands away as if they were gnats. “This isn’t a Pride float, it’s a bonfire.”

“It’s a vibe,” Niall said diplomatically, holding up a fishnet shirt with the seriousness of someone offering a religious artifact.

Zayn, sprawled on the couch like a very pretty curse, didn’t even look up from rolling a joint. “You wore worse last week.”

“Exactly,” Niall added, grinning. “Remember the mesh top that made you look like a gay jellyfish?”

Louis scowled. “I looked hot .”

“You looked like you were about to perform an interpretive dance inside a bubble tank at SeaWorld,” Zayn muttered.

Louis huffed, but didn’t disagree. “I was going through something.”

Jay had called earlier — bless her, always meddling with her warm voice and cooler judgment — telling him to be careful tonight, asking gently if maybe it was time to “slow down a bit, love… settle in somewhere, find someone who’s nice .”

As if Louis didn’t want those things. As if he wasn’t looking. As if he wasn’t exhausted by how many nights he spent trying to feel wanted without feeling safe.

But he didn’t say any of that. He just promised to text when he got home and let Niall drag him into chaos.

Two hours later, he was in the backseat of Niall’s ancient Honda, wedged between him and Zayn, sticky with laughter and pot smoke, rumbling over potholes and cracked asphalt toward the edge of the city. The trailer park came into view like something out of a forgotten film — all string lights and flickering shadows, kids darting between trailers, music bleeding from broken radios. A woman with a mullet was dancing barefoot on a cooler. Someone was handing out hot dogs like it was currency.

It was warm and a little wild — a space that buzzed with history and hangovers, stitched together with second chances and dented metal siding.

Stevie clocked him the moment he stepped out of the car.

Short and sharp-eyed, with wiry blond curls and a leopard print top that hadn’t seen a hanger in years, she stalked toward them like she already knew everything about him.

“You!” she pointed, eyes crinkling. 

Louis blinked, slightly thrown. “Uh. Yeah?”

“Mouthy little dreamboat,” Stevie announced, in the tone of someone appraising a vintage lamp. “Can you do me a favour, sugar?” She fluttered her lashes like a cartoon villain pretending to be innocent. “Run on over to trailer nine, ask Harry for a six-pack. We’re low, and he’s hoarding again.”

So Louis — who, in fairness, had never been burdened by an overactive sense of caution — found himself walking alone down the gravel paths between trailers, each one lit up like a little world of its own. The air smelled like burnt sugar, beer foam, and wet grass. A stray dog trotted past him like it had an appointment. A wind chime jingled softly behind him.

He passed trailer 5. Then 7. Then, finally, the rust-bitten door of number 9, half-lit by a string of crooked fairy lights and the soft orange spillage of the bonfire behind him. There were empty cans on the stoop. A pair of boots abandoned beneath a lawn chair. A sweatshirt draped over the railing like it had been shrugged off mid-thought.

He knocked, tentative.

The door creaked open, slow and lazy. And—

Oh.

Tattooed thighs. Bare feet. A loose tank top slouched over one shoulder. Curls mussed like they’d been slept on for days. Stubble along a jaw that looked carved and tired in equal measure. A cigarette, half-smoked, forgotten between two fingers. A man whose entire being said “I wasn’t expecting company,” and whose eyes, dark and strange, said “but maybe I needed it.”

“Yeah?” he rasped.

Louis cleared his throat, blinking like he’d just been slapped by something ethereal.

“Hi. Uh. Stevie sent me? For beers?” He held up his hands, palms open, like an offering. “Said you were hiding some?”

The man stared at him like Louis had walked out of a song he’d tried to forget.

“Stevie’s full of shit,” he said finally, his voice rough with smoke and sleep. Then, with a sigh: “But yeah. Come in.”

Louis hesitated for half a breath — then stepped forward. Over the threshold. Into a space that smelled like pine and ash, regret and man. Into a world cluttered with beer cans, guitar picks, dusty books, and empty spaces where music used to be.

And that — as Louis tripped slightly over a sneaker and caught himself on the fridge door — was how their paths finally crossed.

Not with fate. Not with fireworks.
But with dented cans and shared silence.
With one man too tired to hope, and another too stubborn to stop.

-----------

FIC PLAYLIST<33

Chapter Text

The fire cracked like it had something urgent to confess — each spark a whispered secret to the sky. Smoke curled upward in loose ribbons, scattering starlight and ash as laughter hiccuped around the circle. Music played low from someone’s cracked Bluetooth speaker, all lazy guitar strums and nostalgia. The kind of summer night that felt like a memory before it was even over.

Louis was two beers in and exactly sun-drowsy enough to forget his filter.

He was sprawled like a cat across a plastic folding chair, one leg tucked under the other, glitter still stuck to the soft slope of his cheekbone. His eyeliner had smudged from heat and laughter. His knees bumped rhythmically against Zayn’s with the casual intimacy of long-time best friends and mild intoxication. His tank top had slid down one shoulder and he didn’t bother fixing it.

Zayn was mid-rant about capitalism, processed meat, and the inherent classism of hotdog condiments. Niall, half-feral and buzzing from sugar and cheap beer, had just made someone spit Sprite out their nose with a one-liner too obscene to repeat. Stevie, ever the benevolent chaos deity, made her rounds like a wine-wielding prophet, placing cans into hands before anyone realized they were empty.

Louis was warm — not just from the fire or the alcohol, but something else. Something softer. Looser. A little suspended in time. He was thinking maybe Jay had been wrong — maybe this wasn’t a waste of a night. Maybe something good could happen at the edge of nowhere, under Christmas lights strung up like a prayer.

And then—

Boots on gravel.

The shift was subtle but instant. Conversation didn’t stop, but it slanted — like the night had inhaled.

Harry Styles walked into the clearing with all the grace of a storm cloud. Brooding and backlit, shirt clinging in the humid night, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms inked in black swirls and half-forgotten meaning. His curls were slightly damp, like he’d run water through them and given up halfway. A single ring glinted on his pinky. He carried his beer like it was armor.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t greet anyone, not really. Just gave Stevie a curt nod, his jaw set like stone.

“Harry,” Stevie sing-songed, unbothered. “How generous of you to grace us.”

“Brought my own,” he muttered, lifting his can like a shield.

“Right. Because sharing is against your religion.”

A few people laughed. Not Harry.

Louis blinked. It was the same man — the one from earlier, the trailer with the shadows and the guitar ghost. The one who looked like he’d slept inside a regret and never quite made it out. But here, in the pulsing amber glow of the fire, he looked… different.

Still distant. Still grumpy.

But there was something softened in the angles of him. Like the firelight was gently undoing the edges. His tattoos looked warmer. His shoulders less sharp. And his eyes — shadowed and unsmiling — flickered toward Louis once, brief as a match flare.

Louis took a long sip of his beer and stared at the fire instead.

He was definitely not thinking about the curve of Harry’s mouth. Or the slow, heavy way he moved. Or the fact that his shirt collar was crooked like someone had tugged it in a dream.

Nope. Not thinking about that at all.

Harry settled into a plastic lawn chair three feet from Louis. Three feet that might as well have been two or none , because Louis could feel the gravity of him immediately. Not loud, not pushy — just there. Solid. Warm. Sad.

Then Liam arrived like a breeze and a brick all at once, collapsing dramatically into the grass with a soda that sloshed all over his shorts.

“I leave for five minutes and come back to testosterone poisoning, ” he announced, squinting at Harry like he was an abstract painting.

Harry didn’t look up. “I’m sitting.”

“That’s what I said,” Liam replied with a sigh, flopping onto his back and stealing a chip from someone’s plate.

Stevie cackled so hard she had to brace herself on a folding table. Niall nearly choked on laughter. Zayn fake-gagged and muttered something about straight people and their emotional constipation.

And Louis — Louis just grinned behind the rim of his can, trying not to look obvious about it.

Because Harry hadn’t laughed. But he’d stayed .

And maybe that meant something.

Maybe Louis didn’t know what it was yet — only that the man from trailer nine had curled up somewhere under his skin like a splinter he wasn’t sure he wanted to pull out.

He didn’t know Harry. Didn’t know why he was so sad. Didn’t know what his story was or what kind of damage made a person walk like their soul was too heavy to carry. But he knew the look in Harry’s eyes when they met his across firelight.

And he knew — with a kind of reluctant certainty — that he was going to find out.

This was going to be a long summer.
A dangerous , glitter-sticky, slow-burn kind of summer.
And Louis was already in too deep.

The fire had burned down to low embers, flickering like an old heart still trying to stay warm. Most of the crowd had trickled off — Niall was now yelling about capitalism to a tree, and Liam had reluctantly appointed himself damage control. Zayn was lying flat on his back, murmuring about stars. Someone was playing Fleetwood Mac off a tinny speaker. It sounded faraway, like a dream you weren’t sure belonged to you.

Harry stood near the edge of it all, leaning against the rust-bitten bed of his truck like it might tip over if he let go. He nursed his second beer, holding it loose and low, like he couldn’t quite remember if he was drinking it for taste or tradition.

The shadows hid most of him. Just the faint glow of the fire catching the silver of his rings, the frayed hem of his shirt, the curve of his mouth set in something too careful to be called a frown.

Louis found him anyway.

He always did gravitate toward broken things — records, people, hearts with hairline fractures. Harry wasn’t an exception. He was a song waiting to be played backwards.

“You always this friendly?” Louis asked, stepping into the half-light like he belonged there. His voice was warm. Not mocking. Just curious, like he’d already guessed the answer but wanted Harry to say it out loud.

Harry didn’t look at him, just exhaled smoke into the dark, letting it curl like ribbon between them. His voice was low, scratchy.

“Only when someone raids my beer.”

Louis smiled, easy. Hands lifted in mock surrender, glint of silver nail polish catching the moon.

“Stevie sent me. Blame her.”

Another beat. Silence drawn thin between them, but not uncomfortable. The kind that hummed with electricity. Like standing near a power line during a storm.

Then Harry reached out, slow and deliberate, offering the rest of his drink. Not dramatic. Not flirtatious. Just—an offering. A truce.

“You’re tolerable,” he muttered, voice like gravel and the last chord of a sad song. “For a thief.”

Louis took the can, and their fingers brushed — just a whisper of contact, but it sent a quiet shiver through both of them. Barely-there sparks, like flint against stone. Something wanting to burn.

Lightning in a beer can.

Louis sipped. Didn’t break eye contact. “You’re manageable,” he said softly. “For a recluse.”

Harry didn’t smile. Not really.

But his eyes did.

There was something softer there now — the stiffness in his shoulders had uncoiled a fraction. His mouth had relaxed at the corners. His gaze, usually half-lidded and wary, had light in it. Faint, like morning trying to break through fog. But it was there.

Louis leaned his hip against the truck, a little closer now, his glitter catching the moonlight. He didn’t press. Didn’t ask questions. Just stood with him in the silence — the kind of silence that was maybe beginning to mean something.

And across the yard, Stevie watched from her perch on a cooler, lips curled around a cigarette she never lit. She squinted through the dark, catching the way Harry tilted slightly toward Louis, like his body forgot to keep pretending it didn’t care.

She exhaled and smirked, to no one in particular.
“Told you it would work.”

And somewhere, maybe the night heard her — and agreed.

Chapter Text

The next time Louis showed up at the trailer park, it was for a “lost hoodie.”
Or at least, that’s what he told Zayn.

Zayn didn’t even lower his sunglasses, just raised one unimpressed brow from behind the frames.
“Right. Because the hoodie you didn’t wear somehow got lost in a place you only went to once.”

“It’s sentimental,” Louis said, chin up like it was a legal defense. “My mum got it for me.”

From the couch, where Niall was half-fused with the cushions, came a groan.
“You don’t even like hoodies.”

“Do now,” Louis muttered, already grabbing his keys and a bag of snacks like this mission was blessed by God Himself.

Stevie was the first to see him again — perched like a gremlin queen on an overturned crate outside her trailer, cigarette wagging from her mouth, pink roller still clinging to her bangs like it belonged there.

“Well, well, well,” she crooned. “If it isn’t our glitter prince. Here to bless us with your sparkly presence again?”

Louis offered a grin. “Lost a hoodie.”

Stevie blinked. One slow, deliberate beat. “’Course you did.”

But she didn’t question it further — just waved him on with two fingers and returned to muttering about the neighbor’s pet raccoon like it paid rent late.

Louis wandered past rusted trailers, wind chimes made from soda tabs and keys clicking lazily in the breeze. A tangle of laundry lines cast long shadows across the gravel. The sky was soft with sun, already hot on the back of his neck.

He wasn’t looking for anything, not really.

Except maybe that feeling — the one from the other night.
The one that curled behind his ribs and made everything feel a little more awake when he passed one particular trailer.

Harry’s.

There was no one on the porch this time. The curtains were drawn. Quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you hesitate.

He told himself he could leave the snacks and go. Quick drop-off. No weird feelings.

And then the door creaked open.

Harry stepped out barefoot, hair sleep-wrecked, a print of a pillowcase still faintly pressed into his cheek. His t-shirt hung off one shoulder, collar stretched out of shape. He looked like a myth someone forgot to finish writing.

He squinted into the light.
“You again,” he rasped.

Louis blinked, not prepared for the way his stomach did that thing .
“Hi.”

Harry crossed his arms. “What are you really here for?”

“Lost my hoodie.”

A pause. Harry glanced at the snack bag dangling from Louis’ hand.
“And that requires crisps?”

“For morale,” Louis said brightly.

Something twitched in Harry’s mouth — not quite a smile. More like his face remembering how.

“Try again, magpie.”

Louis stepped closer, tilting his chin, smug.
“Maybe I just like the view.”

Harry narrowed his eyes.

Louis shrugged. “The wind chimes. Very avant-garde. Though, the one shaped like a frog gives me anxiety.”

Harry deadpanned, “It’s a toad.”

“Oh god. I offended your pet sculpture, didn’t I? My deepest apologies to Sir Toadsworth. May he reign in peace.”

Harry just blinked.

Louis barreled on. “I mean, I would’ve brought an offering, but I wasn’t sure snacks counted as valid toad currency. Do toads like salt and vinegar? Or do they prefer, like, artisanal flies?”

A beat. Then Harry stepped aside, deadpan still intact.

“You want coffee?”

“Obviously,” Louis said, already brushing past like he hadn’t just babbled his way inside like a feral raccoon with glitter on his cheekbones.

—

The inside of Harry’s trailer was what Louis expected: cluttered in a way that felt lived-in, not dirty. Records stacked haphazardly. A broken lamp leaning against a wall like it had given up. The air smelled like old wood and whatever Harry used to wash his shirts — something warm and faintly sharp, like cedar and soap.

Harry filled the kettle wordlessly. Louis sat himself down at the tiny table like he belonged there.

“You really don’t talk much, do you?” Louis asked, kicking one boot idly against the leg of the chair. “Not a fan of small talk? Big talk? Any talk?”

Harry opened a cupboard with a creak that sounded like it might sue for workers’ rights.
“You do enough for both of us.”

Louis grinned. “I’ve been told I talk like I’m being timed. Probably why I suck at voicemail. All panic, no punctuation.”

Harry handed him a chipped mug and sat across from him with the air of someone accepting fate.

Louis took a sip. Made a face.
“Is this instant?”

“It’s coffee.”

“It’s an insult ,” Louis retorted, but drank it anyway. “But I’ll allow it. For the ambiance.”

Harry didn’t respond. He just watched.

Really watched .

Louis fidgeted with the mug. The silence this time was different — not awkward. Not loud. Just a soft place to land.

“So…” Louis finally said. “You do this often? Let strange men in for crap coffee and unsolicited wind chime reviews?”

Harry leaned back, arms crossed. “Only when they won’t shut up.”

Louis smiled, triumphant, sipping like he won something.

He didn’t stay long. Just enough time to make a few more offhand remarks about Harry’s bookshelf (“alphabetical order? Or emotional damage order?”), complain about the taste of the coffee again, and leave the snacks on the counter with a lazy “you’re welcome.”

Harry walked him to the door.

Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t say come again either.

But his hand hovered near the doorframe when Louis stepped out. Like he almost stopped him.

And Louis?
Louis didn’t have his hoodie. But his chest felt warm and stupidly full.

It wasn’t a crush. Definitely not.

Just… curiosity.

A little flicker of something.

He’d come back again.

Just once more.

Maybe.

Probably.

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t mean to say it aloud.

It was early—too early for anyone decent to be vertical—and he was elbow-deep in a nest of greasy engine parts, half-lost in the smell of oil and sun-warmed metal. The hum of cicadas filled the air like static. A breeze rolled dust across the gravel, soft and lazy.

Then, from the front of his trailer, came the now-familiar sound of clumsy chaos.

The sharp clang of someone tripping over the half-disassembled lawn mower he kept meaning to fix. A muffled curse. And the unmistakable clatter of a glittery nuisance arriving uninvited.

Again.

Harry didn’t look up.

“Y’know,” he muttered, wiping his hands on a rag that had seen too many summers, “most birds get scared off after the first visit.”

A pause. Then:
“Good thing I’m not most birds.”

Louis’ voice was far too bright for this hour. Far too smug to be legal. And it scratched down Harry’s spine in the most irritating, addictive way.

He looked up despite himself.

Louis was standing a few feet away in ripped black jeans that looked painted on, a mesh top that shimmered silver in the morning light, and sunglasses too big for his face. He held up a brown paper bag like a peace offering, or maybe a bribe.

“Croissant,” he said. “And iced tea. Figured I’d lure you into civility.”

Harry blinked at him. Then at the bag.

“You keep showing up here like it’s a hobby,” he deadpanned.

Louis grinned, not the least bit chastised. “Maybe you’re my new enrichment activity. Ever think of that?”

Harry turned back to the truck’s engine with a grunt. “You’re like a magpie.”

There was a pause, the kind that sizzled with potential.
“Loud. Shiny. Annoying.”

Silence.

Then a soft, delighted laugh. “Magpie?”

Harry didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

Louis stepped closer anyway, the gravel crunching softly beneath his boots. “Is that what I am now?” he asked, mock-injured. “Should I get it tattooed? Harry’s Magpie . Right over my heart.”

Harry made a noise halfway between a scoff and a snort, eyes still fixed on the carburetor. “I take it back. Magpies don’t talk this much.”

“Too late,” Louis chirped. “Nickname’s canon now.”

From that morning on, it stuck.

—

Louis kept coming back.

With different excuses each time.

A borrowed charger. A book he “accidentally” left. A lighter he claimed belonged to Harry even though it had a giant pink heart on it. Iced coffees in the afternoon. Late-night grilled cheese runs. An invitation to “help pick paint samples” that turned into three hours of bickering over the shade of lilac.

And every time, Stevie would cackle from her spot outside her trailer, a cigarette in one hand and a can of hairspray in the other.
“Your little magpie’s back!” she’d call, like it was a weather report. Or an omen.

Harry would pretend to groan.

Pretend to roll his eyes.

Pretend he didn’t hear the stupid pleased flutter in his chest.

He never admitted it aloud, but the truth settled in his bones like an old song:

The door started staying unlocked more often.
The coffee pot never ran out.
He learned exactly how Louis took his tea — too much lemon, just enough sugar.
And sometimes, when Louis wasn’t looking, Harry looked.

Really looked.

At the way Louis moved like he had music under his skin.
At the way he talked — fast and full of metaphor, like he was afraid of silence.
At the way he filled space without asking for permission, and somehow made the place feel better for it.

Harry found himself noticing things.

How Louis tapped his fingers when he was nervous. How he hummed when he was content. How the glitter on his cheekbones caught the sun and made him look half-mythical, like a god from a mirrorball heaven.

And on the rare mornings when Louis didn’t show up — no chaos, no croissants, no chirping about frog-shaped wind chimes — the trailer felt colder.

Quieter.

Lonelier.

Harry wouldn’t call it a crush. Wouldn’t call it anything at all. He’d been lonely for way too long and this was just a fresh relief from it. Yes. That's what it was. (Maybe)

But sometimes, just sometimes, when Louis was rambling about a TV show he hated or critiquing Harry’s horrendous taste in curtains, Harry would stare a second too long.

And maybe — maybe — he smiled.

Just a little.

Because if he was being honest, life was… less shit with a magpie around.

And Harry?
Well. He’d never been one for birds.

But this one?

He was starting to hope it wouldn’t fly away.

-

Charlotte said it first.

“You’ve got that look , Lou,” she teased, twirling a lollipop in her fingers like a villain. “That stupid ‘someone called me pretty and now I want to marry them’ look.”

Louis threw a crisp at her head.

Zayn snorted, lounging across the back of the sofa like a cat. “He’s been wearing accessories , Lottie. Like, multiple rings. He only does that when he’s trying to impress someone taller than him.”

“First of all, rude,” Louis said. “Second of all, I’ve always worn rings. Third of all—shut up.”

Niall, sprawled on the floor with a bag of crisps and absolutely no shame, just grinned. “So when are we meeting him? The trailer park guy?”

“I don’t—he’s not—” Louis struggled, flapping a hand. “It’s not like that.”

Charlotte raised a brow. “What is it like then?”

Louis bit his lip. “He called me magpie.”

All three of them groaned.

“Oh, it’s so like that,” Zayn said, dramatically falling onto a throw pillow.

“Magpie,” Charlotte repeated, grinning. “That’s it. I’m texting Mum.”

“Don’t you dare ,” Louis hissed.

Meanwhile, at the trailer park, Harry was staring at a drawer.

More accurately, at what was in the drawer.

An old notebook. Faded. Bent. Still smelled faintly of charcoal pencil and cigarettes.

Inside were drawings—sketches of things he hadn’t let himself look at in years.

One of them was a bird. Shiny feathers. Dark eyes.

A magpie.

It had been a joke once, long before the trailer, before the guilt, before life shrunk down to coffee rings and broken engines. Someone had drawn it for him—someone who’d said he reminded them of that bird. “You collect broken things and shine them up,” they’d said. “Even if you don’t mean to.”

Harry closed the notebook slowly, pressing it between his palms.

He didn’t want to think about the past.

But it slipped through sometimes. Like glitter. Like ghosts.

And now Louis was here. Loud. Shiny. Unapologetic.

A new magpie.

And Harry was already leaving the porch light on.

Chapter Text

The sky was soft with dusk — streaked in mauve and bruised gold — when Louis came bounding up the gravel path like he hadn’t spent the last hour overthinking whether to come at all.

The wind had turned his hair into chaos. His cheeks were pink with sun and anticipation, and he held something behind his back the way kids hold birthday cards they made themselves — like it mattered, even if it looked like nothing.

Stevie saw him first, as usual. She didn’t lift her gaze from her knitting — some vaguely scarf-like shape in electric blue yarn — but her voice carried across the trailer park like the flick of a match.

“Your magpie’s back,” she called lazily.

Harry heard it through the half-cracked window.

Felt it like a shift in pressure.

For a moment — no more than a breath — something warm stirred in his chest.

And then the day came rushing back in.

The sunburn on his neck. The tight pull in his shoulders. The motor oil under his nails. His shirt still damp with the coffee he’d spilled when the power flickered earlier. All of it stacked heavy in his limbs, fraying the edges of his patience.

So when the knock didn’t come — just the slow creak of the screen door swinging open — he was already on alert.

“Hi!” Louis beamed, stepping inside like he belonged. “You’re gonna love me.”

Harry looked up from the table, blank expression already half-formed.

Louis was breathless and bright-eyed, balancing on the balls of his feet like whatever he was holding was too good to wait another second.

“I found something at the flea market,” he said, practically bouncing. “Thought of you instantly — well, not instantly -instantly, I was distracted by a man who had a horseshoe mustache and a basket of haunted porcelain dolls — but anyway— ta-da! ”

From behind his back, Louis pulled out a chipped ceramic mug.

It was ugly. A faded beige with clashing red text that read:

‘World’s Okayest Mechanic.’

Harry blinked.

There was a beat of silence too long to be comfortable.

“…That’s awful,” he said flatly.

Louis grinned wider, undeterred. “Isn’t it so you?”

It should’ve landed better. On a different day, maybe it would have — Harry would’ve rolled his eyes, muttered something like ‘asshole’ under his breath, and taken the mug anyway.

But today had drained something from him. Left a bitter weight behind his ribs he hadn’t figured out how to name.

And the way Louis stood there, lit by golden hour like a painting someone forgot to frame — full of hope and intention and too much softness — it scraped against something raw.

“You brought me junk,” Harry said. The words came out too flat. Too dull. Like a blade left in the rain.

Louis’s smile faltered, just barely. “It’s vintage.”

Harry exhaled hard through his nose. Rubbed a hand down his face. “You didn’t have to bring anything.”

“Well, yeah, but I wanted to—”

“You always want to,” Harry cut in, voice rising just enough to sting. “You talk too much, you show up like it’s your job, and now you’re—what—bringing me flea market trash like we’re friends ?”

It rang too loud in the small space. Not quite a shout, but louder than he’d meant. More cruel than it needed to be.

The air changed — dropped a few degrees. The late-summer warmth bled out.

Louis went still.

Not dramatically. Not in some big, theatrical gasp. Just… still.

Like something in him paused to protect itself.

“I—” he started, but the sentence caught on a breath. His fingers curled tighter around the mug’s handle. “Sorry. I’ll, um…”

His voice was quiet now. Careful. A sound Harry wasn’t used to hearing from him.

“…I’ll get out of your way.”

And just like that, he turned.

No parting shot. No glare. Just a soft retreat.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And Harry — Harry didn’t move.

Didn’t call him back.

Didn’t apologize.

He just stood there, jaw locked tight, breath uneven, staring at the spot where Louis had been — like the mug and the mess and the boy had been a hallucination.

But the mug remained on the table.

Crooked lettering. A chip in the handle. Faded red ink where someone’s thumb had once pressed too often.

It was awful.

It was perfect.

Louis walked faster than usual.

Past the tin wind chimes and cigarette smoke. Past Stevie’s porch, where her eyebrows lifted just slightly, but she said nothing. She watched him walk with his shoulders hunched tight and his mouth set in that too-firm line — the one that said, don’t ask .

He waited until he was out of the park, past the rusted mailbox shaped like a fish, before he let himself stop.

He didn’t cry. That wasn’t his style.

But he stared at the ground and let out a small, quiet laugh. The brittle kind.

“Cool,” he muttered to himself. “Very cool. Totally normal thing to get snapped at for trying.”

He should’ve known better.

People always loved him for being loud, until they didn’t. Until he was too much. Too fast, too glittery, too there .

He sat on a curb, legs pulled up to his chest, and fidgeted with the chipped nail paint on his thumb. The mug’s dumb slogan revolved in his head like a joke that wasn’t funny anymore.

The bottle was cold against his palm, condensation slick on the label. Harry didn’t drink it right away — just held it like it might anchor him to the step, to the moment, to the thread he’d just snapped in two with his own teeth.

The night settled in around him, heavy and humming. Cicadas thrummed in the grass like tiny engines that wouldn’t turn off. Wind shuffled through the trees and the rusting wind chimes — the ones Louis had insulted just days ago — clattered halfheartedly above the porch.

"Magpie, come back," he said again, quieter this time. Not a command. Not even a wish.

A regret.

It hung there, soft and broken, like smoke curling from the edge of something scorched.

Because that was the thing with Louis — he came in bright and laughing, like he’d never been burnt before. Like he didn’t know the danger of sitting too close to someone with hands made of fire and history. But he stayed. Kept coming back anyway.

And now?

Now the porch felt too still. The world too quiet.

Louis had filled every empty space without even trying. His voice, his stupid sparkle tops, his knack for annoying Harry and charming Stevie in the same breath. His presence had been like birdsong — constant, chaotic, unexpectedly comforting.

And Harry had gone and silenced it.

All because he didn’t know how to say, I don’t know what this is, but I like it. I like you.

Didn’t know how to say, You scare the shit out of me in the best and worst ways.

Didn’t know how to say, Please don’t stop showing up.

So he sat with it.

With the beer and the porch and the biting realization that he was lonely — the kind of lonely that wrapped around your bones and whispered that maybe you didn’t deserve more.

He thought of Louis’ face when he’d left. Not angry. Just... dimmed.

And that — that was worse than any slammed door or shouted insult. Harry could handle anger. It was the quiet disappointment that gutted him.

He took a sip of the beer.

Winced. Too bitter.

Just like everything else.

The wind picked up, tugging at the trees, rustling the empty space where Louis should’ve been rambling about something inane — that frog wind chime, maybe, or the shape of the clouds.

Harry tilted his head back, stared at the stars — too distant, too indifferent — and whispered again, to no one in particular:

“Magpie, come back.”

And this time, his voice cracked.

Because maybe the night wasn’t listening.

But he hoped — god, he hoped — Louis still was.

Louis didn’t make it home right away.

He wound up at Zayn’s place — mostly because it was closer, but also because he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. Thoughts were rude. And persistent. And they kept echoing things like “you talk too much” in Harry’s voice.

He didn’t even knock. Just let himself in, dropped the lighter in his hand dramatically on the kitchen table, and collapsed face-first onto the couch.

Zayn, from the floor, barely glanced up from his sketchpad. “So. Bad date with Trailer Park Ken?”

Louis groaned into the cushion. “It wasn’t a date.”

Charlotte, who’d been braiding colorful fake braids into Zayn’s hair with all the chaotic concentration of a storm cloud in stilettos, perked up. “Oooh, are we finally in the ‘public humiliation’ chapter of this situationship?”

“It wasn’t public,” Louis mumbled.

“Still humiliation, though,” Niall called from the kitchen. He was holding a spoon and eating something aggressively sugary straight out of a mixing bowl. “Do we hate him now?”

“No one’s hating anyone,” Louis snapped, lifting his head. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Charlotte made a sympathetic sound. “So bad you came sulking here”

Louis glared. “It’s a symbolic mug.”

“Of your heartbreak?” Niall asked, mouth full.

“Of my effort.”

“Same thing, babe,” Zayn muttered.

Louis kicked at the edge of the coffee table. “I’m not heartbroken. I’m just… mildly rejected.”

“Emotionally slapped,” Charlotte supplied.

“Verbally ejected,” Zayn added.

“Spiritually mugged,” Niall said, and immediately cackled.

Louis buried his face again, trying not to smile. “God, you’re all insufferable .”

“But you love us,” Charlotte said, fluffing his hair.

Louis sighed into the couch cushions. “I do.”

-

The air was thick with late-afternoon gold, the kind that clung to skin and softened the edges of everything, even the things that still hurt. Gravel crunched beneath Louis’ boots as he wandered through the familiar trail of mismatched lawn chairs, wind-chimes, and sun-bleached trailers. He told himself it was to see Stevie. Just Stevie.

But she wasn’t there.

Of course she wasn’t.

Instead, it was him — Harry — crouched beside a battered old cooler, sleeves shoved up, forearms smudged with dirt and grease. His curls were tied back in a loose bun, but the heat had tugged wisps loose that stuck to his damp temples. He muttered low under his breath, screwdriver clutched tight like he was in a standoff with the inanimate object.

Louis almost turned around.

But then Harry looked up.

Not startled. Not smug. Just there , gaze steady and watchful like he’d been waiting — like he didn’t believe Louis would come, but hoped anyway.

Louis didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

The ache between them was its own kind of language now — heavy, unspoken, fragile.

He moved to pass, maybe even toss a half-hearted “hey” over his shoulder, when Harry stood and cleared his throat. It wasn’t loud. Barely a ripple in the thick, golden hush of the evening.

“Wait.”

Louis stilled. Half-turned. “What?”

Harry gestured to the cooler. It was dented, scratched, and ugly in the way old things get after too many summers and not enough shelter — but Louis recognized it instantly.

“This was busted,” Harry said. “The one from the bonfire.”

Louis arched an eyebrow, noncommittal. “And?”

“You liked it,” Harry said simply. “Said it was vintage. Cool design.”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking everywhere but Louis.

“So… I fixed it. You can take it. If you want.”

Louis blinked.

For a second, all he could hear was the wind brushing through Stevie’s tangled windchimes, soft and clumsy. Then he stepped forward, cautiously, like the porch might crumble under anything too heavy — a word, a look, a breath out of place.

“You fixed a cooler as an apology?”

Harry gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Not great with words.”

“No shit,” Louis muttered, but there was no venom behind it. Just a worn-out sort of fondness, like he was too tired to keep pretending he didn’t miss this. Miss him.

Harry shifted again, then held something out.

It was the mug.

That mug.

The stupid, chipped, flea-market mug Louis had picked out with a grin and offered like a ribbon-tied gift. The one Harry had rejected with sharp words and a quiet ache.

Except now…

Now it was whole.

A thin line of golden resin shimmered along its once-cracked side, catching the light like something sacred. It wasn’t just glued — it had been cared for. Kintsugi. The art of honoring the breakage. Filling the cracks with gold instead of shame.

Louis stared. “You… kintsugi’d my mug?”

Another shrug. But this one was gentler. “Figured if you were gonna bring me junk, I could at least make it functional.”

Louis didn’t answer right away. He looked at Harry, at the way his hands still cradled the mug carefully, like he didn’t want it to break again.

“You’re such an emotionally repressed little rat man,” Louis whispered — voice catching somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

Harry huffed, quiet and crooked. “Takes one to know one, magpie.”

It broke something in the tension — the bite of that name, softened now with affection. Louis laughed. Really laughed. Not loud or showy — just something real and small and a little surprised to be let out again.

“I wasn’t really mad,” he admitted.

Harry’s eyes met his. Green and quiet and painfully honest. “I know,” he said. “But I was. At myself.”

Louis looked down at the cooler. At the mug. At the offering in Harry’s silence.

“…Can I still have the cooler?”

Harry nodded and passed it over, their fingers brushing for just a second. No lightning. No fireworks.

Just warmth.

A promise.

And when Louis lingered after, shifting his weight like maybe he wanted to stay — Harry didn’t shut the door.

He stepped back.

And let it stay open.

Chapter Text

Louis didn’t mean to stay long. Really. He had a whole story lined up this time about Zayn needing help picking fabric for a client or some vague errand involving Niall’s car and a family of raccoons. He didn’t even get to use it.

Because when he showed up, Harry just looked at him, gave a small nod, and said, "You want coffee?"

And that was it.

They sat on the steps of Harry’s trailer, legs stretched out into the dirt, mismatched mugs between their palms. The silence was soft, companionable. Louis wore a pair of glittery socks that peeked out from the frayed cuffs of his jeans. Harry noticed them but didn’t say anything. Not yet.

"You listen to Fleetwood Mac ?" Louis asked after a while, pointing his mug at the open window behind them where a faint chorus drifted through.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "It’s Stevie’s playlist."

"You could’ve lied. Said you were moody and romantic."

"Didn’t think you’d buy it."

Louis snorted. "Fair."

A moment passed. Then Louis dug into his tote bag and produced a small ceramic frog figurine with rhinestones for eyes- a fridge magnet. He placed it on the step between them without explanation.

The frog was hideous.

A chipped ceramic monstrosity painted a violently unnatural shade of green, with two beady black eyes and a gaping, cracked mouth that might’ve once been sculpted into a smile. It now looked more like a scream. It was holding what appeared to be a miniature banjo.

Harry blinked at it, towel draped over one shoulder and an open beer bottle dangling from his fingers. “What’s that.”

Louis didn’t hesitate. “His name’s Maurice. And he belongs here now.”

Harry looked from the frog to Louis and back again. A slow smirk crept across his face, curling like smoke. “You bring cursed objects to people often?”

“Only the ones I like,” Louis said breezily, sipping his coffee as if he hadn’t just introduced a demonic amphibian into Harry’s yard. “He watches over your beer cooler now. Brings a certain... gravitas.”

Harry gave an amused huff, shaking his head. “You’re a menace.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

They both looked at Maurice, who gleamed grotesquely in the fading light.

Silence stretched for a moment—not uncomfortable, not rushed. Just easy. Like the heat had finally relented and the cicadas were humming approval into the air. The porch had that soft, lived-in kind of quiet: cracked paint, low breeze, and the scent of dust and wild mint from the patch Louis had planted beside the steps last week.

Then, unexpectedly, Harry spoke again. His voice was quieter now. Not guarded exactly—just deliberate. Like it wasn’t a story he told often.

“I used to live in a car,” he said, eyes trained somewhere beyond the tree line. “For a bit. After I left home. Didn’t know how trailer hookups worked. Didn’t ask. Just parked in lots and pretended it was freedom.”

Louis didn’t speak. Just watched him, still and listening, the way you do when someone is handing you something fragile.

Harry’s thumb absently picked at the label of his bottle. “Told myself it was by choice. That it wasn’t rock bottom if I called it independence.”

“What changed?” Louis asked softly, voice dipped in something careful.

Harry took a slow sip, eyes still turned to the trees. “Stevie. She yelled at me for three days straight. Called me a dumbass and said if I was gonna rot somewhere, it might as well be where someone could feed me and make sure I didn’t die of carbon monoxide poisoning in my sleep.”

Louis smiled. “Sounds like her.”

“She said she didn’t raise a fool.” Harry’s voice was gentle. “Even if she technically didn’t raise me.”

Louis didn’t say I’m glad she found you. Didn’t say you deserve someone like her. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he murmured, “You don’t talk much.”

Harry gave a half-shrug. “You talk enough for both of us.”

“True,” Louis said, grinning into his mug like the sun might crawl out of it.

Just then, the trailer door banged open with the subtlety of an earthquake.

“Well if it isn’t my glittery scandal,” Charlotte announced as she descended the steps like a war goddess in thrifted denim, boots loud and unapologetic. Her braid whipped behind her like a weapon.

Zayn was next, already lighting something suspicious with a flick of his ringed fingers, and Niall trailed in last, chewing loudly on a churro or possibly a chunk of deep-fried funnel cake from the gas station.

“You stalking your mechanic boyfriend again?” Zayn asked, bumping Louis with his hip and plopping into a sagging lawn chair with the elegance of a cat and the posture of a couch potato.

Louis rolled his eyes. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Right,” Charlotte said with a theatrical eye-roll, plucking a glitter from Louis’ shirt collar. “You just gift him frogs and bat your lashes like it’s an Olympic sport.”

Harry deadpanned, “He brought me a mug.”

Niall’s eyes went wide. “That World’s Okayest Mechanic thing? You kept it?”

Harry’s glance slid over to Louis, a flicker of warmth behind the roughness. “It grew on me.”

Louis tried not to beam. He failed. Spectacularly. His smile spilled out, giddy and crooked, and Harry didn’t look away.

They all settled into the porch and its soft chaos—on cushions with stuffing peeking out, folding chairs held together by hope, and milk crates that doubled as tables. Zayn passed something dubious around that smelled like a cross between burnt sage and potpourri. Charlotte dared Louis to braid Harry’s hair, and Louis—flustered but unwilling to back down—tried.

He was terrible at it.

The braid ended up loose and lopsided, full of little tangles. But Harry didn’t fix it. He wore it like a crown.

By the time the sun dipped beneath the horizon and porch lights flickered on, the group started to drift.

Charlotte declared she was craving slushies. Zayn mumbled something about needing “grease fries and spiritual clarity.” Niall waved, churro dust on his shirt, already halfway to the car.

Louis lingered.

The mug was empty now, but he held it like it meant something. Like it could keep his hands from saying what his mouth wouldn’t.

He looked at Harry. Really looked.

At the soft tiredness around his eyes. The way he stood like he was used to being left. Like he didn’t ask people to stay, but wanted them to anyway.

“See you soon, magpie,” Harry said, voice quieter than the breeze.

Louis turned before he could smile too much. But the smile was there. Crooked. Bright. Worn proudly like a secret tucked into his chest pocket.

And when he was gone, Harry’s eyes lingered.

Long after the sound of his boots faded.

Long after the screen door creaked shut.

Maurice sat crookedly beside the cooler, watching over it all. Beady eyes catching just a hint of starlight.

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV (Louis’ failed attempt at braiding his hair)

It was stupid.

Just a braid. Just Louis’ fingers in his hair — clumsy, warm, and laughing the whole time like he didn’t realize what he was doing. Like he hadn’t just cracked something open in Harry that had been sealed shut for too long.

It wasn’t even a good braid. Messy, too loose on one side and pulled too tight on the other, strands slipping free almost as fast as Louis tucked them back. His hands had smelled like cheap coconut lotion and mint chewing gum, sweet and familiar, like gas station stops in the middle of summer. And he never shut up — voice all fluttery nerves and exaggerated stories, filling in the gaps between the tug of his fingers like he didn’t trust the quiet to swallow them whole.

“…and then Charlotte genuinely tried to glue it back on with lash adhesive—my eyebrow, not the cat, though that did happen too…”

Harry didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. He just sat there on the porch floor, legs stretched out, beer half-forgotten beside him, watching the sun bleed slow and gold across the sky. His shoulders had stayed relaxed. His breathing, too.

And the stories kept coming. About Zayn's kleptomaniac phase with road signs. About the time Niall serenaded a street magician to win a deck of trick cards and somehow got a date and a free hat out of it. About Louis once trying to pierce his own ear with a safety pin and nearly fainting at the blood.

Louis' laugh was the kind that came from somewhere real — not polite or performative, but bright and cracked open at the edges, as if joy was something he couldn’t help but spill.

Every time he tugged too hard, he’d murmur, “Sorry,” with a wince Harry didn’t believe for a second.

And still, Harry didn’t stop him.

Didn’t move. Didn’t tell him he was doing it wrong. Just closed his eyes once, briefly, as if committing the moment to memory in secret.

He’d grimaced — for show — when Zayn snorted and said it looked like a squirrel had done it blindfolded, but deep down, Harry had wanted to ask Louis to keep going. To never stop. To maybe braid it again tomorrow. Neater this time. Or not. He didn’t care. Just… again.

And when they all left, scattered back to their loud, glitter-streaked lives, the porch was suddenly too quiet.

Harry wandered back inside.

The braid was already falling apart. Fraying. The lopsided part tugged heavier on the right. But he didn’t pull it out.

Didn’t fix it.

He went about his evening with it still there — made dinner, washed the dishes, even flipped through a dog-eared book while the fan rattled in the corner. Every so often, he’d catch his reflection in the trailer window. Catch that uneven twist of hair falling down the back of his neck. And his chest would clench in a way he wasn’t used to.

It wasn’t about the braid.

It was about what it meant.

About someone taking the time. About laughter echoing against the tin siding. About being touched with care, not out of need or demand, but because Louis wanted to.

And so Harry kept it.

All night.

Until the last strand slipped loose and fell into his hands like a promise he hadn’t known he needed.

Louis didn’t sleep that night.

He tried. God, he tried —turned the lights off, turned the fan on, tucked himself into the same tangled sheets that had always lulled him into comfort. But his body was restless, twitchy with the leftover static of being seen . Not glanced at. Not skimmed. Seen .

He kept replaying it all in loops so vivid it hurt. The way Harry had held the stupid mug, fingers brushing the gold-sealed crack like it mattered. The way he’d sat so still during the braid, letting Louis chatter on about everything and nothing. That final look as Louis stepped off the porch—quiet, certain, warm like dusk.

And that voice. Low and rough with something unspoken, slipping out like it cost nothing:

“See you soon.”

Three stupid little words. Thrown out like spare change. Like Louis hadn’t tucked them into his pocket and carried them home like treasure.

He stared up at the cracked ceiling of his bedroom, arms folded behind his head, heart beating too loud in the silence. His room looked the same as always—cluttered, glitter-dusted, paper moons stuck above his headboard, a denim jacket slung over his desk chair. But it felt lonelier than usual. Like something had followed him home but hadn’t made it through the door.

Maybe he was overthinking it.

Maybe Harry said that to everyone . Maybe it was just a thing people said when they were being polite. Or tired. Or when someone left after showing up with frog statues and a hurricane of laughter.

But… Harry had looked at him.

Not at him— through him.

Like he was trying to understand something in Louis that Louis didn’t know how to explain. Like he was listening without being told. Like the loud, shiny, pain-in-the-ass boy standing on his porch with hearts in his eyes was someone worth seeing.

And that meant something. Didn’t it?

-

Louis rolled onto his side and groaned into his pillow. Then flipped over again and threw it on the floor.

He was a magpie, right? Loud. Shiny. Annoying.

But maybe— maybe —he was wanted, too.

The clock on his nightstand blinked at 3:12 a.m.

And Louis lay there in the dark, heart racing, a smile he refused to admit to curling up against the curve of his mouth.

He wouldn’t sleep. Not tonight.

Not with Harry still living in his head, braid and all.

At the trailer park the next day, Stevie was waiting.

Arms crossed. A cigarette tucked behind one ear like a statement.

“Alright, twinkletoes,” she said as Louis stepped out of his car, hoodie too big and sunglasses too dramatic for 9 a.m. “Why’d you really come back this time? Don’t say lost hoodie again or I’ll actually scream.”

Louis blinked. “I just—I brought Harry’s mug back.”

“The one he drinks out of daily now?” she asked, unimpressed.

“...A spare, then.”

Stevie leaned in close. “Let me give you some advice, sugar: men like Harry don’t say ‘see you soon’ unless they’re hoping you will. So quit pacing around like a hung-up housecat and go knock on his damn door.”

Louis blinked.

Stevie patted his cheek. “And fix your braid. It looks like a confused rope.”

Louis walked toward Harry’s trailer half-laughing, half-panicking.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to say.

But he really, really wanted to see if Harry meant it.

See you soon.

Chapter Text

Harry wasn’t expecting him.

The night had settled in thick and quiet — that kind of hush that only came after the last engine cut out and the cicadas finally gave up their song. The trailer park was all shadows and soft porch lights, flickering like lazy stars, casting gold against gravel and worn wood. Somewhere in the distance, someone’s old radio murmured static and soul music, the kind that felt like a memory even when you’d never heard it before.

Harry had just stepped out of the shower, the steam still clinging to his skin. His curls were wet, curling heavy against his neck, and a tattered cotton shirt hung uneven on his frame, one side slipping off his shoulder to reveal a constellation of old freckles and a half-faded scar. His sweatpants rode low on his hips, damp at the waistband, clinging where they shouldn't.

The trailer smelled like mint soap, metal, and tea — cheap chamomile steeping in a chipped mug, the kind with a faded cartoon cat on it. The tea bag string hung limp over the edge like it was too tired to care. Harry wasn’t even sure why he’d made it. Maybe he just needed something to hold.

Then came the knock.

Three of them. Not rushed, not hesitant. Familiar, like muscle memory.

Harry’s stomach twisted. His hand paused mid-reach for the mug. For a second, he just stood there, barefoot on the warped kitchen linoleum, heart a little too loud in the quiet.

Then he opened the door.

And there he was.

Louis.

Standing in the glow of the porch light, cheeks flushed with leftover wind, hair unruly under the hood of a denim jacket that definitely wasn’t his. His hands were stuffed into the pockets like they were holding something fragile. His eyes, though — they were steady. A little wide, a little unsure.

Just himself .

And somehow, that felt like the loudest thing he’d ever brought.

Harry blinked. “You alright?”

Louis nodded. Then shrugged. “No.”

A pause.

Then Louis added, softly, “But I wanted to see you.”

Harry’s throat felt tight, suddenly too small for anything useful.

He stepped aside.

Didn’t say come in. Didn’t need to.

Louis brushed past him, the scent of coconut lotion and wind slipping in with him, and Harry just stood there a moment longer—hand still on the doorframe, steam curling from his mug, the world tilting just slightly on its axis.

He wasn’t expecting him.

But now that Louis was here, it felt like something was finally where it belonged.

“You alright?” Harry tried again

“I didn’t braid your name into the clouds or anything, if that’s what you’re asking,” Louis muttered. “Just… brought cake.”

“Cake.”

The word cake hung in the air longer than it should have.

Louis stood there like he might vanish if Harry looked too hard, a flimsy bakery box clutched in both hands like it held something more fragile than sponge and icing.

“Carrot?” Harry echoed, voice dry, mouth tilting up just slightly.

“It felt ironic,” Louis offered, tone somewhere between flippant and self-defensive. “You know. Like—here I am, a whole walking contradiction with glitter on my cheekbones and cake that tastes like vegetables. That’s irony. That’s art.”

Harry just nodded and stepped aside.

The trailer, as always, smelled like Harry—like lavender soap and mint tea, with an undertone of grease and pinewood from the salvaged parts piled neatly in the corner. The fairy lights above the kitchenette blinked lazily in pastels, casting warm shadows on the worn cushions and crooked bookshelf. They weren’t even Christmas lights anymore—just lights , now. Quiet little reminders of Stevie’s meddling, left up long after the season had passed. Harry never had the heart to take them down.

Louis’ eyes swept over the cramped space like he hadn’t been there a hundred times already. But tonight it felt different. Not an intrusion, not a game.

Just a visit.

He set the box of cake on the counter and turned toward Harry with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve got fairy lights. That’s dangerously whimsical of you.”

Harry didn’t miss the way Louis lingered by the counter, fingers twitching against the wood like he was anchoring himself. “Don’t start,” Harry muttered, a faint flicker of amusement behind the tired slope of his mouth.

Somehow, they ended up on the floor. No logic to it. Just happened. The couch was there, half-covered in unfolded laundry and the soft weight of familiarity. But the floor felt easier. Closer to something honest.

Harry sat cross-legged, back against the cabinet. Louis mirrored him, knees brushing Harry’s thigh whenever he shifted.

The box was open between them, revealing two slightly lopsided slices of carrot cake. The icing was a little too thick, the texture uneven. It looked homemade, but knowing Louis, it was probably just dramatically chosen from a tiny, overpriced bakery downtown.

Harry took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Then looked up, brow lifting. “This is actually good.”

Louis blinked. “Wow. I feel seen.”

Harry didn’t smile, not fully, but something in his eyes softened.

“You always want to be seen.”

Louis froze, fork midair. His posture didn’t change, but something behind his eyes flickered. Caught.

“…What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harry didn’t backtrack.

Didn’t sugarcoat it.

He just looked at Louis, in that way he had—slow, deliberate, like he was unspooling all the noise and glitter and shine to find the raw thread underneath.

“You talk a lot,” he said quietly. “You fill the room. Like… if you’re loud enough, fast enough, maybe silence won’t catch up. Like you’re terrified of what it might say.”

Louis didn’t breathe for a second.

Then, setting the fork down slowly: “That wasn’t entirely off-base. And also rude.”

Harry scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“No,” Louis cut in, softer now. “It’s fine. You’re not wrong.”

He looked down at his hands. His knuckles were pink from the cold, his rings slightly askew.

“I just—hate not knowing what people are thinking,” he said. “So I talk. I overshare. I make noise so I know I exist to someone. So I don’t disappear into all the empty space.”

Harry nodded once. A single, heavy thing. No pity in it—just understanding.

Louis picked at the fraying edge of the carpet between them. “But sometimes,” he said, almost a whisper, “I wish someone else would talk first.”

The words hovered, raw and breakable.

Silence settled like dusk around them, but it wasn’t cold anymore.

Harry’s voice broke it, low and steady. “I keep the mug. On the shelf.”

Louis looked up, startled.

“The cracked one,” Harry added, almost sheepishly. “From you.”

Louis’ eyes softened. “You didn’t throw it out?”

“Thought you should know,” Harry said. “Didn’t want you to think… I didn’t care.”

Louis smiled, slow and a little crooked, the kind of smile that tugged at something behind Harry’s ribs.

“See?” Louis murmured. “Wasn’t that hard.”

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. The air felt lighter somehow, less like walking a wire and more like falling into grass.

“I like it when you’re quiet,” Louis said after a moment. “It’s not empty. It’s… full.”

Harry blinked. Met his eyes. There was no teasing in Louis now, no glittering deflection. Just truth.

“You’re still a grump, obviously,” Louis added, just to soften the moment.

“Obviously,” Harry echoed, lips quirking.

They didn’t speak after that. Not for a while. They just sat there—two boys on a tired floor in a too-small trailer, the scent of cake and tea mingling with the warmth of something unnamed.

Outside, the wind stirred the chimes like a lullaby.

Inside, nothing needed fixing. 

Chapter Text

Louis didn’t go back for days.

Which, in Louis-time, was catastrophic. Earth-shifting. Practically Biblical.

He told himself it was just restraint . A healthy boundary. He wasn’t avoiding Harry, not really — just… recalibrating. Rebalancing his inner glitter and chaos, whatever that meant.

But by day three, even Zayn noticed.

They were halfway through a rerun of Kitchen Nightmares , sprawled across Louis’ living room in varying degrees of boredom and snack-crumbliness, when Zayn squinted at him mid-chip-crunch and said, “You haven’t gone on your fake hoodie quest this week.”

Louis didn’t look up. “What?”

“Your whole ‘oh no, I left my denim hoodie at Stevie’s, guess I have to go back again’ routine. You’ve skipped it. That hoodie’s probably filed for abandonment.”

Louis shrugged without much commitment. “Just… giving it space.”

Niall, perched upside down on the arm of the couch with a cereal bowl on his chest, gave a snort. “Or spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“You’re braiding your own hair again.”

Louis automatically reached up and tugged at the clumsy twist falling behind his ear, the uneven braid threatening to unspool like the rest of him.

“It’s therapeutic,” he muttered.

Zayn looked at him for a beat — not annoyed, just… knowing. That annoyingly older-brother type of knowing. “That’s code for ‘I don’t know what the hell he meant by see you soon and it’s eating me alive.’ ”

Louis didn’t reply.

Didn’t need to.

The silence answered for him, loud as church bells in a library.

—

The next morning, his mum cornered him in the kitchen like a tiger in a floral robe.

Jay had that look — the one that meant she’d been letting things slide for a few days out of maternal mercy, but her limit had been reached. She stood with a tea towel slung over one shoulder and an expression that could reduce a grown man to a sulking teenager.

“I haven’t seen your face in days,” she said, setting the kettle down like it had personally offended her. “Not since that last sparkle-eyed visit to the trailer park.”

“Mum.”

“I’m just saying,” she went on, pouring the tea like it was a weapon. “You got all dreamy and stupid after that mechanic handed you a cracked mug and called you magpie. And now you’ve gone full mute.”

Louis folded his arms. “I’m not mute.”

Jay raised a brow. “Then speak.”

He didn’t.

She watched him for a moment, her eyes softening despite herself.

“Some silences speak louder than words, baby,” she said gently. “If you’re afraid of being seen, say that. But don’t punish someone else for doing it first.”

Louis stared down at the table. Picked at the edge of his nail polish.

Jay reached over and brushed his fringe from his forehead. “You’re good at the noise, love. The sparkle. The performance.”

“I am the sparkle,” Louis mumbled.

Jay smiled. Kissed the top of his head. “Exactly. But even glitter has to settle sometimes. Especially when something real wants to shine through it.”

Louis groaned and slumped dramatically across the counter. “Why is everyone suddenly a poet? Did you all join a secret writing group without me?”

Jay just sipped her tea with ominous satisfaction. “We’ve been living with you too long.”

From the hallway, Lottie yelled, “Don’t drag us into your emotional spiral, loser!”

Louis threw a spoon in her direction. Missed.

But even as he whined, a thought planted itself quietly at the base of his ribs:

If you’re afraid of being seen, say that.

And maybe—maybe—he was ready to say it. Or at least let someone keep looking.

At the trailer park, a different kind of scheme was brewing.

Stevie was holding court in her plastic chair, sun visor on and clipboard in hand. Liam stood nearby, sipping beer and sighing loudly.

“Listen,” Liam said, “you can’t just host a bonfire and a movie night and then invite only two people to it.”

“I invited everyone , love,” Stevie replied. “They just all tragically have plans.”

Liam raised a brow. “You guilted people into ‘having plans.’”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

He gestured at the setup. Blankets. Firewood. A suspiciously convenient playlist.

“You know this is obvious, right?”

Stevie shrugged. “Maybe. But you didn’t stop me.”

Liam grinned. “Didn’t want to.”

-

Louis showed up late.

Mostly because Zayn bribed him with food, and partly because Jay said, “You’ll regret it if you don’t go, but if you do and he hurts you—I’ll key his trailer.”

So here he was.

Blankets. Snacks. Twinkling lights that shouldn’t work but somehow did.

And Harry.

Seated on the edge of a cooler, hair half-up, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows. He looked up when Louis arrived. Didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. Just saw him.

Louis hesitated.

Stevie nudged him from behind. “Go. Pretend you’re here for the s’mores.”

He walked over, heart in his throat.

The fire cracked in the center of the circle, painting everyone in amber and orange, smoke curling like lazy punctuation between sentences. It was a quiet night, the kind where time felt soft around the edges — like it was willing to wait for them.

Louis tugged his sleeves over his hands as he sank down beside Harry on the cooler, his eyes flicking to the dancing flames and back again like he couldn’t quite decide what was safer to look at. The warmth from the fire licked at his knees, but it was the nearness of Harry that truly began to thaw the tight knot in his chest.

Harry didn’t speak right away.

He just sat there, knees bent, thumbs resting on his thighs. He was a picture of quiet — not uncomfortable, just present. Like he’d learned a long time ago that sometimes, people talk more when you don’t push.

Louis glanced sideways. “You gonna say something smug?”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “Thought I’d let you spiral in peace.”

Louis snorted, more relief than derision. “You’re generous like that.”

The silence between them settled again, but it was different now. Not brittle. Not strained. Just… thoughtful.

From the other side of the fire, Zayn was teaching Charlotte how to roast a marshmallow without incinerating it. She didn’t listen. She stabbed hers into the flames with chaos in her eyes. Niall was making a tower of Oreos like he was hosting a bake-off against himself. Stevie and Liam were whispering over the clipboard like two exasperated camp counselors who’d gotten exactly the outcome they’d hoped for.

Louis let the edges of the scene wrap around him. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d missed this — not just the company, but the simplicity. The space to be .

He looked down at his hands. The braid from earlier was still loose in his hair, a bit frayed now, hanging behind his ear like a quiet secret.

“I—was avoiding you.”

Harry’s eyebrows lifted.

“I do that. When I don’t know what things mean.”

Harry shifted, made room beside him. “And now?”

Louis sank down. “Still don’t know. But I figured it’s easier to wonder next to you .”

Harry’s lips twitched. “You braid your hair again?”

Louis rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

Harry turned. “I noticed.”

Louis looked at him then — really looked. At the soft pink at the bridge of his nose, probably from sun. At the silver glint of a ring he twisted when he got nervous. At the way he hadn’t moved away even once.

“It was uneven,” Louis murmured.

Harry smiled — just a flicker, but real. “Didn’t want it to be perfect.”

“Why not?”

“Because it was you .”

Louis went very still.

The fire popped. The wind shifted. For a second, the whole world tilted around that single sentence.

And maybe Harry knew that, because he didn’t rush to fill the space. He just let it hang there, like a quiet offering.

Louis turned back to the fire, the corners of his mouth curling upward despite himself.

“Still don’t know what this is,” he said softly.

“Me either,” Harry replied.

“But I want to find out.”

Harry looked at him, and this time, he did smile — not wide, not bold, but something quiet and sure. “Then let’s.”

And just like that, the moment opened.

The fire crackled. Someone laughed in the distance. The playlist hummed with the low lilt of a love song that no one had officially queued.

But in that space between shared glances and unspoken things, something settled.

Not an answer. Not yet.

Just the beginning of one.

And overhead, the stars blinked lazily — not like eyes watching, but like hands waving them in. Saying, Go on. You’re safe here.

Chapter Text

The sun hadn’t fully risen — just enough to tease gold around the edges of the trailer windows, softening everything into quiet sepia. Morning at the park moved slow, like it respected the hangovers and heartbreaks it passed through. Harry stood barefoot on the cold kitchen floor, tea in one hand, and a kind of ache tucked behind his ribs that had nothing to do with age or sleep.

The silence today wasn’t the kind he liked.

It didn’t feel restful. It felt like a question he hadn’t figured out how to answer.

He leaned against the counter, gaze drifting to the fridge where the frog magnet smiled stupidly back at him. Maurice. Louis had named the thing like it was some sacred talisman, slapped it onto the fridge with all the ceremony of a royal decree, and then declared, “He’s watching your beer for signs of betrayal.”

Harry hadn’t touched it since. But he hadn’t taken it down either.

And now… now the silence didn’t feel empty.

It felt expectant.

It felt like Louis had been here — not in the past tense, not like Nick. Nick had been a flicker: beautiful, volatile, temporary. He had moved through Harry’s life like fire — bright and warm until he wasn’t, until all that was left was the smell of burnt sugar and a space that stayed dusty no matter how often Harry swept.

Nick had loved the idea of home, but only as long as it didn’t ask anything from him. Harry hadn’t fought it. He hadn’t known how.

But Louis…

Louis didn’t crash in like a storm. He slipped in like sunlight under the door, so gradually that Harry hadn’t realized how much brighter it’d gotten until he found himself reaching for a second mug before making tea.

He looked at the one in his hand now. Still chipped around the rim, faint stain from old coffee. He’d always liked it — familiar, sturdy, broken in. But it wasn’t the one he reached for anymore.

That one — the “World’s Okayest Mechanic” mug — was on the new shelf now. Next to it were mismatched tea boxes: vanilla chamomile, orange spice, honey green. Ones Louis had mentioned in passing, half jokes wrapped in real preferences.

Harry had remembered. And bought them. Without really meaning to. Without knowing he was making space.

But he had.

A new shelf. A cleared drawer. Room for more than just tools and takeout menus.

Stevie had caught him reorganizing last night, arms crossed, head tilted like she already knew the answer to a question she hadn’t asked yet.

“What are you doing, H?”

“Just cleaning.”

She stepped closer. Noticed the teas. The extra mug. The new hook by the door where a glitter-threaded hoodie had recently hung for three whole days.

Stevie smiled like she’d won a bet. “Magpie’s getting to you.”

Harry didn’t look at her. Just kept stacking tins. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“Mmhmm.”

She didn’t press. She didn’t need to.

Because Harry’s silence said more than his words ever could.

And when she left, the quiet didn’t echo.

It settled — warm, patient, almost hopeful.

Harry didn’t like early mornings. But as he stood there, holding the stupid mug Louis had once cradled like it was made of gold, he realized something strange:

He didn’t mind this one.

Not with the frog magnet watching.

Not with Maurice.

Not with the promise — faint and unspoken — that Louis might show up again.

Maybe not today.

But maybe soon.

And this time, Harry would be ready.

-

Louis noticed the changes the same way you notice a song you've heard before — faint and slow, but building into something you can't ignore.

It was in the details. The quiet rebellion against loneliness.

A once-dusty shelf now gleamed faintly in the afternoon sun, polished but still cluttered with tools and a broken cassette player Louis had teased him about. The couch, previously a sad testament to years of slumping and indifference, now held a pillow that didn’t match the rest of the trailer — soft green, barely patterned, clearly chosen by someone who cared what soft felt like. Not someone who just wanted to sleep.

And then the fridge. That ridiculous frog magnet — Maurice , Louis had joked. Still perched on the corner like a smug little goblin king.

But it wasn’t until Louis opened the cabinet and saw the boxes of tea that something inside him shifted.

He blinked. Reached up and pulled one down.

"Are those—"

“Yeah,” Harry said, not looking up from where he stood fiddling with the kettle. He was pretending to be nonchalant, but Louis could see the tension in his shoulders — the way his hands moved slower than usual.

“You hate this one,” Louis said, lifting the orange-spice box like it was exhibit A in some affectionate courtroom trial.

Harry shrugged. “Didn’t say it was for me.”

Louis just stared at him for a long moment, lips twitching, like he was trying not to smile too fast. “Are you nesting?”

Harry glanced over with a dry, unamused face. “I don’t nest.”

“Oh you absolutely do. One more pillow and you’re halfway to opening an Etsy shop.”

“I’m fixing things. That’s not nesting.”

“Right,” Louis said, nodding solemnly. “Next thing I know you’ll be painting a wall or buying fairy lights.”

Harry paused.

A beat too long.

Then: “Fairy lights aren’t off the table.”

Louis grinned — teeth and trouble and the softest kind of dare in the corner of his mouth. “You’re unbelievable.”

Harry poured the water without replying, but Louis saw it — the almost-smile, tugging at the edge of his lips like a tide just shy of shore.

They sat across from each other at the narrow table, the steam from their mugs curling between them. The silence wasn’t heavy. It crackled with something — not tension, not quite flirtation. More like possibility . Like when you find a path in the woods that wasn’t there before and you don’t know where it leads, but suddenly, you want to follow it.

Louis nudged Harry’s foot under the table. Just a small press. Testing.

Harry didn’t flinch away. If anything, his foot pressed back.

“You know…” Louis said casually, wrapping both hands around his mug like a nervous spell, “if you do want decorating tips, I come with glitter and rage.”

Harry chuckled, low in his throat. “Sounds about right.”

Their eyes met. Held.

Something softened in Harry’s face. Like the pull of gravity eased, just for a moment. Like he wasn’t holding himself so tightly anymore.

And Louis — Louis felt it land somewhere deep in his chest. That this wasn’t a moment that needed big declarations or grand gestures. It was a clearing. A quiet one. A place being made.

Just wide enough for two.

That evening, Louis showed up with a small, crumpled paper bag. He placed it on Harry’s countertop without a word and began poking around for sugar.

“What’s this?” Harry asked.

“Open it.”

Inside was a ceramic spoon rest shaped like a bird. Gaudy and sweet, with blue speckles and a painted crown.

Harry blinked. “Is this supposed to be me?”

“No,” Louis said, too quickly. Then: “Maybe. Shut up.”

Harry held it in his hands like something fragile.

“You said your spoons always burn the counter. Thought you might want something stupid and useless that also… works.”

Harry didn’t say thank you. Just reached up to the shelf he’d cleared earlier and made space beside the tea.

The silence this time didn’t echo. It glowed.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t planned.
It never was, with Louis.

That was the thing about him — he moved through life like a windchime in a breeze. Soft, unpredictable, and always humming some half-forgotten tune. He didn’t ask for permission. He didn’t schedule affection. He just arrived , filling the space with chaotic commentary and coconut-scented warmth before you even realized how quiet it had been before.

One moment, he was perched on Harry’s countertop, legs swinging like a child’s, animatedly telling a story about a mushroom documentary that, somewhere along the way, turned into an accidental existential crisis. (“Did you know some fungi networks can remember things? Like—actual memory. They’re basically sentient dirt.”)

Harry, sitting cross-legged on the floor and wrist-deep in a drawer of tangled cords, didn’t look up. “You're one matcha latte away from a TED Talk.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Then the storm came.

Thunder cracked like a whip, startling the edges of the moment. The rain followed instantly, slamming against the trailer like it was trying to force its way in. Outside, the fairy lights flickered against the window’s reflection, caught in the watery blur.

Louis stared out and sighed, dramatic. “Great. My glitter will run.”

Harry barked a laugh. “Not a single person doubts that.”

“You think I carry glitter on me at all times?”

Harry finally looked up, expression deadpan. “Louis. You’ve shed glitter in my bed. And you’ve never even slept in it.”

Louis smirked. “I make memories wherever I go.”

The rain didn’t stop.
The wind howled. The storm settled in like it had brought a suitcase.

And Louis stayed.

He didn’t say he was staying. Didn’t ask if it was alright. He just kept talking, like the storm outside didn’t matter. Like the storm inside Harry didn’t either.

At midnight, they made toast. Simple. Scrappy. Two slices at a time in the whirring old toaster that always left one edge burnt. They ate it barefoot, standing in the cramped kitchen, elbows bumping. Louis stole Harry’s jumper — a threadbare navy thing that hung off one shoulder like it was halfway into being a blanket — and wore it like armor.

“You’re going to stretch that out,” Harry warned, though his voice held no bite.

Louis pulled the sleeves over his hands and wiggled his fingers. “Then it’ll finally fit me. You ever think of that?”

Later, a movie played on the TV. The kind of film neither of them could follow — convoluted plot, overdramatic score, two separate car chases for no reason. But it filled the silence with something easy. Something human.

Louis fell asleep halfway through.

It was gradual — head slumping to the side, hair a soft mess of tufts, lips parted slightly like he was still mid-thought in his dreams. The blanket had slipped down to his waist, and one hand hung loosely off the edge of the couch.

Harry didn’t wake him.

He just watched. The flickering blue of the screen washing over Louis’s face, softening the edges. The storm raged on outside — wild and loud, wind screeching against the tin sides of the trailer — but inside, there was stillness.

A rare, golden kind.

Harry lowered the volume until the dialogue was barely a whisper. Got up, fetched the blanket from where it had fallen, and tucked it around Louis with a kind of reverence he didn’t understand yet.

Then he made tea.

Stood at the window, mug warming his hands, eyes tracking the rivulets running down the glass. And behind him, the soft sound of Louis breathing.

It was nothing.
It was everything.

The kind of night that didn’t change your life all at once — but reminded you that it could .

And somehow, without a word or a plan or a label, that was enough.

The morning was pale gold and quiet — the kind of light that felt like forgiveness.

It poured through the trailer’s thin curtains, soft and diffused, catching in dust motes that danced lazily in the air. Louis stirred slowly, blinking past sleep, his cheek creased from the couch cushion, his body curled under a blanket that hadn’t been there when he’d drifted off. It smelled faintly of mint and Harry’s cologne — that warm, unplaceable scent of cedarwood and something more elusive, like rain on concrete.

For a second, he didn’t move. Just listened.

There it was — the faint hiss of the kettle, the low hum of a half-tuned radio murmuring from the corner, and beneath it, the unmistakable scent of burnt toast. Louis wrinkled his nose, amused and still tangled in sleep.

Then Harry’s voice, dry but not unkind:
“Morning, magpie.”

Louis lifted his head, hair wild, eyeliner smudged from the day before, and squinted toward the kitchen.

“You burn it on purpose?” he croaked, voice hoarse.

Harry didn’t even flinch. “Adds texture,” he said, like it was a known fact.

Louis snorted — or tried to. It came out like a sleepy huff. “You’re a menace.”

Harry handed him a mug of tea anyway, already knowing how he liked it. Not too sweet. Slightly over-steeped. Louis took it gratefully and curled back into the corner of the couch, jumper still wrapped around him like second skin.

They ate in the quiet that follows rain. Not awkward — just gentle.
Toast cracked between bites, and the warmth of tea curled through their chests. The world felt held at bay, like the storm had built a small shelter around them and refused to let reality in just yet.

Harry didn’t bring up the fact that Louis had stayed the night.
Louis didn’t mention it either.

But it hung there , unspoken and understood — the first time someone had stayed without needing a reason. Without needing to be asked.

Louis didn’t need to be anywhere else that morning. And Harry, for once, didn’t mind sharing his space, his kitchen, his silence.

When it was time to leave, Louis folded the jumper carefully. Like it was something sacred, not borrowed. The fabric was stretched at the sleeves and still held the shape of him.

He offered it back.

Harry hesitated.

His fingers hovered, brushing Louis’ as he pushed it back to Louis who smiled to himself and slid it back on — a brief spark, warm and almost shy. Then, with eyes softer than Louis had ever seen them, he said—

“See you soon.”

This time, Louis didn’t roll his eyes.
He didn’t deflect with a joke or smother the warmth rising in his throat.

He just smiled. All the way to the car.
The kind of smile that lingered. That bloomed like something steady and unfurling in his chest.

And for once, he didn’t second-guess it.
Not the words.
Not the look.
Not the pull.

Because for all the unspoken things — the fear and the ache and the ghosts they carried — that small, ordinary morning had felt like a promise.

Not grand.
Not loud.

But real.

Chapter Text

“You stayed the night.”

Zayn didn’t even look up from where he was meticulously rolling his cigarette, one ringed finger spinning the lighter idly. His voice was calm — too calm — the kind of calm that meant trouble.

Louis blinked from the passenger seat, clutching a half-eaten croissant and a paper coffee cup like they might protect him. “I—what?”

Zayn arched a brow. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The Harry Jumper Look ,” Zayn said, completely straight-faced. “That post-cozy, rain-kissed, emotionally-reckless glow.”

Louis scoffed. “Shut up.”

But Niall was already leaning forward from the backseat like a devil on his shoulder, practically vibrating with glee. “So was it, like, an accidental sleepover? Or…” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Capital-R Romantic?”

Louis groaned. “It rained. I stayed. That’s it.”

“Oh no,” Zayn gasped, hand on chest like a soap opera widow. “ Weather? The most devious of matchmakers!”

“Lightning struck,” Niall said solemnly, “and so did Cupid.”

“I hate you both.”

Zayn clicked his tongue. “You say that, but here you are in his jumper, looking like you just emerged from a tragically beautiful indie film about two sad boys who bond over toast and unresolved trauma.”

Louis yanked the sleeves of the jumper over his hands. “It’s comfortable.”

“It’s intimacy,” Niall chirped. “Fabric-coded declarations of affection.”

Louis stared out the window, jaw tight. His reflection in the glass looked just a little too honest — eyes soft, hair a mess, warmth blooming where he didn’t want it to.

“You like him,” Zayn said after a pause, flicking ash from the window. “And he likes you. Which is terrifying. But kind of nice.”

Niall nodded, grin fading into something gentler. “Yeah. It’s okay, you know. To want something that doesn’t hurt.”

Louis didn’t answer.
Not with words.

But he pulled the sleeves further down, like maybe they could shield the flutter in his chest.

And outside, the streets blurred past — hazy with morning light and possibility.

Jay noticed it next.

She’d dropped off banana bread and stood in Louis’ kitchen with a cup of tea, watching her son fail to act casual.

“You’re humming,” she said softly.

Louis froze. “No, I’m not.”

“You only hum when you like someone.”

“Maybe I like you.”

Jay smiled gently. “You do. But this is different.”

Louis sat down, bare knees pulled up under his chin. “He makes space for me. Without asking for anything back.”

Jay’s eyes crinkled. “Sounds like someone who sees you.”

He nodded, unsure how to explain the slow unfolding that Harry allowed, like something blooming without being picked.

Later that week, Louis showed up at the trailer with no excuses and a plastic container clutched in both hands like it was a peace offering. He didn’t knock like usual — just stood outside long enough for Stevie to spot him from her lawn chair, sunglasses pushed up into her curls.

“Well, well, well!” she hollered, waving her soda can like a scepter. “Lover boy’s back!”

Louis flushed. “It’s not like that.”

Stevie cackled. “Sure it’s not, sweetheart.”

The door creaked open a second later, and Harry leaned out, hair messy, eyes tired but fond. “What’s this?” he asked, nodding toward the container.

“Food,” Louis said, holding it up. “For... friendship. Or digestion. Pick your favorite.”

Harry took the container and cracked it open just enough to sniff. “Is that—?”

“Risotto. Leftovers. Not poisoned, I swear.”

Harry smirked. “We’ll see.”

They ended up on the steps, shoulder to shoulder, passing the container between them with plastic forks Stevie insisted were biodegradable but probably weren’t. The sky was beginning to deepen — soft indigo bleeding into gold. The trailer park was unusually still. No music, no lawnmowers, just the occasional bark in the distance and the wind nudging through tall grass.

Louis leaned back on his palms. “You ever keep stuff?” he asked, gaze fixed on the darkening sky.

Harry glanced at him. “Stuff?”

“Like, from before. Things you don’t really need anymore, but you can’t quite let go.”

Harry was quiet for a beat. Then he stood without a word and disappeared into the trailer.

Louis blinked, half-convinced he’d said something wrong, until Harry came back out holding a battered shoebox covered in peeling stickers and someone’s old doodles.

He sank down beside Louis again and opened it.

Inside: a fraying friendship bracelet made of navy string, three Polaroids curled at the corners, a cassette tape with no label, a sun-bleached postcard from a beach town called Crescent Cove, the edges worn soft like cloth.

“I keep things,” Harry said, not looking at Louis. “I just don’t look at them often.”

Louis reached for the postcard, careful with the fragile paper. The handwriting on the back was faded but still legible — messy loops and a sarcastic “wish you were here” scrawled across it. His thumb brushed over it gently, like it might vanish.

He didn’t ask who it was from. Didn’t need to.

Harry glanced sideways at him. “It’s not a secret. Just... not something I thought still mattered.”

Louis traced the card’s edge, eyes soft. “It matters. Even if it doesn’t hurt anymore. Even if you’re past it. It shaped you.”

Harry exhaled, like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. “Yeah. Maybe.”

The box sat between them, open like a small invitation. Not a burden. Not a plea. Just a quiet truth.

Louis didn’t press, didn’t pry. Instead, he reached over and gently hooked his pinky through Harry’s.

Just for a second.

A small touch. A pause. A question with no pressure behind it.

And Harry didn’t pull away.

Their hands separated just as easily, but something lingered in the air between them — a soft shift, the kind you don’t notice until the wind changes.

Above, the stars began to scatter across the sky, slow and deliberate. Not dazzling. Not showy.

Just... there.

Like they always had been.

The night didn’t rush.
And neither did they.

Chapter Text

It started, as many things in Louis’ life did, with a threat and an unnecessary amount of drama.

Zayn sat across from him at the table, sunglasses indoors, pinky raised as he sipped his espresso like it was scandal in a cup. He set it down with flair and folded his arms. “Either you tell him you like him, or I will. With interpretive dance.”

Louis sputtered mid-sip, nearly sending iced coffee down his shirt. “You wouldn’t.”

Zayn leaned in, deadly calm. “I’ve got silk scarves and trauma, Lou. I will weaponize both.”

From the back kitchen, Niall shouted over the whirr of the smoothie blender, “Just kiss the man, ya coward! Save us all from the pining and the playlist updates!”

“I haven’t updated the playlist,” Louis muttered.

“Oh really?” Zayn raised a brow. “Then why did you add ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand’ , ‘The One That Got Away’ , ‘Glitter in the Air’ , and, for some godforsaken reason, ‘Wrecking Ball’ within the same twenty-four hours?”

“That was a coincidence.”

“You’re a walking crush cliché.”

Louis slumped. “I don’t know how to—what would I even say?”

Zayn’s voice softened, but only slightly. “Maybe something like: ‘Hey, I like you. You make burnt toast weirdly endearing. Your trailer feels like somewhere I could stay.’ Something like that.”

Louis blinked. “You’ve been rehearsing this speech, haven’t you?”

“Obviously. I’ve been emotionally invested in your situationship since week two.”

“Week one,” Niall corrected from the kitchen. “Zayn said, and I quote, ‘That trailer park twink is in trouble.’”

Zayn sipped his espresso. “And I stand by it.”

Meanwhile, across town, Liam was leaning dramatically against Harry’s counter like a man with a mission.

“You like him,” Liam said with the confidence of someone who’d seen too much.

Harry frowned, drying his hands on a dishtowel. “I don’t—”

“You do this thing with your eyebrow when you talk about him.”

“I have two eyebrows, Liam.”

“Yeah, but one of them flirts. You also cleaned.”

Harry glared. “I always clean.”

“You Cloroxed the outside of your trailer, Haz. The outside . I saw you scrubbing the siding with a toothbrush.”

Harry mumbled something unintelligible and started rinsing a mug.

Liam pounced. “A toothbrush , Harry. Unless you’ve developed a weird vendetta against mildew, that was for a boy.”

Harry sighed, setting the mug down with more force than necessary. “What if he doesn’t feel the same?”

Liam shrugged. “Then you deal with it. You move on. Or you stay friends who keep accidentally cuddling on the couch during action movies. But if you don’t say anything, Stevie says she’s going to fake a plumbing disaster, shove you both in the pantry, and ‘let nature take its course.’”

Harry groaned. “She told me she’d dropped that plan.”

“She lied.”

They both looked toward the trailer door as if Stevie might burst in wielding a plunger and romantic sabotage at any moment.

Liam patted Harry’s shoulder with mock sympathy. “You’ve got three days, or Stevie unleashes what she’s calling Operation Thirst Trap. Her words.”

Harry groaned louder. “God save me.”

Liam just grinned. “Tell him you like his glitter. It’ll go straight to his head.”

Louis had barely stepped onto the path of gravel leading to Harry’s porch, clutching a bag of microwave popcorn as if it might serve as armor, when Harry stepped out the door—and suddenly, both their mouths opened in sync.

“I like you,” they said.

It hung there—twin confessions blooming in the golden hush of evening.

A beat.

A breath.

And then: laughter. Rich, stunned, and startled—like exhaling after holding it in too long. Louis nearly dropped the popcorn, breathless with it.

“Well,” he wheezed, clutching his side, “that was efficient.”

Harry chuckled, one hand braced against the porch railing like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “You want to go out? Like, properly?”

Louis raised an eyebrow, playful but touched with wonder. “Like a date?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, the word soft but solid. “A date.”

—

LOUIS’ FLAT — 6:08 PM

Louis stood in front of the mirror, hair half-gelled and shirt halfway unbuttoned, staring at his own reflection like it had personally offended him.

“I look like a Muppet,” he declared.

“You look like a boy about to go on the gayest date of his life,” Zayn replied, sprawled on Louis’ bed, holding up two options: one a neon mesh thing that could probably be seen from space, the other a soft green tee with a tiny frog embroidered over the heart.

Louis groaned. “Why did I agree to this?”

Niall, sitting cross-legged on the floor and eating crisps, grinned. “Because you’re in love.”

“I’m not in—!” Louis stopped himself, pointed aggressively. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

“You’re not denying it either,” Zayn said mildly.

“Just wear the frog one,” Niall added. “He’ll know it’s a sign. 

“Also,” Zayn added, “if you wear the mesh and sneeze, someone’s going to get an eyeful.”

Louis muttered something rude under his breath but changed into the frog shirt anyway.

When he came out of the bathroom ten minutes later, lip balm applied and hair fluffed just right, Niall did a dramatic gasp. “He’s glowing.”

Zayn clasped his chest. “Our little disaster’s going to a carnival. With feelings.”

Louis grabbed his keys and tried not to blush. “If either of you follows me or texts him mid-date, I swear to God—”

“We wouldn’t,” Zayn said solemnly.

“...unless it’s to tell him you’re nervous and cute,” Niall added, and promptly ducked the pillow Louis threw.

HARRY’S TRAILER — SAME TIME

Harry stood over his sink, shaving with slow concentration, trying to pretend his hands weren’t shaking.

Stevie leaned in the bathroom doorway, sipping wine from a mug that said Certified Chaos . “You’re using the fancy cologne, huh?”

“It smells like sandalwood,” Harry muttered.

“It smells like emotional commitment,” she corrected.

From the main room, Liam called out, “You moisturized. Voluntarily. That’s practically a marriage proposal.”

“Can you both not?” Harry grumbled, rinsing his face.

But when he stepped out, green button-up tucked neatly into dark jeans, curls loose and soft at his temples, Stevie made a small, pleased noise.

“Now that’s a man who’s about to impress someone.”

“I’m not trying to impress him.”

“Sure,” Liam said, lounging on the couch. “And I’m not texting you during the date pretending to be Stevie faking an emergency.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would,” Stevie and Liam said in unison.

Stevie smoothed his collar like a mom on prom night. “You look like someone who’s finally letting himself be happy.”

Harry paused. Swallowed. “I like him.”

Liam’s voice softened. “We know. And you’re allowed to.”

Stevie smiled. “Now go meet your magpie.”

By the time Louis parked outside the carnival and spotted Harry leaning casually by the entrance — all soft curls and soft eyes — it didn’t feel like a maybe anymore.

It felt like a beginning.

And neither of them had to say it. Not yet.

But their friends would. Loudly. In emojis. From their phones. Two blocks away.

Louis would check later and find a text from Zayn that said, If you don't kiss him, I will.

And a follow-up from Niall: Frog Boy 4 Life 🐸💚.

But right now — it was just them.

And popcorn.

And the kind of quiet that didn’t echo anymore.

The carnival was the kind of place that smelled like childhood—burnt sugar, hot oil, spilled soda. Neon lights blinked against the indigo sky, reflecting off puddles from a recent drizzle like broken stars scattered underfoot.

Louis wanted to try everything.

Rigged games with uneven basketball hoops, goldfish bowls impossible to hit, dart balloons that popped like confetti guns. He dragged Harry by the hand from booth to booth, eyes lit up with boyish mischief. Harry, quiet and indulgent, let himself be pulled along—grinning like he hadn’t in years.

He won Louis a plush frog at the ring toss. It was a ridiculous thing—green, lopsided, missing an eye.

Louis held it up solemnly. “Prince Clueless,” he declared.

“Charming,” Harry murmured.

They screamed on the tilt-a-whirl—Louis cackling through the loops, Harry gripping the bar with mock fear. They shared a cone of cotton candy, fingers brushing as they tugged at the pink fluff. And later, in the photo booth, they leaned too close. One picture captured Louis mid-laugh, Harry looking at him instead of the camera. Another caught them nose to nose—accidental, breathless, intimate.

By the time the lights began to dim and the crowd thinned to couples and sleepy children, they walked down to the pier—quietly now, as if something had shifted.

The water below was dark, the sky above streaked with melting lilac and dusk-gold.

They sat with their legs dangling over the edge, the popcorn between them forgotten.

Harry broke the silence first, voice low like the tide. “Wanna know why I ended up here?”

Louis turned, his profile lit by the last embers of sunset. “Only if you want to tell me.”

Harry looked out across the water. It stretched wide, still, unknowable.

“I used to sing,” he began. “Just little gigs at first. Open mics. Then more. I had a bit of a buzz around me—labels sniffing around, friends who started treating me like I’d already made it.”

His hands were folded in his lap, fingers restless. “Then one night after a gig, I fell. Nothing dramatic. Just a slip. Busted my knee so bad I couldn’t walk right for months. The buzz moved on without me. My friends did too. I got bitter. Small.”

Louis didn’t interrupt. He only shifted a little closer, the scent of salt and spun sugar in the space between them.

Harry’s voice turned quieter. “I came here to disappear. And for a while, I did.”

Louis’s gaze stayed steady on him. Then, carefully, “My dad disappeared too. When I was ten. One day he just… didn’t come back. Mum worked three jobs to keep things going. Lottie and I—” his voice cracked with something old and splintered, “—we learned to raise ourselves. I got good at being okay. Or pretending to be.”

He exhaled, looking down at his shoes. “I don’t let people in easy.”

Harry tilted his head. “You let me in.”

Louis’s voice was no louder than the hush of waves. “You left the door open.”

And somehow, that was it.

That was everything.

A breath later, their foreheads touched—not intentional, not rehearsed. Just soft gravity pulling them close. Harry’s hands reached up to trace Louis’ soft skin, his thumb catching on some glitter that always dusted Louis’ cheeks. He felt Louis’ sharp intake of breath, Then their lips met. Moving in synchrony like practised lovers, Louis' smaller hand resting flat against Harry’s chest. 

Harry was sure Louis could feel his rabitting heart. 

No firework display. No dramatic crescendo of violins.

Just stillness. Just warmth. Just the quiet, soul-deep recognition of two people finding something they didn’t know they were missing.

It tasted like salt and popcorn. Like gentleness. Like yes.

The kiss broke, but they didn’t move far. Louis leaned his head on Harry’s shoulder. Harry tilted his cheek to rest against Louis’s hair.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

The stars flickered overhead like they were winking, and the carnival behind them faded into quiet. Below the pier, the waves lapped steady against wood and stone.

They stayed there long after the world had gone to sleep—two boys on a pier, with a shared silence full of belonging.

Chapter Text

The morning came slow.

Golden through the crooked blinds, painting the cluttered trailer in quiet warmth.

Louis woke first. Chest pressed to Harry’s side, fingers curled in the hem of an old tee. For a moment, he just stayed still—breathing him in, letting the rise and fall of Harry’s body lull him.

Harry stirred a little, then turned, his voice low and gravel-soft. "Morning, magpie."

Louis huffed a sleepy laugh. "Morning, grump."

Harry's hand skimmed over Louis’ waist under the sheets, tugging him gently closer. Their lips brushed—once, twice—like they were still testing the language of it all. No hurry. Just… learning.

They kissed lazily for a while, until Harry pulled back, smile crooked. "I should make breakfast."

"You should make coffee. That’s what you should make," Louis mumbled, burying his face in Harry’s chest.

But Harry did make breakfast. Sort of. Toast with suspicious jam, eggs that were definitely under-salted.

Louis pretended to critique every bite.

And when he leaned over the counter to grab another mug, Harry tugged him in by the hips and seated him firmly in his lap.

Louis made a scandalized squeak.

"What are you—"

"You talk too much in the mornings," Harry said, nuzzling under his jaw.

"Do not—hey! That tickles—"

It was soft, and strange, and wildly new. But it felt like something that could stretch into always.

That evening, Louis had just gotten home. His phone buzzed once, and he smiled when he saw Stevie’s name.

Then he picked up—and the smile vanished.

"Louis, love, don’t panic," Stevie said immediately, which of course made his heart leap into his throat. "Harry collapsed. He’s at the hospital. They think it might be exhaustion, dehydration… maybe a bad reaction. You know how he is."

Louis didn’t let her finish. He was already halfway out the door.

Shoes barely tied. Jacket half on. Panic roaring in his chest.

He didn’t even know where he was going, only that he had to be there .

Be next to Harry.

Be the one who stayed.

He flagged down a cab with shaking hands and tried not to cry when the driver asked, "You okay, mate?"

He wasn’t.

Not until he saw Harry again.

Not until he could touch him.

Not until he could remind him he wasn’t alone anymore.

Chapter Text

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and distant worry—too white, too bright, the kind of place where time stretched unnaturally long and the walls held too many stories they’d never tell aloud.

Louis burst through the sliding doors like something had broken loose inside him. The sharp scent of bleach hit his nose instantly, but it barely registered. His trainers squeaked against the linoleum floor as he skidded to a stop at the reception desk, breath caught in the cage of his chest.

“Harry Styles,” he gasped out, palm flat on the counter. “He was brought in—tonight. I need to see him.”

The nurse blinked, then began to ask something about relation, about protocol, about visiting hours.

“I’m someone who loves him,” Louis said without thinking, without planning, voice shaking with something raw and unguarded. “Please.”

He didn’t know how long he waited—seconds or eternities—but then Stevie appeared around the corner, arms crossed like she was trying to hold her entire heart inside her ribcage. She looked tired. Older than usual.

“They’re keeping him overnight,” she said softly, like if she raised her voice it might crack something open. “He’s okay. Dehydrated. Malnourished. He ran himself too thin—again. Probably hasn’t had a real meal in days. I told him those damn energy drinks would catch up with him.”

Louis didn’t stop to answer. He didn’t ask for more.

He just moved. Past her. Down the hallway that smelled like too much nothing.

The room was dim, the only light coming from a muted wall sconce and the slow, rhythmic pulse of the monitors. Harry looked impossibly small against the starch-white pillows—eyes fluttering, cheeks hollowed out with exhaustion, curls plastered to his forehead. An IV snaked from his arm, and the beep of his heart monitor kept time with the thud in Louis’ throat.

“Hey,” Harry rasped when he saw him, a faint, crooked smile pulling at the edge of his lips. “Didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

Louis didn’t laugh.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t say a single word as he crossed the sterile floor and lowered himself into the chair beside the bed with a graceless thud. His eyes scanned every inch of Harry—his paper-dry lips, the tremble in his fingers, the shadows under his eyes that looked like old bruises.

“You idiot,” Louis whispered, the words catching on something tight in his throat. “You stupid, reckless—”

Harry tried to shrug but barely managed a twitch of his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Didn’t think it’d get that bad.”

Louis looked at him—really looked at him. At the man who had made space for him, who had cleared shelves and bought his tea and won him frogs and left the porch light on. The man who smiled like he didn’t believe he deserved to.

And Louis broke. Quietly.

Not in sobs or screams. But in the way his face folded, in the slow drop of his shoulders, in the way he leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together—gently, fiercely—like trying to piece something back together without glue.

“You don’t get to forget yourself anymore,” Louis said, voice cracking right down the middle. “Not when I remember you every damn day.”

And Harry—wrecked, raw, barely holding himself together—reached for him.

Not in some grand gesture. Just his hand. Fingers trembling, warm despite everything. And Louis took it like it meant something sacred. Because it did.

Their hands remained curled together long after the monitors faded into background hum.

Because some connections don’t loosen.

Even when the world tries to unravel you.

Harry woke slowly.

The hospital was quiet in that fragile way mornings tend to be in places built for recovery—machines ticking in even rhythm, muted footsteps in the corridor, the scent of antiseptic clinging to everything. But underneath it all, something warmer lingered. Something soft. Familiar.

Louis.

The chair beside the bed was pulled up closer than before, like it had been dragged inch by inch through the night. Louis was curled into it—awkward and uncomfortable-looking, hoodie pulled high over his mouth, his knees pressed to his chest. His limbs bent like paper, folded in on himself. One hand had slipped off the armrest, fingers still loosely tangled with Harry’s.

Harry didn’t move. Couldn’t. He just looked at him for a while—studied the shape of Louis’ sleep-creased cheek, the faint smudge of eyeliner beneath his eyes, the tuft of hair that refused to lie flat. Even in rest, Louis looked like a contradiction—delicate and defiant. There was a crease between his brows, like he was dreaming something too vivid or holding the weight of too much even in sleep.

On the side table sat a half-drunk cup of coffee in a paper vending machine cup, steam long gone. Next to it was a hospital bill slip, folded into a paper crane, its wings slightly askew. Harry blinked slowly at it, then caught the glint of something else.

There, stuck on the IV stand, was a tiny glitter sticker. A silver magpie.

He exhaled, quiet and aching.

His heart didn’t race. It just thudded in a steady, low rhythm—like it had found something to tether to. A moment to nest in. Harry wasn’t used to that. He’d spent most of his life bracing for loss, for quiet exits and soft betrayals. But Louis... Louis stayed. Even when it hurt. Even when it was hard.

He let his thumb brush lightly over Louis’ knuckles, slow enough not to wake him. Just to feel. Just to remember this.

Eventually, Louis stirred. His hoodie slipped down as he blinked his way into wakefulness, lashes fluttering, face crumpling into something groggy and gentle. He blinked blearily at Harry, eyes fogged with sleep, then softened when their gazes met.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Harry murmured, voice still scratchy from dehydration and the hospital air. The words held no reprimand—just wonder.

Louis shrugged one shoulder and cleared his throat. “Didn’t want you waking up alone,” he replied, voice like gravel. Softened by sleep and something more vulnerable.

They didn’t talk after that. Not really.

Harry shifted to the side of the narrow bed and patted the space beside him. An invitation. Not grand, not dramatic—just a simple gesture between two people learning each other’s language in silence.

Louis didn’t ask questions. He just stood, carefully untangling from the chair, and climbed in beside him. He moved slowly, mindful of the IV wires and the band of tape still clinging to Harry’s skin. When he finally settled, he curled into Harry’s side, resting his head gently against his shoulder. His breath puffed warm against Harry’s collarbone.

And in that small, sterile hospital room, the world slowed to a stop.

No past. No worry. No bravado.

Just two people in borrowed quiet, holding each other like it mattered.

A few days later, Harry was back home.

The trailer welcomed him with its familiar creaks and the distant rattle of the old ceiling fan, but something had shifted. Louis came by after work with grocery bags and a pack of those ridiculous iced buns Harry pretended to hate. He wandered inside like it was natural now—like the threshold was no longer something to ask permission to cross.

It was Louis who noticed first.

The clutter was thinning.

Gone were the chipped mugs stacked on the windowsill, the ones Harry never used but never threw away. The stack of old newspapers by the door had vanished. A few too-tight shirts had disappeared from the coat hooks, replaced by a single hoodie that very clearly wasn’t Harry’s—tie-dyed and soft, a print along the sleeve that said stay soft or stay out .

There was a new pillow on the couch—plump and floral, absurdly delicate against the rough cushions. A shade of pink that clashed magnificently with everything else. Louis smiled when he saw it, a tiny twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth.

A hook had been installed beside the door. Painted in a dusky, familiar color—almost mauve, almost plum. Close enough to the polish on Louis’ nails the week they met.

He said nothing.

Not about the pillow. Not about the hook. Not even about the small dish by the sink where one of his rings now sat—absently discarded one evening after cooking and never picked back up. It glinted like a secret only the two of them knew.

And Harry didn’t explain.

He just passed Louis a cup of tea—too strong, too sweet, just the way he remembered Louis liked it—and sank down beside him on the couch.

Louis reached for his hand without thinking, fingers warm and confident.

And Harry didn’t flinch.

He held back. Softly at first. Then firmer—like saying yes . Like saying you’re welcome here . Like stay wasn’t a question anymore, but a given.

Louis leaned his head onto Harry’s shoulder, watching the sun bleed gold through the blinds.

And Harry, without looking away, whispered into the quiet:

“I’ve been cleaning out the ghosts.”

Louis nodded, eyes closed. “Leave space for new ones.” He smiled against Harry’s shoulder when he felt the older man kiss his forehead. 

And they sat there like that—together in the hush—while the world turned quietly outside.

Home, now, was not just a place.

It was a presence.

It was two hands held, a silver magpie sticker, and the deliberate act of making room for someone else’s story to belong beside your own.

Chapter Text

Jay insisted on meeting Harry.

It began innocently enough—with a casual mid-morning text that lit up Louis’ phone as he spooned marmalade onto his toast.
When do I get to meet this mysterious man of yours? the message read, followed by a winking emoji that felt more like a loaded challenge than playful affection.

Two minutes later, a second text buzzed through, sharper in tone.
Don’t make me come find you myself, Louis William.

Louis had beamed .

Grinning like someone had plugged him into a sunbeam, he nearly dropped his toast as he darted through Harry’s narrow kitchen, barefoot and humming a too-cheerful jingle from a childhood cereal ad. He stole a slice of Harry’s toast straight off his plate, popped it into his mouth with a triumphant smirk, and danced around the island like the air was laced with sugar.

“I told you,” he sang, mouth half-full. “I told you she’d want to meet you. This is monumental. She likes no one . Not even Liam.”

Harry, in stark contrast, looked like he was waiting for a meteor to strike the trailer.

He sat slumped at the tiny kitchen table, pale as the tea towel draped over the oven handle, cradling a mug of coffee like it might offer protection or absolution. His curls were mussed, one sock was missing, and his expression was somewhere between dread and cardiac arrest .

“She’s not going to like me,” Harry muttered, staring into his mug like the swirling brown liquid could offer a premonition.

Louis rolled his eyes, set the toast down, and without missing a beat, climbed into Harry’s lap. Legs wrapping around Harry’s waist with the kind of fluidity that made it clear this was not a first-time occurrence. He settled his weight and cupped Harry’s jaw with both hands, forcing him to look up.

“She’s going to adore you,” Louis said, tone light but gaze sincere. “She adores me. And I adore you. That’s basic math.”

Harry didn’t look convinced. “She’s going to think I’m too old for you.”

“She already knows your age,” Louis reminded him, nuzzling the tip of Harry’s nose affectionately.

“What if she thinks I’m some washed-up trailer gremlin who corrupted her precious boy?” he asked, eyes round and shoulders tense.

Louis blinked. “Well,” he said slowly, lips twitching, “you are a bit gremlin-coded—”

“Louis.”

“I’m kidding,” he said with a laugh, pressing a kiss to Harry’s cheek. “You’re not a gremlin. You’re just nervous. And it’s cute. Endearing, even.”

Harry groaned, burying his face against Louis’ shoulder.

“I haven’t met anyone’s mum in years,” he admitted quietly, voice almost lost against the cotton of Louis’ sweatshirt. “Not since...”

Louis stilled at the break in his voice. He knew. Knew the pause, the weight behind it. Knew that there had once been a time, years ago, when Harry tried. When he was softer and younger and full of possibility—and it didn’t go well. That whatever ended, it left scars. That his wariness wasn’t about Jay. It was about being seen .

And still not being enough.

Louis brushed a damp curl from Harry’s temple and kissed the corner of his mouth. Not rushed. Not for comfort. Just there .

“She’s not here to judge you,” he whispered, thumb tracing the hinge of Harry’s jaw. “She just wants to know the man who makes me grin like an idiot over burnt toast and knockoff marmalade.”

Harry didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t smile.

His shoulders were still tight, his hands resting limp against Louis’ thighs. He looked like he was trying to believe it, but couldn’t quite make the leap.

So Louis changed tactics.

He climbed off his lap with a gentleness that belied the glint in his eyes. Then, without hesitation, he dropped to his knees between Harry’s legs, palms resting on the waistband of Harry’s sweatpants.

Harry’s breath caught. “Louis—”

“I’m showing you how much I adore you,” Louis said simply, voice low and clear. “So shut up and let me.”

Harry didn’t argue.

He let him.

His eyes trailed every movement, Louis’ eyes never leaving his. His tongue darted out, licking the tip of Harry’s cock, already leaking pre-cum. Harry grunted in aroused approval, fingers twitching as Louis licked a stripe to the base of his cock. 

Harry moaned low in his throat, eyes fluttering shut as Louis took him inch by inch. He choked slightly, wrapping his delicate fingers around the part he couldn’t take in. His head moving slowly, warm lips wrapped around Harry as his hand pumped his cock achingly slow in rhythm with his lips. Louis’ throat clenched around Harry’s shaft, a moan rippling through him and sending shivers down the older man’s spine, heat coiling in his abdomen as he came with a loud guttural moan - embarrassingly quick but so satiated. 

His large hands tugged the smaller boy up, his lips sinfully shiny and swollen. Harry kissed him bruisingly, tongues exploring each other. His mouth traveled lower, sucking gentle kisses to Louis’ neck and throat. He moaned - a low whimper of Harry’s name as his fingers tugged his bun open, tangling in his hair. “Want you please- please Harry” 

The desperate whine nearly had Harry spiraling, slapping Louis’ very clothed – much to his dislike – bum. Clothes were discarded in a haste, limbs bumping as Harry placed Louis on the couch. Kisses became more urgent, need and desire growing with each brush of their lips. 

Harry worked on opening Louis up with utmost care, his otherwise confident self now careful, gentle and nervous. Louis moaned as he felt Harry’s fingers nudge his prostate, legs bent towards his chest, one leg resting on the headrest of the couch as he writhed beneath Harry’s weight. 

“Fuckfuck- i am ready, need your cock” he whimpers, Harry’s head drops lower, sucking a bruising hickey on his thigh as Louis moans louder.

“God baby, look at you. Already looking so wrecked. Covered in my marks hm? Such a good boy for me” Louis nodded frantically, Harry grabbing a condom from the side table, ripping open the foil as he rolled it on his length.

His self control was wearing thin, face scrunched up as he pushes inside of Louis’ puckered hole, lube lathered messily. Louis’ sharp intake of breath doesn’t go unnoticed by Harry, his hands framing the boy’s face, muscles tensing as Louis’ nails scratched his back. Toes curled, he nods at Harry to move and he does. Slow gentle thrusts become faster, sloppy and desperate thrusts. 

Each thrusts makes them both moan in unison, hands entwined as their release crashes onto them together. Panting heavily, Harry ties the condom and tosses it into the bin, pulling Louis’ limp and sated body closer. Their eyes closed, skin damp with sweat but hearts thundering with wild energy. 

And somewhere between hands clutching at fabric and whispered breath against skin, Harry began to forget his fear—just for a while. Began to remember that maybe, just maybe, he was wanted. Not in spite of the mess, but because of it. Because someone saw him and chose him still.

By the time evening rolled around and the meeting actually happened, Harry was a tangle of nerves again—but with damp hair from a panicked shower and skin still flushed in a way that had nothing to do with sun exposure.

They met in Stevie’s backyard. Jay had insisted on hosting it somewhere “neutral,” which apparently meant garden chairs, an enormous pitcher of too-strong lemonade, and the faint sound of classic rock spilling from the house windows.

Harry stepped outside first, hands stuffed into his back pockets, that anxious wrinkle in his brow already forming.

Jay turned from the table—and smiled.

She looked nothing like Harry imagined. No maternal cardigan or passive politeness. She was tiny, sharp-eyed, tattooed, and wore eyeliner like armor. But her expression was warm—disarmingly so.

“You’re just like Louis said,” she said before he could speak. “Soft-spoken. Big hands. Sad eyes. Heart of gold.”

Harry blinked. “He said that?”

Jay shrugged as she poured him a glass of lemonade. “Well. That and that you make excellent coffee. But I read between the lines.”

Louis, pink-cheeked and hovering by the grill with Stevie, groaned into his hands. “ Mum— ”

Jay just cackled and handed Harry the drink. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You pass.”

The night passed easier than expected. Conversation flowed. Jay told old, embarrassing stories of Louis in primary school. Stevie chimed in with gossip about neighbors Harry had never even met. Louis sat close enough to bump shoulders with Harry every time he laughed. At one point, Jay caught him looking—and smiled like she’d already known all along.

When it was time to leave, Jay hugged Harry longer than he expected.

“You’re good for him,” she said into his ear. “Don’t let him talk himself out of that.”

Harry nodded, throat tight.

And when they got back to the trailer, when Louis kicked off his boots and turned to lock the door behind them, Harry caught him by the wrist and pulled him close.

“Your mum’s scary,” Harry whispered.

Louis laughed. “You’re just scared of powerful women.”

“No,” Harry said, kissing his temple. “I’m scared of how easily I can imagine her being my family.”

Louis looked up at him, eyes wide, heart naked on his face.

And kissed him like a promise.

One they were already keeping.

Chapter Text

It started with a photo.

Not even a good one—blurry and low-res, taken from across the street with a phone that probably had a cracked lens. But the timing had been precise. Louis was mid-laugh, shoulders raised, his hands tucked casually into the back pockets of Harry’s worn jeans. They were standing under the amber glow of Stevie’s porch light, half in shadow, half in golden haze, looking like something private that had been caught through a crack in the curtains.

The photo wasn’t meant to be damning. Not on its own.

But the caption was.

“Didn’t know Louis Tomlinson was slumming it these days. Bold of him to upgrade from designer boots to trailer trash.”

The post went up at midnight and by morning on the town’s gossip page, it had already spread—reshared, quote-tweeted, screen-captured, and reposted across gossip groups of the small town. It hit hard. Mean and unfiltered. The kind of viral that didn’t fade with a cute apology or funny tweet. The kind of viral that hurt.

Someone had been watching. Someone had known what they were doing. Someone had chosen to post it.

Louis was the first to find it.

He’d been curled on the couch in Harry’s trailer, scrolling lazily through his phone with the slow, indulgent satisfaction of someone having a rare quiet morning. Then he went still. The brightness in his face dropped out like a fuse blown in a storm.

No gasp. No dramatic outburst.

Just silence.

He locked the screen. Tossed the phone aside. And didn’t say a word.

Zayn, bless him, was the first to go feral. Within five minutes he was on the group chat with enough firepower to launch a coordinated drag mission on Twitter. Lottie had already drafted a finsta rant that could destroy reputations and was threatening to leak DMs of half the town’s gossip.

But Louis?

He just left the chat.

No explanation. No emoji. No dot-dot-dot typing bubble. He simply vanished from the conversation, and that’s when they all knew: this wasn’t going to blow over.

Stevie was the one who told Harry.

She didn’t knock. Just barged into the trailer, face tight, fingers clenched around her phone. “Check your messages,” she said, voice low and sharp. “It’s from Jay. Louis saw the post. He’s not talking to anyone.”

Harry blinked at her, confused. Then his phone buzzed in his pocket. The message was short:

Talk to him. He’s spiraling.

And just like that, the bottom dropped out of his chest.

Because it wasn’t just about Louis .
It was about the part of Harry—the broken, unfinished part—that agreed with the caption. The part of him that had been waiting for this, had braced for it. The part that always feared that eventually, the shine of Louis’ affection would wear thin. That someone would come along, hold up a mirror, and point out exactly how much Harry wasn’t.

How he didn’t deserve him.

He found Louis near the edge of the park, just past the playground, sitting by the rusted chain-link fence where the paint flaked off like dried leaves. The sun was low in the sky, casting a dusty orange hue over the gravel and dandelions, and Louis sat curled into himself—knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves over his fists, face half-hidden in the folds of grey cotton.

His hair was messier than usual. He didn’t flinch when Harry approached, didn’t even glance up.

Harry stopped a few feet away, heart thudding in that awful way—the kind of beat that came with guilt and grief and too many what-ifs.

“I shouldn’t have let this happen,” Harry said quietly, voice sanded raw.

Louis blinked up at him, not angry. Just tired. “What?”

Harry crouched slowly, arms resting on his knees, and stared down at the patch of dirt between them. His fingers twisted into the fabric of his jeans. “I knew it,” he muttered. “That people would say things. That you’d get dragged into the mess that follows me. I should’ve stopped this. Before it started.”

Louis studied him for a moment. “You think I regret us?”

Harry couldn’t bring himself to look up. Couldn’t bear to see disappointment or pity in Louis’ eyes. “I think I’m the kind of man people expect to be someone’s mistake. Not their choice.”

A pause.

And then Louis moved. Scooted closer, unfolding his legs and letting them stretch out in front of him, knees brushing Harry’s. His eyes, when Harry finally dared to meet them, were not soft. They were lit with a quiet, furious fire .

“You’re not a mistake, Harry,” Louis said, voice steady. “Not even close.”

Harry opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Shame stuck to the roof of his mouth like old honey.

“You think I haven’t heard worse?” Louis continued, hands still hidden in his sleeves. “That I haven’t had people judge me, make assumptions, call me things I’ll never forget?”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

“You think I’m with you because it’s easy?” Louis asked. “Because it’s convenient?”

“I think you deserve someone with less…” Harry swallowed. “Less baggage. Someone who didn’t peak at twenty-five and fall apart.”

Louis leaned in. His hand reached up, knuckles grazing Harry’s jaw. “Don’t you dare.”

Harry’s eyes fluttered shut.

“You are the most real thing in my life,” Louis whispered. “Do you understand that? The world is full of noise and artifice and bullshit, and you— you —are the only person who doesn’t pretend. Who lets me be who I am.”

And when Harry finally looked at him— really looked—he didn’t find hesitation or sympathy in Louis’ expression.

Just loyalty.

The kind that burned like a flare. The kind that stayed even when the smoke cleared.

“They don’t know us,” Louis said. “They don’t get to decide what matters.”

Harry’s lips quirked slightly, an unsteady twitch of humor through the cracks. “You really mean that?”

Louis nodded once. “Let them talk.”

And in that silence—barely broken by the wind ruffling the leaves or the distant bark of a dog—something shifted.

Harry chuckled. Weak, but real. “Still think you’re too good for me.”

Louis’ mouth curved, sharp and cheeky. “I am too good for you. But you’re mine anyway.”

Harry laughed then. A rough, stunned sound like it had clawed its way out of his chest.

And when Louis leaned forward and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing beneath his tired eye, it wasn’t an apology.

It was an absolution .

“I love you, you know,” Louis murmured, voice barely more than breath. “Always did. Just took me a while to admit it.”

Harry’s heart stuttered in place. He felt dizzy—unmoored in the best way.

And then he nodded, a smile trembling like something breakable.

“I love you too, Magpie.”

Louis blinked, the nickname curling around him like armor and sunlight.

And this time—even if the whole world watched—they didn’t flinch.
They just sat there, fingers interlaced, letting the evening pass around them. Still. Proud. Unashamed.

As if love, when held gently, could make even the cruelest voices fade into nothing.

Chapter Text

It had taken Harry three months. Three months of saving every penny, of scribbling half-formed plans into the corners of old receipts, of silently studying For Rent flyers taped to café windows. Three months of late-night walks with Liam—circling the block again and again, talking about square footage and cracked sinks and hope—and three months of whispered conversations with Stevie on her porch, the smell of mothballs and rosemary hanging in the humid night air.

Then there were the texts with Jay. Dozens of them, sent in bursts—usually around midnight. She used far too many heart emojis and entirely too little chill, her enthusiasm bleeding through every exclamation point.

“Omg 🥰🥰🥰 this is THE ONE I can feel it in my BONES”
“Imagine him waking up next to you HERE?? That sun? That view???”
“Sorry. Got carried away. But I support this w my whole mum heart x”

But now—

It was happening.

"You’re sure about this?" Stevie asked, standing on the porch with a cigarette pinched between two fingers and her chipped mug of lukewarm instant coffee in the other. Her tone was light, but Harry could hear the weight under it.

Harry leaned against the wooden railing beside her, elbows resting, fingers curled tightly around the old wood. His eyes were locked on the dusk horizon, but his thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

"It’s not about leaving," he said. "I’ll still come by. Fix the porch light. Steal your soup."

Stevie turned her head to look at him sideways, smoke curling out of her nose. "It’s about growing, huh?"

Harry nodded slowly. "It’s about giving him something that doesn’t feel temporary. Something that doesn’t creak every time he turns over in bed."

She smiled then, slow and fond. The kind of smile only earned through heartbreak and years. "He already has that. It’s you."

Harry exhaled. The kind of breath that emptied a ribcage. "Then this is just the rest of it."

He told Liam next. They were walking the perimeter of the park, dusk painting the sky in bruised purples and pinks. Beer cans in hand, gravel crunching under their feet, the quiet comfort of years-long friendship holding them steady.

"He’s gonna cry," Liam said, nudging Harry. "Bet you twenty."

"He better cry," Harry muttered. "I’m broke now."

Liam laughed, clapped him on the back with brotherly affection. "Proud of you, mate. You’ve come a long way from the bloke who used to store takeout containers in his oven."

"Still do."

"Tragic."

Niall, Zayn, and Lottie were the chaotic muscle. Lottie had somehow charmed the realtor into handing over the keys early—with questionable legality. Niall carried in the plants Louis wouldn’t shut up about ("He talks to them, H. You have to get the fiddle-leaf fig right.") and Zayn took an hour to string the fairy lights exactly like Louis had them that one summer at Jay’s.

"He’s gonna die," Niall grinned, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"He’s gonna kiss you first," Zayn added, arms crossed, admiring his work.

Harry, standing in the doorway, whispered, "Worth it."

The apartment was small, sunlit, and perfect. Tucked above an old bookstore that still smelled like ink and pages, with two rooms and a slanted balcony that overlooked the crooked skyline. The kitchen smelled like lemon cleaner and promise.

Harry stood in the center of it, heart in his throat.

Stevie showed up at the door as he was adjusting a curtain. Her arms were crossed. Her eyes were soft.

"So?"

Harry turned toward her, blinking fast. "So… thank you. For everything. For letting me fall apart on your couch. For feeding me when I forgot how. For pretending you didn’t see me cry during the dog movie."

She raised an eyebrow. "You mean every time we watch it?"

He grinned, teary-eyed. "Yeah."

She pulled him into a hug. It smelled like cigarettes and lavender. It felt like home. "You’re gonna do good, H."

Finally, the day came.

Louis arrived under the flimsy pretense of "checking out a bookstore Jay swore by." He was grumbling the whole walk up the stairs, hoodie half-zipped, fringe falling into his eyes.

When the door opened and he stepped inside, it took exactly three seconds.

He froze.

The breath left his lungs in a shaky rush. "Harry?"

Harry stepped forward, nervous energy rippling through him. "Surprise."

Louis’ eyes scanned the room—recognition blooming with every second. His plants, tucked carefully along the windowsills. His dog-eared books stacked on a shelf. The print Zayn had framed. The record player Jay swore made everything sound warmer. The exact fairy lights.

And then Louis looked at him.

"You got us a home," he whispered, eyes glossy.

Harry smiled, heart threatening to give out. "I got you somewhere soft to land."

Louis burst into tears. Zayn won the bet.

Harry pulled him close, arms around his waist, breath trembling.

"And," Harry whispered, pulling back just enough to look Louis in the eye, "I need to say something."

Louis nodded, lips wobbling.

Harry took his hand. Held it like a vow.

"I used to think my life had already happened. Like the best parts were done and gone, and I just had to survive the rest of it. That I didn’t get to want things anymore. I was tired. Of myself. Of the world. Of waking up. Then you showed up—loud and glittering and too damn beautiful for this world—and you looked at me like I was something good. Like I wasn’t too late. And that changed everything."

Harry took a breath, chest heaving.

"You didn’t just change my life, Louis. You gave it back to me. With every sarcastic joke, every ridiculous snack combo, every stupid little dance you do when you brush your teeth. I found home in your laugh. And I want to give you that, too. Not just a place. A future."

He squeezed Louis’ hand.

"So will you move in? Here. With me. With the lemon kitchen and your plants and the view that sucks but we’ll love it anyway. With us."

Louis nodded through his tears, laughin

g and crying all at once.

"Yes. Yes, you idiot. Of course, I will."

And then they kissed.

It tasted like salt and sun and new beginnings.

And later, when the city buzzed beneath them and fairy lights blinked on above, they lay tangled together on a couch far too small for two grown men but just perfect for them.

Home.

Finally.

Chapter Text

A year later, the apartment smells like Louis.

Specifically: coconut conditioner, whatever glittery vanilla thing he dabs on his wrists, and the unmistakable scent of freshly brewed, too-strong coffee that he always insists Harry drink before he kisses him. The couch carries the scent of soft laundry and the vague lemon-cleaner they both pretend to hate but secretly love. Harry often says the apartment smells like home, but really, it smells like Louis.

It also smells like burnt toast.

“Babe,” Louis yells from the kitchen, waving smoke out of his face with a tea towel, “I swear to God the toaster is broken or possessed—”

“It’s literally not plugged in,” Harry calls back from the hallway, half-laughing as he tucks a small velvet box deeper into the pocket of his hoodie. His heart is thundering.

There’s a plan.

It’s a horrible plan. Mostly because everyone is involved.

Lottie and Zayn are in charge of “distractions” (read: kidnapping Louis for a fake drag brunch that is actually just Lottie in a sequined jumpsuit and a wig named Veronica Carnage). Niall has "music and vibes." Jay is supervising with a clipboard like this is a wedding, not a proposal. Stevie has snacks and tissues (“for the tears and/or the pre-party breakdowns,” she says wisely). Liam made a schedule. No one is following it.

Harry’s sweating.

Meanwhile, Louis is in a thrifted purple blouse with dainty pearl buttons and sparkly lilac nail polish, sipping a mimosa and looking suspicious.

“You guys are acting weird,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

“We’re always weird,” Zayn says coolly, tossing glitter into Lottie’s hair for dramatic effect.

“True,” Louis concedes. “But Niall just whispered ‘godspeed’ and hugged me for a full minute.”

“That’s just the brunch mimosa energy,” Lottie says with a dazzling smile.

Louis narrows his eyes further. “...We’re not at a brunch.”

“Details,” Zayn deadpans.

Back at the pier — the place of popcorn kisses, first confessions, and slushie-stained jeans — the setup is simple but glowing. String lights looped around the rails. Polaroids fluttering

from clothespins strung across twine. A soft blanket spread across the bench. The guitar Harry hadn’t touched in months leans against it like it remembers a younger, braver version of him.

Louis walks into the golden dusk, confusion softening into wonder. His feet crunch lightly on the wood. The sea wind teases the hem of his blouse.

He sees them all. Stevie, already teary-eyed. Jay, beaming with more pride than Louis can hold. Liam, holding a cue card that says: ‘TRY NOT TO PANIC, HE’S NERVOUS.’

Louis turns.

Harry’s already on one knee.

A deep, shaky breath.

“I was gonna do a big speech,” Harry says, voice trembling, eyes shining. “Had it all written out. Pages and pages. About how I fell in love with the way you snort when you laugh too hard. About how you always wear odd socks and pretend it’s intentional. About your lip balm that somehow ends up on my pillow. About the way you make everything feel like it matters again.”

Louis is breathless.

Harry continues, heart in his throat. “But none of that matters if you don’t know this part. You changed my life. Not in some flashy, movie-way. But in real, quiet ways. You reminded me that I could still be good. That I wasn’t too broken to be loved. You made me want things again. Like mornings. And soft lights. And burnt toast. And you.”

Louis swallows back a sob.

Harry smiles, teary and sure. “So I want to give you something back. Something solid. Something safe. Something yours.”

He pulls back the sleeve of his hoodie, revealing a new tattoo inked delicately on the inside of his wrist: a single magpie, mid-flight, glitter ink flecked along its wings.

“So you know,” he whispers, “wherever you are, I’m always flying toward you.”

Louis crumbles, tears streaking his cheeks.

Harry opens the ring box. “Marry me, Magpie?”

Then, instead of waiting for an answer, he does what he’s been scared to do in front of people for years:

He sings.

Soft. Unsteady. Beautiful.

It’s the same song Louis once found on an old tape in Harry’s trailer. The one he had written but never released. The one that had sat unplayed until Louis hummed it one morning, asking where it came from.

Now it belongs to both of them.

By the time Harry finishes the final line, Louis is in his lap, arms locked around his neck.

“Yes,” Louis breathes. “God, yes. You ridiculous, beautiful man. Yes.”

Cheers erupt. Lottie sobs. Zayn fist-pumps. Jay wipes her eyes and hands Stevie another tissue.

They kiss.

The lights glow.

And the ocean, like the people around them, hushes for a moment.

As if the whole world is giving them space.

As if it knows:

This is where forever begins.