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Harry winces with her whole body at the door slamming, her shoulders jerking up and head ducking down as if she needs to protect herself from the sound waves.
Danny’s never been physically violent with her, or even threatened it, but the part of Harry she very occasionally allows herself to acknowledge knows his acts of aggression against inanimate objects are intended to send a message. He’s very adept at indirectly communicating his messages, Danny is. It’s his preferred method of communication (manipulation, Louis would correct if she were here), really. A clever means of control, always maintaining plausible deniability.
As if he even fucking knows what plausible deniability is, Harry scoffs to herself, straightening her posture, enough seconds having ticked by since Danny stormed off for some of her fear to have been replaced with anger.
It's an achingly familiar emotional transition, the most common punctuation at the end of these kinds of nights, where a conversation becomes an argument becomes a furious proclamation followed by a command and a dramatic exit.
But there’s something different about tonight. Something different about the anger bubbling up in Harry, forcing the fear out.
Usually she’s angry at herself. At not realizing sooner an argument was coming and doing something to prevent it. At not being clever enough to win the argument even when Danny was so clearly in the wrong. At letting it all get out of hand again.
And, sometimes, when the smallest, softest voice hidden deep inside of her manages to escape to the surface for long enough to make herself heard, at staying in this situation – in this relationship, with this man – for one more night.
Usually she stays angry at herself until she's exhausted, drained of all emotion so she can fall asleep.
Tonight though, her anger feels different.
Tonight it’s firmly directed at Danny.
Because tonight, despite the pattern playing out as it always does, it had started differently.
It had started with Louis.
Harry sucks in a deep, sharp breath, her lungs filling with fire, as she recalls the way Danny spoke about her closest mate. Her stubborn, loyal, feisty best mate, who’d never quite been able to hide her distaste for Danny but tries so hard to be civil because Harry long ago asked her to. Her endlessly supportive friend who is always there for Harry no matter the reason Harry needs her, even when the reason is something said or done by the boyfriend Louis has told Harry countless times doesn’t deserve her.
The absolute best mate a girl could ever wish for. Always ready with an outstretched arm and an open ear and a sarcastic quip. Warm and hilarious and kind.
And fuck Danny for not seeing all that.
Or maybe he does see it, and just doesn't want Harry to have it.
Maybe he knows how dangerous to his relationship it is for Harry to be reminded of all the things he doesn’t give her.
Maybe Harry should be surprised he hadn’t tried to break them apart sooner. At least not as directly as he did tonight.
Harry can’t even remember how it started. She usually can’t by the time it's over, too stunned and sad to follow the disagreement back to its inception.
But she doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to forget the awful things he said about Louis.
She’ll never forget the venom-laced tone of his voice as he spit despicable slurs about her, shouting that Harry shouldn’t be around that kind of woman (“if you can even call that type women”), spewing outrageous nonsense about Louis only pretending to be Harry’s friend so she could get into her pants, turn her into “one of them.” The utter contempt in his voice when he called her disgusting and finally shouted before storming out that Harry had to choose, with a fire in his eyes and an anger in his voice that made clear he wasn’t offering a choice so much as levying a command.
Well, sod him.
For the first time in years, Harry lets herself fully hear that soft, tiny voice deep within her, realizing the softness isn’t weakness. She’s just managed to cover it up so well that it seemed to be.
Not anymore.
Tonight she lets it be fully heard, allows its desperate, feral scream to fill her head, insisting she not only has a choice, but it’s the most obvious choice she’s ever faced.
She’s done letting Danny push her around, forcing Harry to twist herself into someone she barely recognizes to fit into the life he wants.
Forcing her to pretend the parts of her that make her just like Louis aren’t there.
He can have his shitty life. Harry’s gonna go live hers.
And she can’t imagine a life that doesn’t include Louis.
It’s been her and Louis as long as she can remember.
Her and Louis.
Her Louis.
All the best memories of her life are bound up with Louis.
Without quite deciding to, Harry flashes back to a specific one, one night a few years ago. It was a month or two after she and Danny had moved in together, and Harry hadn’t seen Louis – or anyone really, now that she thinks about it – since then. They hadn’t even had a housewarming do. Harry had only moved into his place so Danny didn’t feel it warranted a party. “It’s plenty warm with just us here, anyway,” Harry vaguely recalled him saying when she’d brought it up.
But a few months in, he’d had a family emergency or a work thing or something Harry wasn’t invited to, so she and Louis had decided to go out for a proper girls night. They’d gotten dressed to the nines and really done it up: expensive cocktails and fancy dinner followed by dancing well into the night.
Harry chuckles as she thinks that it was probably the best date she’d had in a long time. Definitely better than any date she and Danny have had lately.
Maybe ever.
Her chuckle fades as she ponders what that says about the sad state she’s let her romantic life fall into, but a slight smile remains on her lips as moments from that night continue to flicker behind her eyes like some cheesy wedding slideshow.
She and Louis laughing over drinks, getting more boisterous with every sip, practically giddy just from being around each other for the first time in so long.
She and Louis talking over dinner, the single flickering candle on their table sending light and shadows dancing across the delicate angles of Louis’ face as she listened intently to every word Harry spoke, as she always does.
She and Louis dancing feverishly for hours, Louis keeping a protective eye on Harry every time they danced more than a few feet away from each other, subtly inviting strangers to dance closer to – and sometimes even with – them for a song or two.
Always so protective, Louis. Harry bites down a smile as she thinks of Louis’ particular brand of attentive concern. Harry’s always teased Louis for how she insists on behaving like a doting big sister just because she’s a few years older, but truthfully, Harry’s always loved it. She’s always felt taken care of when Louis’s around. She always feels safe.
Harry’s cheeks heat as the memories from that night become more vivid, reminding Harry for the first time since the night itself that Louis’ gaze hadn’t just felt protective. There’d been flashes of something more in her eyes, something deeper than attentiveness.
As if she hadn’t just been watching Harry to make sure she was alright with whatever attention or contact the people around her were offering.
She hadn’t just looked ready to pull Harry away from unwelcome advances, as they’d done for each other countless times over the years. She’d looked ready to pull Harry away just because she wanted her back, closer to her.
She hadn’t looked protective, Harry realizes. She’d looked possessive.
And not in the frightening way Danny often does, but in a soft, almost pleading, way. In a way that seemed fueled by simple desire, rather than entitlement.
She’d looked rather like she wanted to take a bite of Harry.
Harry can’t believe she’d forgotten that. Now that she’s remembered, she recalls being painfully aware of it that night. She recalls being flustered at the intensity of Louis’ gaze, the combination of confusion and alcohol rendering her incapable of any useful analysis of what Louis might be thinking or how Harry might feel about it. She can’t remember any specific thoughts her brain managed to form while on the receiving end of that stare.
But she remembers the moment Louis seemed to realize how she was looking at Harry, the moment she snapped her eyes away and schooled her face into a more neutral expression. And she remembers the wave of disappointment that washed over her the second it happened.
And she remembers, too, the way she’d convinced herself it had nothing to do with her, how Louis had looked at her. It was just the result of not having seen each other in so long combined with the extravagance of the evening. And, Harry had reasoned, she did look fit in her new red dress, with its revealing neckline and double front slits. Her poor women-loving mate could hardly be blamed for allowing a few errant, alcohol-infused thoughts to venture beyond the realm of friendliness for a few minutes.
Harry shakes her head, slightly embarrassed at the ego of her reasoning from back then. She had looked good that night, but Louis was no slouch either. She was – is – bloody gorgeous, truthfully. And for all Harry knew, she’d imagined the extra something in Louis’ stare that night. She couldn’t be sure then, and she certainly can’t now, two years later.
Two years of completely forgetting that moment had even happened, as charged as it had felt that night. Harry's gotten good at dismissing things the past few years, at making herself forget feelings that might require her to examine her life and the ways it doesn’t match up with what she'd wanted.
Suddenly she needs to see that dress, more urgently than makes any sense at all. She just needs to see it’s still there, in all its boldness, and maybe put her hand on it, run her fingers over the fabric she remembers being so soft but somehow had made her feel so powerful.
She rushes to her closet and shoves hangers to the side with a desperation that surprises her, until she’s reached the last few items hidden away at the end. Relief floods her when she sees the dress and she reaches for it immediately, pulling it out and hugging it to her chest, embarrassed by her own dramatics but unable to care much about it.
Pressing the material against herself takes Harry back to that night again, a twisted tangle of emotions wrapping around her as she remembers how it felt to wear it, how it felt to have eyes on her all night, one set of eyes in particular. And how it had felt the next time after that night she’d thought about wearing it, excitedly holding it up for Danny’s reaction as they’d been getting ready to go out for Valentine’s dinner and completely deflating when he’d frowned and told her not to be ridiculous, that it was far too sexy and what did she think she was playing at trying to get attention from strangers when she had such a good man already.
Fury fills her at the memory and her fingers clench around the fabric as she holds back the tears pricking at her eyes.
“What the fuck am I still doing here?”
Without another thought, Harry grabs two duffle bags from the top of her closet. She gently removes the dress from its hanger and rolls it up, carefully placing it in one of the bags. From that moment, she’s a woman possessed, gathering her clothes and other necessities with the focused intensity of someone who’s been trapped for years and has suddenly realized the door to her cage has been left unlocked for a brief window and if she doesn’t escape now she might never get the chance again.
In no time, the two duffles are filled, along with every other bag she can find that has a strap long enough to wrap around herself. She doesn’t want to take more than one trip to get it all out of the apartment.
Harry drops the bags in a heap by the front door and heaves a sigh, blowing a pesky curl off her face. When she looks at the pile of her packed belongings, the seriousness of what she’s done hits her.
She’s packed to leave him. She’s actually done it.
She’s doing it.
Finally.
Just as she’s starting to chide herself for how long it’s taken her to get to this point, Harry's overcome by a sudden and overwhelming worry that she’s making a huge mistake, that she’s overreacting and she’ll regret not waiting for Danny to get back so they can talk things out and make everything right again.
She freezes, terrified at the thought of Danny returning before she could put all her things back away. He’d be so furious if he found out she’d been planning to go stay with Louis.
Louis.
Louis.
Suddenly all Harry can think about is how Louis will feel about this, how she’ll respond to Harry finally leaving Danny (“short for ‘That Prat Danny’”), how wide she’ll open her arms to welcome Harry into her home.
All Harry can see is Louis’ shining eyes, so blue Harry could get lost in them the way you’d get lost in the ocean with no land in sight, and the image of them, of her protective gaze, makes Harry feel the way the ocean does – supported and small and a little bit afraid, but more than anything: peaceful.
She misses Louis so much. Misses how safe and taken care of – how understood – she feels with her.
How could she have been with someone like Danny all this time when people like Louis exist? That’s the kind of person Harry should be with. Someone like Louis.
Harry’s too impatient to get out of Danny’s apartment and over to Louis to worry for the moment about the thought that pops up and then immediately ducks down again.
You should be with Louis.
For now she just needs to get out of here. She decides not to call Louis to let her know she’s coming over, worried she’ll lose her resolve if she doesn’t just leave now.
As she begins loading herself up with her bags, alternating the straps to keep herself relatively balanced, Harry glances around the apartment, noting how few of her own things she’s leaving behind despite not having packed much beyond clothing. A few books and some kitchen things are all she really cares about, and a smug smile fills her face as she thinks about how much Niall and Zayn and Liam would probably love the chance to barge in to gather those for her sometime over the next few days.
She ponders writing a note but decides Danny’s not worth the effort. And anyway, she can’t think of anything she could write that would infuriate him more than her not even bothering to leave word at all.
As Harry reaches to open the door for herself before grabbing her duffle bags, something catches her eye. She barks a laugh.
Those bloody awful bullet shot glasses that Danny loves so much he actually has them on display.
Fucking wanker.
Without another thought, Harry grabs them, giggling to herself when she can’t physically stop herself from saying aloud that she can’t throw away her shot.
She manages to find room for the ghastly things in one of the bags dangling from her shoulders, then she grabs a duffle bag in each hand and walks out the door. She considers leaving the door open, but ends up putting down one of the bags so she can slam it shut, delighting in the sound as well as the thought that now Danny will have no idea anything’s amiss until he’s fully back inside and all the way to the half-emptied bedroom.
Harry is remarkably calm the entire taxi ride to Louis’ place, and even up the two flights of stairs that lead to her door. She’d felt a zip of nerves when she’d looked up upon exiting the car and seen a flash of Louis through her kitchen window, but it was quickly replaced with relief that at least she’s home.
Standing at Louis’ closed door, staring at the wood like she might be able to will it open, Harry is overcome with an urgent need to see the woman inside, so much so that she doesn’t even think to drop one of her bags to knock. Instead, she starts kicking the door, hoping to convey her desperation to be let in and simultaneously drown out the confusing swirl of thoughts filling her head.
She pretends the anxiety she’s feeling has nothing to do with the unexpected things she’s been thinking about Louis for the past few hours and is solely about having just suddenly and secretly walked out on her boyfriend of three years to start her life over. Harry tells herself she’s just overwhelmed and her mind has been playing tricks on her. That as soon as Louis opens the door – as soon as she lays eyes on her best mate – she’ll calm down. The silly swirl of thoughts will still and she’ll be fine. Things will be just as they always have been with Louis. Safe and easy and familiar.
The door swings open to reveal a baffled, wide-eyed Louis and Harry had been right. Seeing her is all she’d needed to quiet her racing thoughts.
It’s her Louis, same as she’s always been. Right in front of her.
And all at once Harry sees everything she’s always known and loved in her as well as everything she’s been missing.
She knows exactly what she wants. And as she searches Louis’ eyes, she sees enough of what she’d seen in them that night two years ago to give her hope that Louis might want the same thing.
Harry’s smile fills her face in a way she hasn’t felt in far too long and it only widens as Louis steps back to let her in.
Her new life starts tonight.
They’re gonna have one hell of a story.