Archive of Our Own

Louis loves a few things. He loves the way music speaks to him like a second language—one he’s spent years becoming fluent in. He loves the theater, the way acting lets him wear someone else’s skin for a while, deliver lines thick with emotion and watch them land in an audience’s chest like a well-aimed arrow. He loves how football has brought out another side of him. He loves his family, of course, and his friends—who, by now, are more like family anyway.

And, most of all, he loves a boy who doesn’t even know he exists.

Louis has tried to talk himself out of it. He’s told himself it’s ridiculous to love someone he doesn’t really know. But love, as it turns out, doesn’t care about logic. It doesn’t wait until you’ve shared secrets or swapped stories. Sometimes, it just roots itself in you and grows wild. And somehow, for Louis, it’s grown into Harry.

Harry, who’s never looked his way. Harry, who shares nothing with him except for a dreadful history class Louis is proudly failing.

“I love gray sweatpants,” Louis murmurs, eyes fixed across the field.

Harry is running laps, the sun catching in his curls, skin flushed and sweat-slick. He looks like a walking distraction. He is a walking distraction.

Louis and Niall have taken to studying outside on days like this—warm enough to feel like spring, with a breeze soft enough to keep things comfortable. It’s nice. Or it would be, if Louis could keep his eyes on his textbook instead of tracking every step Harry takes around the track.

“You’re so gross,” Niall snorts, barely looking up from his notes.

Louis hums noncommittally, chin propped in his hand as he watches Harry round the far end of the field. Niall knows better than to drag him back to reality. At this point, he just lets Louis daydream—lets him be a little pathetic in peace.

“I’m not gross,” Louis says, eyes still fixed on the field. “I’m in love.”

“You’re obsessed,” Niall corrects without mercy. “That’s different. And also concerning.”

Louis doesn’t argue. He could, but Niall would win, and honestly? He is obsessed. How could he not be? Harry’s just so much. Even from across the field, he glows. There’s something effortless about him—like the universe handed him charm and forgot to ration it. He’s the kind of person who makes you believe in main characters, in fate, in long glances that mean something.

Louis sighs dramatically and flops back on the grass, blinking up at the sky. A cloud floats lazily overhead, and he imagines what it’d be like to float too—just drift right over to Harry and land perfectly in his orbit.

“You don’t even know him,” Niall says, softer now, like maybe he’s giving Louis a chance to talk himself down. “You’ve never even had a conversation.”

“Not true,” Louis says, one hand in the air like he’s making a point in a courtroom. “Once he asked if the teacher had handed out the homework yet. I said no. He said cool. That’s practically a meet-cute.”

Niall snorts a laugh. “Yeah, straight out of a rom-com.”

“It was, actually. I said no in a really charming way. Very mysterious.”

“And then you tripped on your bag and almost took down a desk.”

“Tragic hero,” Louis says, nodding solemnly. “Very on brand.”

They both fall quiet for a minute. The sun is warm on his skin. The scent of freshly cut grass mixes with the faint tang of sweat from the field.

Louis sits up his hands digging under the turf and at the dirt and mulch, gaze drifting back to Harry. He’s stopped running now, hands on his hips, shirt sticking to his back. He’s laughing at something Zayn said, his head tilted back, curls bouncing a little. It’s not fair, really. He’s not just attractive—he’s charming. Warm. Magnetic.

“Why do you love him, anyway?” Niall asks, casual in tone but curious, the kind of question that sounds harmless until it knocks the wind out of you. Louis shoots him a sharp look, but Niall only lifts his hands and adds air quotes around the word, “Love.”

Sometimes, Louis wishes it was just a crush. Something fleeting and surface-level. But this—this feels like something he never chose. Like gravity. Like the pull of the tide. Like the world tilting, just slightly, in Harry’s direction.

Louis exhales, the sound somewhere between a scoff and a sigh, his cheeks tinting pink as if the word itself is too intimate to hold in his mouth for long.

“What’s not to love?” he says, voice quieter now, like the truth tastes different when it’s said out loud. “His laugh—it’s just... it’s real. Unfiltered. Like he’s never once thought to hide it. Like joy just lives in him.” Louis pauses, eyes drifting somewhere far away, like he’s picturing the sound. “And the way he walks into a room like he belongs there. That confidence—it’s not cocky, it’s... fearless. Like he knows who he is, and he’s not afraid to take up space.” He laughs softly, eyes flickering back to Niall. “And his curls—God, I think I’m obsessed. The way they fall into his eyes when he’s not paying attention. And how he hums in class when he’s thinking. Just this soft little tune under his breath, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.” Louis bites the inside of his cheek, hesitating. “And he’s brilliant. Not just book smart—though, yeah, I think he’s got a hundred in every subject—but sharp. Quick. Like he sees the world differently.”

Niall watches him, nodding slowly like he’s processing all of it. “Okay,” he says, voice gentle now. “So what’s stopping you from talking to him?”

Louis doesn’t answer right away. His fingers twitch against the seam of his pants, and his throat works around the words before they land.

Louis looks down, blinking hard. “Because we’re both boys.” The words land heavy, heavier than maybe he expected. “And sometimes I wonder if that means I’m not supposed to want what I want. Even if it feels like I was made to love him.”

Niall’s expression softens. He sets his notes aside, brushing grass off his lap. “Louis—”

“No, I mean it,” Louis says, voice low, rough with honesty. “I’ve liked other boys before, but this feels different. It’s not just a crush. It’s like… every time I look at him, something shifts. Like the world tilts a little and suddenly he’s the only thing in focus.”

He glances back toward the field, Harry’s running the lap, curls damp with sweat. “He laughs and the air feels lighter. He runs and I forget how to breathe. It’s stupid, I know. I don’t even know him, not really. But I feel like if he looked at me—really looked at me—I’d fall apart.”

Niall doesn’t answer right away. He just watches Louis with a kind of quiet understanding, the kind that only comes from years of friendship and witnessing someone’s heart break in slow motion.

“You’re not stupid,” he says finally. “You’re just human. And maybe a bit dramatic.”

Louis smiles faintly. “It’s in my blood.”

Niall nudges him gently with his knee. “Look, I can’t promise anything. But I know you. And if someone gave me the choice to fall for you? I’d be gone in a second.”

Louis snorts, blinking back the sting behind his eyes. “Careful, Horan. That almost sounded sincere.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Niall mutters, already picking his notes back up.

But Louis doesn’t go back to studying. He stays quiet, the breeze tugging gently at his hair, and wonders if maybe—just maybe—he’ll be brave enough to speak the next time Harry does.

“D’you think,” Louis starts, quietly now, like the words are fragile, “if I talked to him—like really talked to him—he’d like me?”

Niall looks up from his notes, brows raised. “Yeah, Lou. I think if he knew you, he’d like you.”

Louis smiles, a small, hopeful thing. “But,” Niall starts again flickering his pencil between his fingers, “That’s means you would have to actually talk to the lad.”

Louis stays silent unsure what to say. He wants to talk to Harry it’s unbelievable now much he’s thought of scenarios in his head of conversations he and the boy could share. But, he gets this sour taste in his throat, his chest drums like a frog trying to escape from his heart, and his palms get clammy and uncomfortable.

“I’m hopelessly in love.” Louis whines with a drama affect, falling back on the ground his back meeting the grass with a thump. Niall however acts unbothered as he looks up from where he was highlighting.

Niall just shakes his head, amused. “You’re hopeless, full stop.”

Louis groans, throwing an arm dramatically over his eyes like some Shakespearean protagonist on the verge of death. “Don’t be surprised when I wither away from unrequited love. You’ll have to tell my story. Make it tragic and poetic.”

“I’ll put it in your eulogy,” Niall says dryly. “Here lies Louis Tomlinson—victim of his own feelings and one beautiful boy in sweatpants.”

Louis huffs out a laugh despite himself. “He’d probably look good at my funeral too.”

Louis turns his head slightly his hand falling from where it was shielding his eyes. His eyes instinctively land back on Harry, the boy something he’s good at pointing out in a crowd.

He’s grinning, maybe laughing; hard to officially say being so far away. Zayn’s on the other side of him must be showing Harry something on his phone because the screen is tilted to the boy. Harry’s smile is Louis’ favorite kind of peace. Louis wants to know what he’s laughing at. Wants to be the reason he laughs like that.

“I’ll talk to him.” Louis declares looking sideways to Niall who is already meeting his eyes with a questioning raise of the eyebrow.

“You’ll what now?” Niall asks, like he’s making sure he heard right and also secretly checking if Louis has gone completely mad.

“I’ll talk to him,” Louis repeats, firmer this time, sitting up straighter like the words themselves are giving him a spine. “Not right now, but I will. Eventually. I’ll find a way.”

Niall stares at him for a beat, then slowly nods. “Alright. I support this plan. Even if your version of ‘eventually’ means sometime before we graduate and die of student loan debt.”

“Maybe sooner if I spontaneously develop charisma,” Louis says with a smirk, brushing grass from his hands. “Or if I catch him in a hallway and have a stroke of confidence.”

“Or a stroke.”

Louis snorts. “Both feel equally likely, honestly.”

Niall laughs, Louis weighs his odds. He’s a confident person, he would say. He can talk to anyone, do anything really for a sake of a dare. But then is comes to Harry and he feels like his spontaneous figure is to much. Too loud, too reckless, for someone like Harry.

“Oi, guys!” Louis doesn’t have to look up to know Liam’s voice that’s coming from behind them.

“Liam!” Niall echos patting a spot on the grass for the boy to sit. Liam follows Niall’s direction sitting crossed on the ground.

“Louis you forgot your blazer in Mr. Halts.” Liam says brushing off any glass that happened to fly on his pants. “The Dean is going to have your ass if she see you without it.”

Louis groans, tipping his head back like the sky might offer a reprieve. “Of course I did. I was too busy wallowing in my own doomed love story to remember basic school protocol.”

Niall snickers. “You’re lucky you haven’t gotten pulled into her office, it’s like your tenth time.

“More like 30th,” Liam says, stretching out his legs and letting the sun hit his face. “So what’s the drama today?”

Niall doesn’t miss a beat. “Same as always. Louis is tragically in love with someone who doesn’t know his name.”

Liam raises an eyebrow. “Still Harry?”

Louis lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a sigh and a whine. “Don’t say it like that. It’s not still Harry. It’s always Harry. Like the moon and tides, like tragic poetry and rainy windows.”

Liam blinks slowly. “Right. And what are we doing about this timeless romance?”

“Apparently,” Niall cuts in, “he’s going to talk to him. Someday. Maybe. When the stars align, and flying pigs are something common.”

Louis glares. “I said eventually, okay? I’m building up to it.”

Liam nods with faux seriousness. “Do you want us to stage an accidental hallway collision? Or maybe a group project switch? I could bribe the admin.”

“I don’t want to come off as desperate,” Louis says, and then, after a pause, “Even though I absolutely am.”

Liam laughs, the kind that makes people nearby glance over. “He’s literally just a guy, Lou. Charming, yes. Beautiful, fine. But just a guy. You talk to him like he’s made of daylight.”

Louis chews on his bottom lip. “That’s because he is.”

Niall chuckles, but there’s no mockery in it. Just that same quiet understanding he always has when Louis gets like this—tender, raw, and a little too open.

Liam leans back on his elbows. “Well, if you’re going to talk to him, you should at least have a plan. Not a weird one. A normal, human plan. What would you say?”

Louis hesitates. “I don’t know. I can’t just walk up and say, ‘Hi, I’ve imagined what your laugh would sound like pressed against my neck.’”

“Definitely not that,” Niall mutters. “That’s how you get a restraining order.”

“I’m doomed,” Louis declares, flopping back on the grass again. “It’s fine. I’ll just pine forever. Maybe he’ll fall in love with me from afar. It’s romantic. Like Jane Austen but gayer.”

Niall flips a page in his notebook, eyes still on Louis. “Okay, but seriously. What would you say? You don’t have to profess your love or anything. Just… start with a hello. Ask about class. Maybe insult the homework. That’s your brand, isn’t it?”

“I do have a charming way of being slightly insufferable,” Louis says, rubbing a hand over his face. “That could work.”

“Start with what you know,” Liam offers. “You have spoken to him. Barely, but still. Build on that. Ask about the assignment. Or say you didn’t get it and see if he’ll help.”

Niall grins. “Lure him in with academic distress. Classic seduction technique.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I can’t decide if this is solid advice or a rom-com in the making.”

“Why not both?” Liam shrugs. “Life’s better when it feels like a movie sometimes.”

Niall hums. “Besides, even if he doesn’t know it yet… you’ve already written him the first half of a love story.”

Louis opens his eyes and smiles faintly at the sky. Yeah. Maybe he has.

Now all that’s left is giving Harry the chance to write the rest.

“Tomlinson!”

Louis’ head jerks toward the voice like he’s just been caught red-handed smuggling fireworks under his blazer. The way Ms. Clark says his name—sharp and scathing—makes it sound like the entire Tomlinson family personally insulted her in a past life.

“Shit,” Louis mutters under his breath, just as the dean barrels toward him with the kind of determination he wishes some of his teammates would show on the pitch. She's got a clipboard in one hand and judgment in the other, and neither looks friendly.

“Boys,” she barks, heels clicking to a stop in front of their haphazard little circle.

“What can I offer the pleasure, Ms. Clark?” Louis flashes a grin so forced it might as well be stapled to his face.

Niall slaps the back of his head. “Are you trying to die?”

But the damage is already done. Ms. Clark’s eyes narrow like she’s deciding between detention and public execution.

“Louis, I need to see you in my office. Now,” she says, which is phrased like a question but absolutely isn’t. “Also—where’s your blazer?”

“He got dirt on it,” Liam jumps in smoothly, voice calm like he’s been preparing for this moment. “I had some cleaner in my bag. He gave it to me to fix, and I forgot to return it. My bad.”

Ms. Clark eyes them suspiciously, probably ranking their excuses on a scale of ‘mildly unbelievable’ to ‘complete bull.’ Finally, she nods. “Fine. Make sure he gets it back. You two—class. Now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Liam and Niall chorus like a pair of boy scouts caught in the wrong campsite, gathering their things and booking it.

That leaves Louis alone with the dean. He swallows hard.

Ms. Clark gestures for him to follow with the kind of stiff, controlled motion that screams I would rather be doing literally anything else. And honestly, same.

Ms. Clark doesn’t speak as they walk, which is somehow worse than if she were lecturing him. Her silence is crisp. Tactical. It carries the weight of all the admin emails she hasn’t sent yet but fully intends to.

By the time they reach the admin building, Louis is rehearsing possible outcomes: detention, a warning, community service, expulsion, public flogging. Honestly, anything feels possible under Ms. Clark’s watchful gaze.

They enter the office—though office is generous. To Louis, it’s more of a dungeon. Dim lighting, motivational posters that feel more threatening than encouraging, and the distinct scent of stale coffee and administrative disappointment. Honestly, he’s been in here so many times he should be getting mail. Maybe paying rent. Maybe installing curtains.

“Sit,” Ms. Clark says, pointing to the vinyl chair across from her desk like it's an electric one.

Louis obeys, collapsing into the seat that squeaks in betrayal. It’s the kind of chair designed to make you confess to crimes you haven’t even committed yet. He tries to adopt a look of wide-eyed innocence.

Ms. Clark doesn’t sit. Instead, she looms—arms folded, one hand pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s already ten seconds into a stress headache. She doesn’t speak immediately, which is even worse. She just stares at him with the tired eyes of a woman who’s seen too much teenage nonsense in her career and knows Louis by name, face, and student ID number by heart.

Finally, she says, “Louis, would you care to explain why Professor Jacobs is telling me you gave him the bird in class?”

Louis blinks. “The bird?” he repeats, like it’s a species he’s unfamiliar with.

Ms. Clark doesn’t blink. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not playing. I’m naturally gifted.”

Her nostrils flare. Dangerously.

Louis clears his throat, sitting up straighter like posture might win him points. “Okay, in my defense, it wasn’t at him. It was… near him.”

Her eyebrows rise like twin threats. “Near him?”

“It was meant for Liam. He said something about how my handwriting looks like a haunted chicken’s. I panicked. My hand just—reacted. Unfortunately, Professor Jacobs was, um, in the line of fire.”

Ms. Clark stares.

Louis continues. “Also, to be fair, it was the British bird. Two fingers. So, technically, it’s cultural. Educational, even.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just try to justify flipping off a professor on cultural grounds.”

“I’m just saying—if we were in America, it’d be worse.”

She leans back slightly, blinking like she’s trying to imagine a world where Louis isn’t her problem. No luck. “Louis, I swear, you’re going to give me grey hairs.”

“Silver,” he offers. “Silver sounds more glamorous.”

She exhales slowly, like she’s counting to ten in her head. “This is the third complaint from a teacher this month. And that’s not counting the hallway incident with the rogue glitter balloon.”

Louis winces. “That one was my fault. But it was also Niall’s idea. He just has a very persuasive face.”

“Louis.”

He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. Her face falls into something more soft, that scawl she reserves for Louis is gone.

“The administration wants to take some more advanced discipline actions.”

Louis heart stops. “Are you kicking me out? My mom would beat the shit out of me. I have friends here?”

“That was an option.” She says nodding.

Louis shifts in his seat, all the earlier bravado bleeding out. “So… what kind of ‘advanced discipline’ are we talking about? Like… essay writing? Or are we in ‘reform school and ironic orange jumpsuits’ territory?”

Ms. Clark sighs and leans forward, her voice dropping into something quieter, more serious. “They’re talking about probation. Behavioral reports. Weekly check-ins. That kind of thing.”

Louis bites his lip. “Weekly check-ins with who? You?”

“No,” she says, and that little smile she’s been suppressing finally escapes. “I’m not your babysitter, Louis. Though God knows I’ve earned hazard pay by now.”

“Then who?”

There’s a pause. It stretches. Suspiciously.

Ms. Clark clears her throat. “They’re piloting a new mentorship program. The idea is to pair students with peers—responsible ones—who can model better habits and help with accountability.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “Are you saying I need a role model?”

“I’m saying,” she replies patiently, “that you need someone who can keep you from flipping off professors during class discussions.”

Louis folds his arms. “You can’t punish me with someone boring.”

“He’s not boring.”

That raises an eyebrow. “He?”

“The school is pairing boys together and girls together, to prevent… sexual provoking.” She adds.

Louis blinks. “Sexual provoking? What are we, Greco-Roman sculptures?”

Ms. Clark gives him a look that says I could still recommend expulsion.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’ll behave. But you’ve gotta admit, that’s a weird way to phrase it.”

“Tell it to the board,” she mutters, shuffling through her paperwork. “Now, as I was saying—your mentor is someone who knows how to stay out of trouble. Focused. Quiet.”

Louis rolls his eyes , “Do I get to know who he is at least.”

“Do you think I’m dumb?” She asks, “You’ll be trying to talk him out of it all day if I tell you now.”

Louis groans, “Do I get a hint?”

She shrugs. “He volunteered for the program. I asked him if he’d be willing to take someone a bit… spirited.”

“And he said yes?”

“He smiled,” she says. “Said, ‘Sure. I like a bit of spirit.’”

Louis stares at her like she’s just told him he’s been signed up for a reality show called Reform or Die.

“He smiled?” he repeats, horror dawning. “Ms. Clark, I don’t know anyone who smiles in the face of ‘a bit of spirit.’ That’s serial killer energy.”

She raises a brow. “You’re projecting.”

“No, I’m panicking,” Louis says, flailing slightly. “Which is very on brand for me, thanks. Did you tell him it was me he’d be mentoring?”

“I said you were enthusiastic,” she says, scribbling something onto a form. “Creative. Loud. Occasionally misguided.”

He gives her a look. “That’s a lot of polite words for ‘he’s a walking fire drill.’”

“I’m trying a new thing where I don’t insult students directly.”

“Well, you’re doing amazing, sweetie,” Louis says, and then groans dramatically. “God. I’m gonna get mentored to death, aren’t I?”

Ms. Clark doesn’t answer. She just smirks, like she knows something he doesn’t—and frankly, she probably does.

She slides the form into a folder and looks up, unbothered. “He said he’d do it anyway. That he thought it might be fun.”

“Fun?” Louis echoes, slumping back like the word itself wounded him. “I’m not fun, I’m exhausting. I’m the reason teachers take early retirement.”

“You’re also capable of a lot more than you give yourself credit for,” she says quietly, and Louis freezes—not used to that tone from her, that strange warmth beneath the exasperation.

Then she ruins it by adding, “Which is why I want to try something that might actually work. Because detention clearly hasn’t.”

Louis lets out a dramatic sigh. “So when do I meet my poor, unsuspecting babysitter?”

“Tomorrow,” she says, standing and walking to the door like the meeting’s done. “After school. Third floor library. Quiet section.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “That sounds suspiciously like a location where no one can hear me scream.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she replies, already half out the door. “It’s public. There are witnesses.”

Louis rises, dragging his feet like he’s walking to the gallows. “What if we don’t vibe? What if he’s allergic to sarcasm? What if he knows about the glitter balloon?”

“Then you’ll learn what it’s like to have a healthy, functional adult conversation,” she says, deadpan. “What a tragedy that would be.”

He gasps. “You’re enjoying this. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I get so few wins, Louis.”

He rolls his eyes hard enough to sprain something. “This is bull—”

“I would stop speaking if I were you.”

The words are calm. Even. Almost gentle. But Louis snaps his mouth shut like she just hit him with a tranquilizer dart.

There’s a beat of silence before he mumbles, “This feels like entrapment.”

She simply pats the doorframe on her way out. “Growth opportunity,” she calls back, disappearing down the hall.

Louis groans into the ceiling tiles. “I knew the glitter balloon would come back to haunt me.”

“Oh, Tomlinson.” Ms.Clark echoes down the hall. “You better thank him, he’s the reason why you’re not being kick out.”

————

“A mentor?” Liam scoffs. “Sounds like when we used to need bathroom buddies in primary. You want me to walk you there, too? Hold your hand?”

“Not helping, mate,” Louis groans, poking at the cold slab of school pizza like it’s personally offended him. He takes a begrudging bite anyway, chewing like it's punishment.

Niall drains the last of his orange juice with a loud slurp, then wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “So when do you meet this mysterious role model of yours? Tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Louis mutters. “Quiet section of the library. Very hush-hush. Very horror movie opening scene.”

Liam raises a brow. “The library? That’s… honestly more terrifying than the idea of a mentor. Isn’t that where the lights flicker even when it’s sunny out?”

“Exactly,” Louis says, pointing his pizza slice like it’s Exhibit A. “If I don’t show up to the game Friday, assume the worst. I’ve been murdered. Or worse—motivated.”

Niall snickers. “You think he’s gonna have, like, a clipboard and a motivational poster tattooed on his arm?”

“If he tries to make me do breathing exercises, I’m out,” Louis warns. “Straight-up sprinting out the fire exit. I don’t care if the alarm goes off.”

Liam leans back in his chair, studying him. “You nervous?”

“No,” Louis says instantly. Then: “Yes. Obviously. What if he’s one of those people who speaks in affirmations and drinks green juice? What if he calls me buddy unironically?”

“You do need someone to hold you accountable,” Liam points out, not unkindly.

Louis sighs. “I know. But like… can’t I get someone cool? Like—detention cool. ‘Smoked behind the gym once’ cool.”

“You want to be mentored by a delinquent?”

“I want to be mentored by someone who won’t report me for my natural charm,” Louis mutters.

Niall grins. “I hope he’s posh.”

Louis pales. “If he says the word ‘banter’ like it’s currency, I swear to God…”

Behind the laughter, Louis is passing out under tough skin. He’s not used to being the one who needs help. Not like this.

Liam must sense it, because he nudges Louis’ foot under the table. “Hey. Could be good, yeah? Maybe he won’t be a complete wanker.”

“I hope so.” He says but it comes or off as a whisper.
——-

Louis held the paper like it might bite him.

His new schedule. Printed in a cheerful sans-serif font, like that made it any less dystopian. It listed his mandatory “mentorship sessions” every Tuesday and Thursday—conveniently slotted around football practice, because apparently his academic redemption needed to be athletically considerate. And then there were the weekly check-ins with Ms. Clark, like he was back in Year 4 and needed a gold star for remembering to bring his PE kit.

He sighed dramatically, tempted to crumple the paper right there in the hallway. Instead, he folded it with all the precision of someone bottling a tantrum and shoved it into his back pocket like it might spontaneously combust.

The library was next.

Which was hilarious, considering Louis had only ever seen it from a safe distance—like a dangerous animal you’re vaguely aware of but never plan to interact with. He’d never had much reason to go in. His homework-to-improvisation ratio was already alarmingly skewed, and honestly, most of his studying happened with a textbook cracked open at Niall’s kitchen table and The Great British Bake Off playing in the background.

But now? Now he was being mentored. Like a lost cause. Like an at-risk youth in one of those school documentaries with sad piano music and meaningful glances.

He asked for directions three times on the way, because apparently the “quiet section” was located somewhere just south of Narnia. One upperclassman helpfully pointed him past a row of fake plants and muttered something about “the monks’ corner.” Another warned him not to chew too loudly if he valued his life.

“Are there cameras?” Louis asked one girl behind the front desk.

She blinked. “Um. What?”

“In the library. Cameras. Surveillance. Hidden mics. Like, am I being watched?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why? What are you planning?”

“Nothing,” Louis said far too quickly. “Just wondering if I can mouth ‘help’ to one, so I could live another day.”

By the time he finally reached the quiet section, he was already regretting every life decision that had led him to this moment. The rows of tall shelves loomed like judgment. The air smelled like old paper and anxiety. And everyone looked so focused. It was unnatural.

Sitting at a table like some ethereal academic daydream, drawing lazy circles on a notebook with the end of his pen. His curls fall artfully over his eyes—his green eyes, because of course they’re green. Of course they sparkle in the sun like some bloody YA protagonist.

Louis stops in his tracks.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he whispers, not loud enough for the librarian to shush him but loud enough for the universe to hear his complaint.

His legs betray him, moving him forward despite the fact that every cell in his body is currently screaming abort mission.His heart skips once, then twice, like it’s trying to tap out a distress signal. His cheeks are on fire. The back of his neck is basically a hot plate. He probably looks like he just ran a mile or committed a felony. Or both.

Harry looks up. His face softens immediately.

“Louis,” he says, and that alone nearly undoes him. Like Harry’s been waiting to say it. Like the name is something worth saying slowly, something worth keeping.

Their eyes lock, and Louis forgets how standing works. He just… exists there. Awkward and flustered and not even pretending he knows what to do with his limbs.

Then Harry smiles.

He smiles.

And the Earth doesn’t just tilt on its axis—it practically somersaults.

Harry lets out a quiet, amused laugh, eyes still fixed on him. “You alright? I promise I’m not that bad.”

Louis blinks like he’s rebooting. “Eh—yeah. Yeah—I’m fine.” He sets his bag down with more force than necessary, like it’ll distract from the fact that his soul is currently peeling itself off the floor. Then he gestures vaguely behind him, toward safety. “Mind if I take a call real quick?”

Harry shakes his head easily. “No, not at all. Just don’t leave me alone too long.”

Harry’s grin doesn’t falter, and his eyes don’t stray for a second. They’re still on Louis. Watching him like he’s something worth watching.

“I’ll be right back,” Louis mumbles, already walking away, smile blooming helplessly on his lips. He leaves out the part where his heart is currently a puddle. Or that he might never recover.

Louis ducks into an empty aisle between the geography and ancient civilizations sections, presses his phone to his ear, and hits Liam’s name like it’s an emergency contact.

Liam picks up on the third ring, voice already suspicious. “Yes?”

Niall’s voice pipes up in the background like an excited sidekick. “Either Harry looked at him or he’s in trouble.”

“Are you two hanging out without me?” Louis asks, appalled.

“We knew you’d call,” Liam replies smoothly. “So what’s a better way to deal with your emotional chaos than teamwork?”

“Whatever,” Louis hisses, voice sharp with panic. “Guess who my mentor is. Go on. Guess.”

A beat.

“It’s Harry, innit?” Liam says flatly.

Niall, on the other hand, reacts like he’s just been cast in a soap opera. “Harry? As in the Harry? The boy Louis has been hopelessly in love with since like, orientation? That Harry?!”
“Yes, that Harry,” Liam deadpans.

Louis slumps against a bookshelf like it’s the only thing keeping him from sliding into a puddle. “He smiled at me.”

“That’s what people do when they want to seem friendly,” Niall says, entirely unhelpful.

Louis lightly thumps his head against the shelf. “I cannot do this twice a week. He’s beautiful, Niall. It’s criminal. He was just… sat there. Like some scholarly Greek god. All curls and sunshine and—get this—‘Don’t leave me alone too long.’ Who says that? Who just casually says that?”

“Someone into you,” Niall says cheerfully, zero subtlety in sight.

Louis freezes. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying,” Niall continues, already winding up. “He said ‘don’t leave me alone too long,’ Louis. That’s either code for ‘I’d kiss you if you gave me five uninterrupted minutes’ or—”

Liam cuts in, dry as toast. “Or ‘I’m bored and you’re the only entertainment this school assigned me.’ Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Guys,” Louis deadpans. “Whether he’s flirting or not, Liam said it himself—he’s daylight. He’s, like, an actual beam of sunlight. And I’m just…”

“Golden,” Niall interrupts, dreamy. “Wait, that’s actually kinda poetic. Harry’s daylight and you’re golden. Louis, write that down.”

“I’m blocking you.”

“Ignore him,” Liam says firmly. “Fix your hair, stand up straight, and go make a good impression. Just be you, Louis. He’s already smiling at that.”

Louis exhales, loud and shaky. “I hate how helpful you’re being.”

“You’re welcome,” they say in stereo.

Louis hangs up and takes a moment to recalibrate. He pats down his hair, adjusts his shirt like that’ll somehow realign his personality, and gives himself a half-hearted pep talk in the reflection of a geography textbook.

Then he spins on his heel and walks back toward the table like a man returning to war. Which, in a way, he is.

Harry looks up as he approaches—still smiling, still sunshine—and Louis nearly trips over absolutely nothing.

“There you are,” Harry says, like he actually missed him. He’s leaned back in his chair now, all casual elegance, thumb flicking over the edge of a highlighter like he’s starring in a stationery-themed cologne ad. “Everything alright?”

Louis swallows the noise his heart makes. “Fine,” he says, voice cracking like he’s just hit puberty again on national television. “Peachy. Normal call. Very average. No emergencies. Just… phone things.”

Harry raises an amused eyebrow. “Phone things?”

Louis panics in real-time. “Yeah. Phones. You know, they ring. Sometimes people answer. Sometimes they don’t. That one? I answered it. Successfully. Like a pro.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Harry chuckles—really chuckles—full and delighted, like Louis has just told a joke instead of accidentally confessed to being a human disaster.

Louis wants to die. Or kiss him. Or be launched into space. He’s not picky.

“Good to know you’ve mastered the art of answering calls,” Harry says, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh again. “You’d be surprised how many people struggle with that. Real modern tragedy.”

Louis tries to laugh but it comes out like a cough. He sits down too fast and accidentally knocks over a pen. It rolls off the table, hits his shoe, and keeps going.

Harry reaches down, picks it up, and hands it back to him—fingers brushing, eyes still doing that thing where they make Louis feel like he’s glowing and imploding at the same time.

“You okay?” Harry asks, but this time it’s quieter. Gentler.

“Yeah,” Louis croaks. Very convincingly. Like someone who is definitely not actively melting from the inside out.

“Right.” Harry smiles again, a little softer now. “I won’t judge, you know. This doesn’t have to be weird. We could… play a game? If that’d help make things less awkward?”

Louis blinks. A game. Harry wants to play a game. Louis is 87% sure he’s not emotionally stable enough for that.

“A game?” he echoes, tone halfway between curiosity and cardiac arrest.

Harry nods, scooting his notes aside like they’ve personally offended him. “Yeah, you know—Twenty Questions, Two Truths and a Lie, Truth or Dare if we’re feeling dangerous. I mean, I won’t dare you to streak through the reference section. Probably.”

Louis swallows. Loudly. “Sure,” he says, like he’s not internally combusting at the image of Harry saying if we’re feeling dangerous.

“Alright,” Harry says, clearly pleased. “Let’s do Two Truths and a Lie. Classic. Safe.”

He leans in a little, eyes gleaming now—like Louis is a puzzle he’s dying to solve. And maybe that’s what finally tips him over, what makes his brain stop issuing basic instructions like breathe normally and don’t look directly at the sun without emotional sunscreen.

Because that’s what Harry is, really. Some kind of gentle, chaotic sun, and Louis? Louis is standing here with zero SPF and a rapidly melting emotional support smoothie.

“Okay,” Louis says weakly. “Hit me.”

“Not literally,” Harry adds, grinning.

Louis grins back before he can stop himself.

———-

“He cried over Home?” Niall gasps, scandalized in the most Niall way possible as he shovels a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Mate, that’s tragic... and kind of adorable.”

“He made me promise not to tell anyone,” Louis says, eyes wide with mock seriousness. Then he grins and shrugs. “But come on. That’s way too precious to keep to myself.”

“So wait,” Liam calls from the kitchen, where he’s clinking around with mugs and the kettle. “You two just played a game the whole time? Sounds like Harry needs a mentor just to mentor you.”

“Yeah, basically,” Louis mutters, ears flushing that particular shade of pink that only shows up when Harry’s involved. “He’s just—he’s so easy to talk to. It’s terrifying.”

He throws himself back against the couch, groaning dramatically and holding up his hands like they’ve betrayed him. “I swear to God, I forget how to function around him. Like, I’ll go to say something normal and suddenly I don’t remember how much syllables are in the word cat.”

“So actually talking to Harry, didn’t change how you feel for him?” Liam asks, handing out mugs of tea like it’s halloween.

Louis takes the mug, cradling it like it might ground him. “Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. Then he smiles, and it’s stupidly soft in a way that makes both Niall and Liam pause. “Still hopelessly in love.”

There’s a beat. Then Louis shrugs, looking down at the tea like it might hide the stupid grin tugging at his mouth. “Well—maybe slightly less hopeless now. I mean, I actually sat down with him. I got to see the way he talks with his hands when he’s excited, and how his eyes do this thing—like, they go all sparkly when he’s into something. It's criminal.”

Niall hums, wiggling his eyebrows. “You’re in so deep. Like, shovel-required deep.”

“Mate, I’m halfway to Australia,” Louis says with a sigh, blowing on his tea. “And he smiled at me like I hung the damn moon.”

“Right,” Liam says, flopping into the armchair. “So we’re in the spiraling-but-cute phase.”

“The most dangerous phase,” Niall agrees. “No one’s safe.”

Liam puts on a movie, as they all snuggle into Niall’s couch like it’s going to eat them whole.

———-

The same cycle repeats like clockwork—tragic, hormonal clockwork. Louis shuffles into the library with the grace of a man approaching a crime scene. He doesn’t bother scanning the ceiling for cameras this time; Ms. Clark has already made it abundantly clear that Big Brother isn't watching—she is.

He winds his way past the rows of bookshelves, the familiar path burned into his brain at this point, and makes his way to the so-called quiet section. Which, as he’s now come to realize, is quiet in the same way a volcano is resting.

There, at the same table in the same chair—like some kind of celestial alignment that only happens when the universe is both mocking and gifting him—is Harry.

He’s slouched slightly, curls a bit messier than usual, one hand holding a pen while his eyes are shut,over a page he’s clearly fell asleep reading. He doesn’t even flinch when Louis drops his bag onto the floor and slides into the seat across from him.

“Sleepyhead?” Louis calls, voice pitched just loud enough to be teasing but not enough to earn a librarian’s wrath.

No response.

Harry’s still there, perfectly peaceful, chin tilted slightly down like the weight of the world—or at least biology—finally caught up with him mid-sentence. His curls are falling into his eyes, and his pen is dangling precariously from his fingers like it might tumble at any second and ruin the serenity of the scene.

Louis leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and propping his chin in his hands. He studies him for a second. This is how people fall in love harder. Deeper. Stupider.

“You’re asleep in a library,” Louis murmurs. “You’re a walking Tumblr post.”

Still nothing.

He could wake him up. He should wake him up. But there’s something about the sight in front of him that makes his chest go all soft and warm, like a microwaveable heat pack of feelings he definitely wasn’t prepared for.

Louis glances around—just to be sure no one’s watching—then very gently nudges the toe of Harry’s shoe with his own under the table.

Harry stirs with a soft, sleepy noise, brows twitching. Then, slowly, he blinks one eye open, squinting like he’s just been transported back into the mortal realm.

“Oh,” he breathes, voice still rough with sleep. “Hey.”

Louis grins. “Hi, Sleeping Beauty.”

Harry sits up straighter, dragging a hand down his face. “I wasn’t asleep.”

Louis hums. “Right. Just conducting an intense internal meditation on page thirty-four of our textbook.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry shoots back, blinking blearily at him. “You woke me up just to bully me?”

“Please,” Louis says. “If I wanted to bully you, I’d mention that you drool.”

Harry immediately lifts a hand to his mouth, eyes wide in horror.

Louis grins. “You don’t. But the panic was worth it.”

Harry groans and drops his head onto the table, face buried in the crook of his arm.

Louis watches him for a second, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. “You know, most people come to the library to study, not take a power nap.”

“M’studying osmosis,” Harry mumbles into the sleeve of his jumper. “Through osmosis.”

Louis snorts. “That’s not how it works, Einstein.”

Harry sits up, stretching his arms above his head with a groan that should not be allowed in public. His jumper rides up just a sliver, and Louis immediately forgets how words work.

“Alright fine.” Harry leans forward, resting his chin on his hand, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“so how is this supposed to work? Do you slap me with a ruler when I curse or, are you just a tutor?” Louis asks, matching the amusement.

Harry grins, “I keep you out of trouble, make sure your grades don’t slip too much.”

“Does being friendly a part of it?”

“No, you’re just lucky.” Harry hums, like that one sentence didn’t just make Louis feel like he could levitate.

Louis swallows, suddenly very aware of the fact that Harry is leaning forward, elbow on the table, chin in hand, looking at him like he’s genuinely interested in what comes out of Louis’ mouth next. Which is, frankly, dangerous. Because Louis’ brain is currently running on one working neuron and that neuron is screaming: kiss him, you coward.

He clears his throat. “Right. Lucky. That’s me. Born under a blessed star. The patron saint of undeserved kindness.”

Harry lets out a quiet laugh, and Louis hates how it makes his stomach do a little somersault.

“So, you want to go over notes?” Harry offers, and Louis just groans, but his smile is undeniable.

———-

“You’re fine,” Ms. Clark groans, not even looking up from her stack of grading, her pen still scribbling like she’s on a deadline for world peace.

“You don’t understand,” Louis insists, flailing into the nearest chair like a man betrayed by the universe. “You put me with Harry. Harry, Ms. Clark! I thought you said—and I quote—you were trying to prevent ‘sexual stuff.’” He even adds air quotes for dramatic effect, because of course he does.

She finally lifts her gaze just enough to shoot him a withering stare. “I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just say that.”

Louis groans and drops his head into his hands. “I’m going to combust. I’m going to actually, medically combust.”

There’s a beat of silence before she sighs and sets her pen down like this conversation physically pains her. “Harry’s the only one you’ll listen to.”

“That's not true,” Louis mumbles into his palms.

She ignores him. “And if you want to stay at this school, I strongly suggest you continue listening to him. Because if it’s not Harry tutoring you, it’s Kyle Simmons. And Kyle Simmons thinks mitochondria is a character from Star Wars.”

Louis lifts his head slowly, eyes wide with horror. “You wouldn’t.”

She nods once, stern. “Oh, I would. I have nothing left to lose, Tomlinson.”

“But, Miss—” he starts, desperate.

“And,” she cuts in, her tone sharpening to a point, “when Harry walks through that door to go over your weekly report, I highly recommend you keep your thoughts inside that hormonal brain of yours and your hormones firmly in your pants.”

Louis blinks. “That’s a bit aggressive.”

“I’m tired,” Ms. Clark deadpans. “I teach fifteen-year-olds who call cell division a ‘breakup arc.’ I’ve been through enough.”

As if summoned by name, the door creaks open.

And in walks Harry, wearing a cozy jumper, curls soft and cheeks pink from the cold.

Louis immediately forgets how to sit like a person.

Ms. Clark doesn’t look up. “Not a word, Louis.”

He just exhales, quietly and tragically, “I am so screwed.”

Harry walks into the room, a folder in his hands—the folder. The one that contains Louis’ academic fate. Or at the very least, a strongly worded plea to try harder.

“Hi, Louis,” Harry greets as he crosses the room, smiling like this isn’t the beginning of Louis’ educational funeral. He hands the folder over to Ms. Clark, who takes it without looking up from her computer.

“Thank you, darling. You can take a seat,” she says, flicking her wrist toward the empty chair beside Louis like she’s been orchestrating this setup from day one.

Harry does as he’s told, the vinyl chair letting out a loud, embarrassing squeak as he settles into it. Louis tries not to wince at the sound—tries not to wince at anything really, because Harry’s suddenly very close, smelling like library books and whatever expensive shampoo Louis is too afraid to ask about.

Louis leans sideways into the small pocket of space between them, his voice low and conspiratorial. “I think she likes you more. If she ever called me ‘darling,’ I’d assume she’d been body-snatched.”

Harry chuckles, glancing sideways at him. “Maybe she’s just saving her pet names for people who remember to bring a pen to lessons.”

Louis gasps, dramatically clutching his chest. “Okay, that’s uncalled for. I brought a pen once.”

“A highlighter doesn’t count.”

“Rude,” Louis mutters, but he’s fighting a grin.

Ms. Clark finally looks up from her desk, glasses perched at the end of her nose. “Louis, you look like you’ve been behaving.” she says, looking at him.

“Thank you?” He shrugs.

“I’m happy with these results, but grades are still an issue. So, Ive emailed professor Jacobs-.”

“Oh no.” Louis whispers, Harry slaps a hand over his arm for interrupting.

Ms. Clark narrows her eyes like she’s deciding whether to ignore Louis or launch into a full monologue. Spoiler alert: it’s both.

“As I was saying before Mr. Dramatic Sigh over there interrupted,” she says, motioning vaguely toward Louis like she can’t be bothered to fully acknowledge his existence, “I’ve emailed Professor Jacobs about setting up an assignment that could get you passing.”

Louis lets out a noise that could reasonably be described as a dying animal.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she says dryly. “It’s not community service. It’s a paper, two pages long, about whatever you want. And he’s letting Harry assist you.” She turns away from Louis direction to give Harry a look. “If that’s fine with you, of course.”

Harry, ever the picture of calm composure, just nods, his expression softening like this whole ordeal is a normal Friday for him. “Of course. I’m happy to help.”

And just like that, Louis is officially spiraling.

Because sure, write a paper. Fine. Whatever. He can Google. But write a paper with Harry? Sit across from him in some tragically well-lit study room while Harry does his little head-tilt thing and taps his pen against his bottom lip while he thinks? That’s not academic help. That’s entrapment.

Ms. Clark pushes her chair back from the desk and stands up like she’s officially clocked out of this conversation. “You have a week. End of term, I want that paper printed and on my desk, not emailed, not 'accidentally left on the printer. Printed. Stapled. Spell-checked. Goodbye.”

And just like that, she sweeps out of the room like she’s on her way to terrify a hallway full of unsuspecting freshmen with nothing but a death glare and a clipboard.

“We won’t have time together until next week, and by then it’s past due, we could—” Harry gives a slow shrug, casual like it’s nothing, but his eyes flicker just a bit too long on Louis’. “You could come over? I know you’ve got football tonight, but maybe after, we could get a head start on it.”

He says it like it’s no big deal, like it's a simple invite for homework and not an arrow straight to Louis’ already chaotic heart.

Louis stares at him for a beat too long. Harry’s cheeks have gone a bit pink—either from the suggestion or from the way Louis is clearly malfunctioning.

“Yeah—um,” Louis exhales, like he forgot breathing was part of the job. “I can do that. But no promises that I won’t smell like death and turf and… aggressive masculinity.”

Harry laughs, bright and warm, and Louis thinks, unfair.

“You can take a shower at my place,” Harry says, still grinning. “If it’s that bad. I’ve got nice soap. Fancy, even.”

“Is that a trap?” Louis narrows his eyes. “Because offering a man nice soap after football feels dangerously close to seduction.”

Harry doesn’t miss a beat. “Then I guess I’ll pick a good playlist, too.”

Louis is definitely going mental now.
——-

“His house?! Lou…” Niall drags out, scandalized, as Louis laces up his cleats with what he hopes is the nonchalance of someone not about to have a full-body crisis.

“Yes, Niall, his house,” Louis mutters, tugging a bit too hard on the laces. “Not a spaceship. Not a love dungeon. Just a regular human house where people allegedly do homework.”

Niall flops down on the bench beside him, grinning like the Cheshire Cat if the Cheshire Cat had a thick Irish accent and a dangerous curiosity streak. “And maybe take a shower?”

Louis glares at him. “He offered. It was polite. He probably offers all his study partners access to his shower and soap and probably his shampoo, which probably smells like heaven because of course it does.”Niall’s eyebrows nearly leap off his forehead. “Did he say what kind of soap?”

“Oh my god, Niall.”

“I’m just saying, mate—there’s a difference between, like, normal soap and ‘this was a gift from my ex who studied aromatherapy abroad’ soap.” Niall hums.

Louis slaps the velcro strap on his shin guard with a bit more force than necessary. “It’s probably just soap. Like, Target soap. Shower gel. Boring soap.”

Niall gives him a long, slow look. “You don’t even believe that.”

“No,” Louis admits with a groan, letting his head thunk forward against the locker. “No, I don’t. I think it’s eucalyptus and sandalwood and I think his towels are plush and I think I’m going to die in his en-suite bathroom from sheer emotional implosion.”

“Take pictures.”

“Niall—”

“Of the towels! And the soap! For science!”

Louis lifts his head just enough to glare sideways. “You’re a menace.”

Niall grins. “And you, my friend, are being seduced by a boy with fancy soap and a smile that could ruin lives.”

Louis doesn’t even deny it. Just groans again and mutters, “Pray for me.”

Niall claps him on the back. “Already lit a candle.”

They walk on the pitch, the student section is filled with kids that have nothing better to do on a Friday night.

———-

Once Louis is finished peeling off his kit and dragging on his hoodie and sweats, the buzz of a solid win still thrums pleasantly in his chest. His muscles ache in that good, earned way, and the locker room is loud with teammates’ laughter, the hiss of showers, and the sharp crack of someone popping open a celebratory energy drink like they’ve just won the Premier League.

Louis rakes a towel over his head, still grinning to himself, when a small buzz vibrates from his bag. He freezes mid-mop, dropping the towel around his shoulders as he digs through the chaos of shin guards, socks, and his phone wedged between a banana and a half-crushed granola bar.

One new message.
Unknown number.

I thought I should give you my address, might be helpful. It’s Harry btw :)

Louis just stares for a second, thumb hovering, heart doing something deeply stupid in his chest. He should play it cool. Shouldn't immediately save the number like a teenager with a crush the size of the Eiffel Tower. Should definitely not be smiling this hard at an emoji.

The next buzz is an address. Harry’s address.

“You’re fucked.” Niall shoots over his shoulder.

Louis glares at him, shutting his phone off before shoving it’s away in his pocket. “Get a life.” His words don’t have any heat to them, Niall just laughs and moves along.

———

The walk to Harry’s is horrible.

Not just mildly inconvenient or uncomfortably long—horrible, in the way that only a post-match shuffle across campus can be when you’re coated in dried sweat, still half-wearing the scent of the pitch, and marinating in sheer, unrelenting anxiety. He smells like grass, panic, and something distinctly unholy that might be his socks. He feels like if someone looked at him too hard, they’d call campus security.

But it’s not the smell that’s the worst part, as tragic as it is. It’s the fear.

The crippling, chest-pressing, leg-jelly-making fear that he’s about to absolutely ruin everything. That he’ll say something stupid, let something slip—something honest, God forbid—and then it’ll all come crashing down like a slow-motion montage in a teen drama. Consequences:

A broken heart.

The academic equivalent of being exiled from Earth.

Possibly crying in public, which he has a personal rule against.

He tries to brush it off, distract himself by thinking about the game—solid win, nice assist, didn't fall on his face even once, thank you very much—or by imagining Liam and Niall sitting on the couch waiting for his post-game call like two nosy aunties with wine and popcorn.

Liam will probably open with something emotionally grounded like, “How are you feeling, mate?” and Niall will follow with, “Did you see his bedroom? Did you touch anything? Were the sheets soft? Was he wearing socks?!”

But even the thought of Niall being Niall can’t stop the churn in Louis’ stomach. His heart’s pounding like he just sprinted laps, his mouth is dry, and he’s 95% sure he’s forgotten how to walk like a normal person.

He’s halfway to Harry’s door and considering whether throwing himself into the nearest hedge might be the better option when he catches a glimpse of his reflection in a dark window—hair sweaty, hoodie clinging to his back, panic in his eyes.

“You can do this,” Louis murmured to himself, barely audible over the pounding of his heart. He took a deep breath—slow and shaky—forced a smile that felt only slightly manic, and knocked on the door.

For a beat, nothing. Then it creaked open, revealing a woman who looked like a walking hug—soft cardigan, kind eyes, and a warm smile that made Louis feel immediately seen and also slightly judged in the best, most loving way.

“Hi?” Louis said, glancing down at the phone in his hand like it might suddenly reveal he was actually supposed to be anywhere else. “Is Har—”

“Oh! You must be Louis!” she interrupted, her smile growing impossibly wider. “Harry told me you were cute.”

Louis blinked. Once. Twice.

What.

“I—uh—sorry—what?” he stammered, clutching the strap of his bag like it might launch itself into the stratosphere out of sheer secondhand embarrassment.

She didn’t even flinch. Just stood there, looking entirely too pleased with herself, like this was a completely normal greeting.

The woman—Harry’s mum, maybe? Aunt? Randomly delightful roommate?—just beams at him like she’s known him for years. She steps aside to let him in like this is all very normal and not the emotional equivalent of being hit by a glitter bomb.

Louis shuffles past her, dazed. “He… told you I was cute?”

“He didn’t not tell me you were cute,” she says with a wink, and Louis nearly trips over the welcome mat.

The moment he stepped into the house, it hit him—warmth, not just physical but emotional, like being pulled into a blanket that smelled like brown sugar and cinnamon and something else entirely unfair. Something distinctly Harry. Something Louis would be thinking about for the rest of the day, if not forever.

She floated ahead of him down the hall, glancing back with an arched brow. “Are you the reason Harry’s been getting home late?”

Louis blinked again, still trying to process how one person could be both terrifying and delightful. “Sorry, what?”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays,” she said, like this was part of a report she’d been filing. “Dragging himself through the door like he’s run a marathon. Practically falls asleep at the table. I asked him what was going on, and he gave me a look like I’d asked him to confess a state secret.”

Louis could feel the heat crawl up his neck. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. He’s been—um.”

“Lou!”

The voice stopped him mid-sputter. He turned toward the stairs just in time to see Harry coming down them, and—God help him—he looked even better than Louis remembered.

Jeans. A loose, slouchy t-shirt that looked like it had been stolen from a cloud and worn until it begged for mercy. Damp curls clinging to his forehead like he’d just stepped out of the shower. Which he probably had, judging by the fact Louis could now confirm he did, in fact, use some criminally good-smelling shampoo.

And there was that blush. Faint at first, then darkening as Harry caught sight of his mother.

“I thought you got lost,” Harry said, trying for casual but ending up somewhere near breathless.

Louis gave a nervous laugh, his brain still short-circuiting from being called cute by Harry’s mum of all people.

“I see you’ve met my mum,” Harry said with the weariness of someone who knew exactly how many embarrassing things she was capable of saying in under five minutes.

“Lovely to meet you,” Louis managed, still a bit stunned.

“Likewise,” she said brightly.“well, you two boys stay out of trouble, i’m heading out, Pam offered dinner.” She smiled as she grabs her bag from the hook near the door, gives Harry’s curls a fond ruffle (which he bats away with a helpless, mortified little sound), and throws Louis a wink like she’s leaving him with the key to a very adorable time bomb.

“I like him,” she tells Harry, cheerfully loud.

“Mum,” Harry says, dragging the word out like he might be able to disappear into the floorboards through sheer tone alone.

She blows a kiss and disappears out the door, leaving behind the faint scent of floral perfume, and the sense that Louis has just passed some kind of secret test he didn’t know he was taking.

Silence falls. A beat passes. Then Harry’s shoulder falls and groans. “Sorry about whatever she said.” He grumbles.

“It’s fine she seems nice.” Louis answers with a sheepish smile. “we won.” he adds.

Harry perks up at that, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah? That’s great! Did you score?”

Louis shrugs with an exaggerated air of modesty. “Not personally, but I assisted. And I didn’t get red-carded for yelling at the ref, so I consider that a personal win.”

Harry laughs—genuine and warm, head tilting just enough to make Louis want to commit a minor crime. “Impressive.”

“yeah well I guess you could say I had motivation.” He whispers heart clenching around the flirty tone his voice has.

“Yeah?” Harry asks, head tilted to the side just a fraction of enough to get Louis falling in love all over again.

Louis nods, “But, winning takes a lot out of a person. Mind if I take you up on the shower, before we get started.”

“Right. Follow me.” Harry smiles, guiding Louis back up the stairs and into a small bathroom, “Everything you should need is in here, but i’m just the door over if you need anything.”

———-

The shower is devastating. Not in a bad way—no, in the most unfair, emotionally compromising way possible.
The water’s the perfect temperature, hot enough to relax every sore muscle from the match. The steam curls through the room like a spell, wrapping around him, and the scent of Harry’s shampoo—that stupidly perfect blend of eucalyptus and sandalwood—hangs in the air like it’s haunting him.

The towels are plush. Obscenely plush. Louis wraps one around his waist and debates never taking it off again. He could live like this. Move in. Join the towels. Become one with the scent of expensive haircare and good water pressure.
He’s halfway through dabbing on some cologne—because it’s Harry, and Louis is just a boy with a fragile grip on dignity—when he realizes:
He doesn’t have a toothbrush.

That’s fine. That’s normal. Just a simple, logical oversight in the face of overwhelming hot-boy distraction. Except… it’s nine o’clock.

He’s not going anywhere. Which means:
He’s staying.
The toothbrush is a symbol. A turning point. The moment things shift from study session to sleepover with unspoken implications.

So, naturally, he panics.

Cracking the door, he peers down the hallway like he’s on a covert mission, then clears his throat—somewhere between a whisper and a strangled announcement.
“Harry?”

Not even a full second later, Harry appears—fresh-faced, casual, and ruinously pretty. He’s padding down the hall in those perfectly fitted jeans and a t-shirt that probably cost nothing but looks like it was personally commissioned by the gods of temptation.

“You need something?” Harry asks, tone soft, already stepping into the bathroom with him like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Do you, uh—do you have an extra toothbrush?” Louis manages, somehow sounding both innocent and like someone who just remembered he’s standing there in nothing but a towel.

“Uh, yeah I think so.” Harry says already moving.
———-

It’s impossible not to look.

As Harry bends over, shirt riding up in a frankly criminal way, Louis gets a full, uninterrupted view of what might genuinely be the eighth wonder of the world: Harry’s ass. Perfectly shaped. Ridiculously distracting. It’s like his jeans were tailored by the gods specifically to ruin Louis’ life.

He knows it’s weird of him to be looking—Harry’s trying to find a spare toothbrush, not audition for a slow-motion walk-on in a rom-com—but it’s like there are neon arrows pointing directly at it. Like a sign that reads: LOOK HERE, LOUIS. FOR SCIENCE.

And to make matters worse—because of course there’s more—Louis himself is standing there in nothing but a towel. A towel that hangs low against his hips like it's in on some inside joke. The audacity. The betrayal. He wasn’t expecting guests. Especially not Harry, in his stupidly well-fitted jeans and his accidental seduction via basic household tasks

Louis is halfway through trying to remember what breathing feels like when Harry’s voice drifts up from where he’s crouched.

“I can’t find it,” Harry announces, giving one final, dramatic of the items in the cabinet.

He straightens up, tugging his shirt back down, blissfully unaware of the internal crisis he’s left in his wake. Louis, on the other hand, is trying to look anywhere else—ceiling, floor, his own hands like they’re suddenly fascinating—but it’s already too late. His brain is toast. Absolutely fried. No thoughts, just ass.

Then Harry turns around and gives him that look—brows slightly raised, lips curled into something close to amusement. “I could fetch one from down stairs. Or..”

Harry drawls it out, voice like warm honey, as he leans back against the bathroom counter. His hands brace behind him, palms flat on the surface, and then—like it’s the most casual thing in the world—he hikes himself up onto it.

And rests that ass—the eighth wonder of the world, the reason Louis might need therapy—right against the edge.

His legs part just slightly. Not wide. Not blatant. Just enough to be an invitation. Just enough to be the kind of casual, devastatingly confident move that ruins people. That ruins Louis.

It’s the kind of posture that makes Louis want to file a complaint with the universe for allowing something this seductive to happen during what was supposed to be a routine oral hygiene crisis.

“Or,” Harry says, voice soft and just a little too confident, “we could get the toothbrush later. Much later.”

He nods toward the space between his legs. “And you could come over here.”

Louis’ mind doesn’t just short-circuit—it shuts down entirely and reboots in safe mode.

His fingers curl around the towel like it’s a lifeline. “What?”

He’s not sure what he’s asking. Maybe for clarification. Maybe for divine intervention. But Harry’s eyes drop down and trail slowly back up his body, and then—just to be cruel—he bites his lip. Just a small, casual graze of his teeth, but it’s enough to make Louis question whether God has favorites.

Harry meets his eyes again, and the look he gives him—equal parts invitation and affection—sets off something seismic in Louis’ chest. Something soft and terrifying and far too real.

Louis moves like it might kill him not to. Step by step, until he’s standing between Harry’s legs, close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough that the air crackles.

His hands land on Harry’s thighs, and he gives them a small squeeze. Just to check. Just to be sure this is real and not some kind of very detailed coma dream. He’s still damp from the shower. Still buzzing from earlier nerves. Still very much him, and Harry is still looking at him like he wants this. Like he’s sure.

“You sure?” Louis asks, voice barely above a whisper. There’s hesitation laced through it, like he still can’t quite believe any of this is real. Like one wrong move might make it all disappear.

Harry doesn’t answer right away. He just lifts his hands to cradle Louis’ face with a tenderness that knocks the breath from Louis’ lungs. His palms are warm, thumbs brushing over Louis’ cheeks like he’s trying to memorize the shape of him, to reassure him without words.

Then Harry leans in until their foreheads touch, gaze unwavering.

“I’m sure,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. And somehow, it’s more than reassurance—it’s a promise. Soft and certain, something Louis can anchor himself to.

Louis lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His fear doesn’t vanish, not completely, but it quiets. Because Harry’s here. And he means it.

“You smell good,” Harry adds a beat later, barely audible as he inches closer. The words melt into a breath that ghosts over Louis’ lips.

“Do I?” Louis murmurs, the corners of his mouth tugging upward despite himself. His eyes drop to Harry’s lips, close enough to touch.

Harry just hums, but the sound gets swallowed as he finally leans in all the way. His mouth brushes over Louis’ in a kiss that’s featherlight at first—testing, asking. But then it deepens, firm and warm and so present it roots Louis to the moment.

Louis meets him halfway once his brain catches up with what’s happening, tilting into the kiss like it’s second nature. Like this was always going to happen, one way or another.

When they part, Louis barely manages to breathe before he says, “This counts as an anatomy lesson, right?”

Harry’s laugh is soft and close, and he doesn’t even answer—just tugs Louis back in by the front of his towel like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“As your mentor,” he murmurs against Louis’ mouth, “you’re required to listen to me. So I require you to kiss me again... and forget about school.”

Louis laughs, breathless and a little helpless. His hands find Harry’s hips, fingers digging in like he needs something to ground himself. “God, you’re such a bad influence.”

Harry smiles like it’s a compliment. “Only on you.”

And that’s all it takes.

The next kiss comes quick—rushed, eager, like neither of them can stand the distance any longer. Harry’s head tilts for a better angle, lips parting just enough to invite more, to ask for it. And Louis gives. He leans in, takes the invitation, answers with his whole body.

His hands shift lower, sliding around the curve of Harry’s hips until they settle on the backs of his thighs. One firm tug pulls Harry forward—so he’s just barely on the edge of the counter, and more and against him, so close now Louis can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Harry shudders against him, and it’s not just the heat or the pressure—it’s the emotion in it. The vulnerability. He breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale, lips brushing Louis’ cheek as they both breathe each other in like it’s the only thing keeping them standing.

Louis leans his forehead to Harry’s, voice rough from want and awe. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

But Harry’s hands are already moving again—slow and steady over Louis’ chest, exploring with reverence, not urgency. And when he speaks, it’s soft, lips pressed just beneath Louis’ jaw.

“I think I do,” he murmurs. And then, with a playful bite that makes Louis jolt, “But I want to learn more.”

Louis doesn’t even try to answer. He just kisses him again—deeper, slower this time. Like maybe they’ve got time. Like maybe they’ve got all the time in the world.

Harry’s hands move with quiet purpose, sliding down from Louis’ face with the kind of reverence that makes Louis’ heart stutter. His touch isn't hurried—it’s deliberate, like he’s exploring something precious, something fragile. His fingers trail down the slope of Louis’ neck, then lower still, tracing over his chest with a featherlight curiosity that sends goosebumps in their wake.

He doesn’t rush. He takes his time. Like Louis is a story he wants to read slowly, every word savored.

Harry’s lips follow the path his hands carve, soft and warm as they press against the line of Louis’ jaw. Then his nose brushes against the underside of Louis’ throat, the space where his pulse pounds wildly. Louis feels the exhale more than he hears it—shaky, close, reverent.

And then come the kisses. Gentle at first. Barely-there things that make Louis' skin burn. But they grow bolder, hungrier—morphing into teasing nips and the soft scrape of teeth, and then slow, indulgent sucks that leave behind faint, pink echoes of where Harry’s been.

It’s not just about want anymore. It’s about being wanted. Seen. Known in a way that bypasses every guard Louis has ever thrown up.
“Harry—” he gasps, startled by the raw edge in his own voice. Like Harry’s touching something deeper than skin. Like he’s cracked Louis open with nothing but his mouth and hands.

Harry pulls back just enough to look up at him, and his eyes—God, his eyes—are dark with heat but soft with something gentler, something that could make Louis feel like he’s being held even when no one’s touching him.

“Still okay?” Harry asks, voice low and earnest, his fingers still splayed gently over Louis’ chest, grounding him.

“Just-yeah, yeah.” Louis whispers between a sharp intake of his breath.

One of Harry’s hands slides from Louis’ shoulder to the bare skin of his back, fingers trailing gently down, slipping under the edge of the towel like a question.

Louis hums against his mouth, teasing, “If you take that off, you’re fully committing to this being an anatomy lesson.”

Harry grins against his lips. “I’m committed to higher education.”

Louis snorts out a laugh, nearly chokes on it, but then Harry’s mouth is back on his, and he doesn’t really have the capacity to be amused anymore. Not when Harry’s hands are on him like that, not when he’s being kissed like he’s something worth studying, worth knowing inside and out.

The kiss fizzles out slowly, reluctantly, as they pull back just far enough to catch their breath. Their foreheads rest together, lips parted, warm air shared in the sliver of space between them.

But Harry—ever the menace, wrapped in soft curls and sleepy eyes that hide nothing of his intent—doesn’t stay still for long.

Without a word, he slides off the counter with quiet grace, landing lightly on his feet. He rises to his full height, taller than Louis by a margin that somehow feels wider when he’s looking at him like that—like Louis is something precious and already his.

Louis barely has time to register the shift before Harry’s hands are on him again. Firm, assured, and far too gentle for the chaos he causes, Harry presses forward, walking Louis back a few short steps until his shoulder blades bump against the cool flat of the bathroom wall. The breath punches out of him at the contact, but he doesn’t have time to speak—not with Harry this close. Not with the look in his eyes.

He doesn’t kiss Louis again—not yet. Instead, he starts to descend.

His mouth presses softly beneath Louis’ jaw, lingering like he’s savoring it. Then down—slow, deliberate kisses at the dip of his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder. His hands hold steady at Louis’ hips, thumbs stroking circles into damp skin like he’s grounding them both.

By the time Harry’s lips reach his chest, Louis’ head tips back against the wall, a quiet sound escaping him that he couldn’t hold back if he tried. Each press of Harry’s mouth is reverent, like he’s not in a rush, like he’s learning Louis piece by piece and doesn’t want to miss a single part.

When Harry kneels, it isn’t sudden—it’s fluid. Natural. He bends to meet the trail he’s been mapping with his lips, easing lower with slow purpose until he’s crouched just in front of Louis. His breath fans warm just above the edge of the towel still slung low around Louis’ hips, his hands now braced at either side of Louis’ thighs.

It should be overwhelming. Maybe it is.

But the moment is quiet. No teasing smirk. No rushed movements. Just the sound of both of them breathing, and Harry looking up through his lashes like he’s asking without speaking.

And Louis—his heart rattling behind his ribs like it might break free—feels like he’s standing on a precipice. Except there’s no fear now. Not with Harry looking at him like that. Not when every touch, every kiss, every breath feels like permission and promise all at once.

Louis exhales shakily, one hand to sliding gently through Harry’s hair.

“Jesus, Harry…” he whispers, not sure if it’s a plea or a prayer.

His fingers slowly tug at the towel, and that’s all it take before Louis’ breath is itching in his throat. His chest falling and raising with uneven gasps.

Harry’s hands settle on his hips again, anchoring them both, and he leans in—slow, so slow—like he’s still giving Louis time to change his mind, still making sure it’s mutual. And it is. God, it is.

Louis’ head tips back against the wall with a soft thud, his breath hitching as Harry finally, finally begins. There’s nothing hurried in his movements. No rush to get to the end. Just intention, care, and that quiet sort of wonder that makes Louis’ knees weak and his heart clench in tandem.

Harry’s mouth is wet and a warm constant reminder of it too. He’s tongue circles in the most devastating ways, is moans having barely enough room to slip out, and hands hold tighter when he takes him in more.

His hands flex at Louis’ hips, steady and grounding, like he knows exactly how far to take this—how to give just enough to make Louis tremble, but never too much to tip him over the edge too fast. Harry doesn’t rush; he never does. It’s not about getting there. It’s about this. Every breath. Every shift of Louis’ hips. Every stunned, broken sound that slips past Louis’ lips when Harry does something just a little different, a little deeper, a little more.

And God, Louis feels it.

Every sweep of Harry’s tongue is intentional—lazy, languid, a study in patience and wreckage. He pulls back slightly, mouth still hot around him, just to breathe, to look—like he needs to memorize the sight of Louis coming undone. Like he’s building a memory he wants to revisit again and again.

Louis’ hand tightens in his hair without thinking, a soft moan escaping that has Harry groaning low in response, the sound vibrating straight through him. He glances up again, curls brushing against Louis’ thigh, and the heat in his gaze makes Louis’ stomach flip.

Harry’s lips curl into the faintest smile around him—affectionate, knowing—and then he sinks back down with intent.

Louis swears he sees stars.

His other hand finds the edge of the counter beside him, gripping it hard enough to make his knuckles ache, the cold marble the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. Everything else is Harry. His touch. His mouth. The warmth of his breath and the quiet, grounding sounds he makes like he’s right there with Louis, not just doing this to him, but with him.

“F-fuck—H… Harry,” Louis tries, voice cracking, more breath than sound. “I’m not—”
The words dissolve into a groan, a helpless, shuddering noise that leaves him trembling. His body is shaking with too much—too much sensation, too much emotion, too much of Harry. He doesn’t know how to articulate it, but somehow, Harry just knows.

With one final slow glide, Harry eases back, a slick sound filling the quiet space before he rises to his full height. His hands are gentle when they find Louis again, sliding up his sides with the kind of care that speaks volumes, even in silence.

“Okay?” Harry asks, voice low, lips pressing tenderly beneath Louis’ jaw—soothing, grounding.

Louis nods before he can even think about it. “You’re amazing,” he says, breathless and awed, like the idea of anyone questioning that is completely absurd. His hands shake where they rest against Harry’s waist, but his eyes are steady, full of something raw and wide-open.

Harry huffs a soft, modest laugh, nuzzling against Louis’ throat. “Guess that’s a good sign,” he murmurs, lips brushing skin with every word.

But then he kisses him—slow and sure—and this time, he gives Louis the reins. There’s no pressure in it, only promise. The kind of kiss that says you choose. And Louis—God, Louis—takes it.

He steps forward without hesitation, kissing back with everything he has. All the tension, all the gratitude, all the want. His hands find Harry’s hips, and then his chest, and then up to frame his jaw as he walks them backward, step by fumbling step, until Harry’s back bumps against the bathroom counter with a soft thud.

Harry makes a quiet, surprised sound against his mouth, but he doesn’t pull away. He just grins into the kiss, hands curling around Louis’ waist like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

Louis doesn’t ask—not with words. He probably should. He knows he should. But in this moment, there’s no room for hesitation. No space between them that hasn't already been filled with touch and trust and everything unspoken.

Instead, he lets his actions speak.

With careful fingers, he slides the hem of Harry’s shirt up, slow and deliberate, baring more of him inch by inch. Harry lifts his arms without question, eyes steady on Louis like he trusts him completely. And he should—because Louis is reverent with it, like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

The fabric slips free, and Louis lets it fall to the floor without looking. His gaze is fixed only on him—on the soft, pale expanse of Harry’s torso, smooth and unmarred. There’s something vulnerable in it, in the way Harry stands still and lets himself be seen. Not just looked at, but truly seen.

Louis steps closer, palms skimming up Harry’s sides, feeling the heat of him, the rise and fall of shallow breaths beneath his touch. He leans in, presses his mouth to the side of Harry’s neck, and lets his lips linger there for a moment before kissing gently—once, twice, then again, firmer this time.

A low sound escapes Harry’s throat, somewhere between a breath and a hum, and Louis takes it as encouragement. He opens his mouth against the skin, sucking until he feels it catch between his teeth, until the spot begins to bloom purple under his tongue—a mark, soft and undeniable.

Louis pulls back just slightly, enough to kiss the slope of Harry’s shoulder, the base of his throat, each kiss slower than the last, like he’s reminding them both that there’s no rush. That this isn’t a spark waiting to burn out, but a fire that can simmer, low and lasting.

His hands move too, reverent again as they trace down Harry’s back, fingertips skimming the curve of his spine. Every inch of skin beneath his palms is warm, alive, and Harry leans into it with a quiet noise that goes straight to Louis’ chest.

Harry’s breath hitches when Louis presses another kiss to the center of his chest—right over his heart. The thrum beneath his skin is fast and steady, and Louis lingers there, like he wants to feel every beat of it with his mouth, to memorize the rhythm of Harry alive and trembling beneath him.

He’s never felt like this with anyone. Never wanted so badly to slow down when everything inside him is burning to move faster. But Harry grounds him. With the curve of his hands, the steady way he breathes through every touch, the soft way he whispers Louis’ name like it’s a tether, not a question.

Louis noses along his collarbone, kissing softly, biting gently, not to mark but to feel. And when he finally draws back just far enough to look at him, Harry is flushed and radiant, curls a mess, lips kiss-bitten and parted like he’s still trying to catch his breath.

“You’re so pretty.” Louis says before he can stop himself, the words slipping out unfiltered.

Harry’s eyes soften instantly, blinking slow as a smile curves across his lips. “So are you,” he says, without hesitation, like he means it down to the bone.

“So I guess your mum wasn’t lying.” Louis hums. He cradles Harry’s jaw in both hands, fingers brushing the hinge just beneath his ears, and kisses him again—slow, deep, full of all the reverence that’s been building since the very first time he saw Harry at orientation.

Harry pulls back just enough to speak, lips still brushing Harry’s. “Did she actually tell you, I said you were cute.”

“Oh definitely, love.” Louis laughed but Harry just lets out a groan, his head dropping down to Louis shoulder.

“That’s so embarrassing.”

Louis laughs softly at Harry's groan, his hands still resting gently on Harry’s jaw, his thumb brushing the curve of his cheek. “It is adorable, though. And if you were worried, I’ve definitely got a thing for cute.” His voice is playful, but there’s something deeper there, too—something that has nothing to do with teasing and everything to do with how he feels about Harry.

“Do you want to..” Louis’ fingers tremble as they slip lower, his breath hitching as he brushes against the waistband of Harry’s jeans. The question hangs in the air, unspoken but heavy with meaning, each soft exhale between them carrying the weight of what’s about to happen. Louis doesn’t need to finish the sentence, because the understanding is clear—this is a choice, one that’s rooted in trust and the quiet yearning between them.

Harry’s eyes are half-lidded, and his breath is shallow, his body already responding to Louis’ touch. He doesn’t hesitate; his small nod is enough, the barely audible “Yeah” a confirmation that this is what he wants, with Louis. With him. There’s no hesitation, no doubt.

Louis takes a breath, steadying himself, his fingers brushing the button of Harry’s jeans. The slight shake in his hands is a mix of anticipation and the overwhelming need to do this right. His thumb brushes across Harry’s skin as he pops the button, the sound of the zipper pulling down breaking the quiet tension between them. Louis pulls the fabric down slowly, carefully, each movement deliberate as he discards the jeans, leaving Harry standing there in nothing but his boxers.

The sight of Harry, vulnerable and beautiful in the soft light of the bathroom, sends a shiver down Louis’ spine. The air is thick with heat, the space between them charged with a magnetic pull that neither of them can deny. Harry kicks his jeans to the side, his gaze hungry, but there’s something softer, something that speaks of a shared intimacy that makes Louis’ chest tighten.

Louis’ voice is quieter now, thick with emotion and desire. “Should we… move this to your bed?” His eyes meet Harry’s, searching for the unspoken answer. He’s not pushing, not rushing. He just wants Harry to feel safe, to know that every step of this is their choice.

Harry’s lips find Louis’ neck, the pressure of his mouth soft at first, then firmer, before his teeth graze against Louis’ skin, a teasing bite that sends a pulse straight to Louis’ core. The vibration of Harry’s hum reverberates against Louis’ neck as he pulls back slightly, meeting Louis’ gaze with something darker, something full of want.

“Or,” Harry murmurs, his voice low and heated, “you could just fuck me right now.”

The words, the raw need in them, send a jolt through Louis, his heart pounding in his chest. There’s no mistaking the intensity in Harry’s eyes, the openness in his voice. He’s offering himself, fully, with nothing held back. Louis can see it in the way Harry’s hands hover, waiting for Louis to make the move, to take control—but also allowing him to choose. It’s as if Harry’s saying he’s ready for whatever Louis is willing to give, but the decision is his, completely.

“Harry,” Louis breathes, voice barely a whisper, his hands coming to rest on Harry’s hips, pulling him closer, closer still, until there’s no space between them. “Are you sure?” It’s a question of more than just the moment. It’s a question of wanting to make sure Harry knows the depth of what he’s offering, that it’s not just about now, not just about the heat of the moment.

Harry lifts his hand and points lazily to the bathroom counter, eyes never leaving Louis’. “Condoms,” he murmurs, breath catching, “last drawer. Purple pouch.”

It’s all the answer Louis needs.

There’s something reverent in the way he moves after that—careful but sure, like he’s memorizing each moment as it unfolds. He bends just slightly, opening the drawer, and his fingers find the pouch easily.

When Louis straightens again, he finds Harry watching him with something soft and smoldering in his gaze. There’s no fear, no doubt. Just trust, wide open and unwavering.

Louis cups his jaw with both hands again, brushing his thumbs along the hinge of it like he’s anchoring them both. “Okay,” he whispers, kissing him once, then again—deeper, slower. “Okay.”

His fingers squeeze at Harry’s waist, tight and gently at the same time. He turns the boy just enough to where Harry’s back is facing him.

“Lou-“ Harry whines, but he’s melting into the movement, leaning his body back to press against Louis.

Louis hums against the shell of Harry’s ear, quiet and steady, one hand still firm at his waist, the other smoothing slowly up his chest. He doesn’t push—just holds him there, close and grounded, letting Harry feel every inch of their connection. His own heart is pounding, but his movements are purposeful, reverent, slow. Every touch says I’ve got you.

“You’re alright,” Louis murmurs, kissing behind Harry’s ear, letting his lips trail down to the curve of his neck. “You’re doing so good.”

Harry’s breath hitches, the sound broken and real, and Louis feels the way his body shivers, the way his hips shift back just slightly, seeking more.

Louis exhales shakily, forehead pressed to the back of Harry’s shoulder as he takes a moment—lets the weight of it all settle around him. He wants to get this right. Not just the physicality, but the intimacy, the trust. He wants Harry to feel wanted, worshipped. Safe.

His fingers drift down Harry’s spine, featherlight, until he’s cupping his hip again. “Need to get you ready,” Louis whispers, voice low, words soft but charged. He kisses the dip of Harry’s shoulder blade. He rolls down Harry’s boxers, the boy gives a shudder in response.

Louis pauses, breath warm against Harry’s skin, and whispers, “Tell me if anything’s too much, yeah?” His voice is barely audible, like he’s afraid of breaking the moment, of pushing too fast, but he needs Harry to know—this is about them, not just the want burning between their bodies.

Harry nods, head falling forward as he braces himself on the counter. “I will,” he breathes, voice already wrecked, honest.

Louis nods, even though Harry can’t see him. His fingers move with care, with quiet, practiced patience. He finds the lube, coats his fingers, and rests a hand steady on Harry’s lower back. Then, with the same reverence he’s held through every second of this, he eases in, just one finger at first.

Harry sucks in a breath, but he doesn’t tense. He melts, back arching, legs spreading wider in silent invitation. Louis watches every shift of his body, every flutter of his eyelashes in the mirror above the sink. He’s gorgeous like this—flushed and open, vulnerable and unafraid.

“You’re so good for me,” Louis murmurs, voice hoarse, almost reverent. His free hand smooths over Harry’s side, grounding them both. “You’re—fuck, Harry, you’re everything.”

A soft, needy sound spills from Harry’s lips as Louis adds a second finger, scissoring gently, slow and rhythmic. Harry rocks back into the motion, chasing more, his body pliant and trusting in Louis’ hands. Louis kisses his spine, slow and open-mouthed, and feels every breath Harry takes as if it’s his own.

Harry lets out a broken moan, head falling further forward, curls sticking to the sweat at the nape of his neck. Louis wants to kiss every inch of him—wants to press his mouth to every part of Harry that quivers beneath his touch, every inch that softens and opens for him like it’s never belonged to anyone else.

Louis curls his fingers just slightly, and the sound Harry makes is sinful, wrecked. “Right there,” Harry gasps, voice shaky and high. “God, Lou—”

“I’ve got you,” Louis breathes, hand smoothing up the expanse of Harry’s back, his movements never hurried, never rough. “You’re doing so good for me, baby.”

He adds a third finger carefully, watching the way Harry breathes through it, the way his body takes it, stretching, welcoming. Louis leans forward, kissing a trail up Harry’s spine as he prepares him, murmuring encouragement against his skin—soft things, sweet things, things he doesn’t even fully realize he’s saying.

When he finally pulls his fingers free, Harry lets out a soft whimper of protest, hips twitching back. Louis huffs a quiet laugh, kissing his shoulder again as he reaches for the condom.

“Easy,” he whispers. “I’m right here.”

He tears the packet with steady fingers, rolls the condom on with practiced care, and takes a quiet second just to look at Harry—how he’s braced against the counter, breath fogging the mirror, skin flushed and golden in the low light. Louis swallows hard, chest aching with how beautiful he is, how open and his he looks like this.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” Louis says, voice low, reverent. “Anytime, okay?”

Harry turns his face just enough for their eyes to meet in the reflection. “I won’t,” he says, breathless but clear. “I want this. I want you.”

Louis lets out a shaky breath and guides himself forward, one hand steady on Harry’s hip, the other stroking soothingly down his spine. When he presses in, he does it slowly—inch by inch, watching the way Harry's mouth falls open, the soft gasp that slips out of him, the way his fingers tighten against the counter.

“Fuck,” Louis whispers, once he’s fully in. He stays still, giving Harry time, letting them both adjust. His heart is thudding against his ribs, but his hands are sure, calming, warm where they hold Harry like he’s something precious.

Harry breathes through it, deep and steady, then arches his back just slightly. “Move, please, louis.”

Louis does—slow at first, tentative, until he finds the rhythm that makes Harry shiver and whine, pushing back to meet every stroke. The bathroom fills with quiet, desperate sounds—skin on skin, hitched breathing, Harry’s soft moans and the way Louis whispers beautiful, so good, you’re mine into every inch of his skin.

His hands roam—one steady on Harry’s hip, guiding him; the other pressing flat over his back, grounding him as he fucks into him slow and deep.

Harry makes a sound that’s nearly a sob, all feeling and no words. He leans back into Louis, his entire body trusting and pliant, and Louis adjusts his angle, hips rolling in a way that makes Harry cry out, loud and raw and wrecked.

“There,” he gasps. “Louis, there—please, don’t stop, please—”

Louis doesn’t stop. He can’t—not when Harry sounds like that, broken open and begging beneath him, voice soaked in desperation and pleasure so thick it makes Louis’ knees weak.

“Yeah?” Louis pants, voice rough, lips brushing the back of Harry’s shoulder. “Right there, baby?”

Harry nods frantically, fingers gripping the counter so tight his knuckles go white. “Yes—God, Louis, yes—”

Louis adjusts his stance, hands tightening at Harry’s hips as he thrusts deeper, perfectly angled now, hitting that same spot again and again. Harry’s noises go high and sharp, spilling out of him unrestrained, and Louis swears he could come just from the sound of it—from the way Harry’s body shakes, from the way he keeps saying his name like a prayer.

“Look at you,” Louis murmurs, mouth dragging wetly along Harry’s neck, then his jaw. “Taking me so well. So fucking perfect for me.”

Harry whimpers, eyes fluttering shut, face flushed in the mirror. He’s never looked more wrecked, more open. Louis watches him fall apart in real time, the way his body bends, how he keeps pushing back like he can’t get enough, like Louis is the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Louis—” Harry gasps, falling forward slightly, bracing with one hand now, the other working himself frantically. “I’m—fuck, I’m—”

“Let go,” Louis breathes. “Come for me. You’ve got me, I’ve got you—just let go.”

Harry sobs his release, body tensing, back arching as he spills over his own fingers, moaning Louis’ name like it’s the only thing he knows. Louis follows seconds later, hips stuttering, the heat and the tightness and the sheer beauty of Harry’s unraveling too much to hold off any longer.

They collapse into each other, bodies slick with sweat and shaking with aftershocks. Louis stays buried inside for a moment, wrapping both arms around Harry’s waist, holding him close, trying to breathe again.

Harry slumps forward, breath fogging the glass, his voice a whisper. “Holy fuck.”

Louis laughs softly, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. They stay like that for a moment—just breathing, just being. Then Louis presses one last kiss to Harry’s spine and slowly pulls out, steady and gentle. He disposes of the condom quickly, hands already reaching for a warm towel to clean them both up.

After he’s done cleaning, Louis holds the towel slack in his hands, eyeing Harry, who’s halfway through pulling up his boxers, curls messy and sticking to his forehead, looking beautifully wrecked.

Louis flicks the towel in his direction, just a warning shot. Harry looks up sharply, eyes narrowing, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Louis, don’t you fucking dare.” He grits it out, somewhere between scandalized and amused. “That’s so gross.”

“It’s yours,” Louis shrugs innocently, his grin only widening as he lets the towel dangle threateningly from two fingers.

“If you hit me with that towel, I’m going to make you sleep on the floor,” Harry warns, his voice still breathless, but there’s mock seriousness behind the glare he’s giving Louis.

Louis raises a brow, mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’d really kick me out of bed after all that? Brutal.”

Harry, still breathless and flushed, gives him a mock glare as he straightens up, tugging his boxers the rest of the way on. “Don’t test me, Tomlinson. I’ve got post-orgasm strength and zero tolerance for damp towel crimes.”

Louis tosses the towel harmlessly onto the counter with a theatrical sigh. “Alright, alright. I surrender to your moral high ground.”

Louis starts getting dressed, pulling on a pair of old sweats and a hoodie he keeps forgetting to take out of his bag. It smells faintly like the pitch and somehow, faintly, like Harry now.

Harry musters something about not wearing Jeans, so he stays with a shirt and boxers.

Louis steps closer once they’re both dressed—or dressed enough—and rests his hands lightly on Harry’s hips, thumbs brushing the warm skin just above the waistband of his boxers. They’re both still radiating heat, cheeks flushed, breaths finally starting to even out. The bathroom smells faintly of steam and sweat and something distinctly sweet that Louis suspects might be Harry’s shampoo. It’s oddly comforting.

Harry hums into the touch, eyelids fluttering. “I found something,” he whispers, tone mysterious.

Louis raises a brow, wary but amused. “If it’s a dildo, I’m good. That’s not my thing,” he deadpans.

Harry snorts and immediately slaps his arm, not hard, just enough to make Louis flinch dramatically. “Jesus, Louis. No! What kind of treasure hunt do you think I’m running in here?”

“A filthy one,” Louis mutters, rubbing his arm with mock offense. “With traps and everything. Like Indiana Jones but with way more lube.”

Harry is grinning now, curls bouncing as he shakes his head. “You’re such a little shit.” Then, from the drawer beside him, he pulls something out and holds it up like it’s a prize. “Behold. Your very own toothbrush.”

Louis blinks at it—still in its packaging, bright blue and clearly brand new. He stares, and then something in his chest flips, slow and unexpected.

“You found one? I thought—” Louis starts, brows drawing together. “I thought you said you didn’t have any spares.”

Harry shrugs, far too casual for someone who just flipped the domesticity switch to on. “Well, I found one, yes. Did I tell you? No. You were staring at my ass, I was savoring the moment.”

Louis gapes, then lets out a breathy laugh. “You absolute prick.” Louis snorts, glancing back down at the toothbrush. “Can’t believe you held out on me. I was emotionally prepared to raw-dog it with your spare finger brush.”

“You were emotionally prepared to what?”

“Nothing,” Louis says quickly, eyes wide, ears pink.

Harry’s grinning now, stepping in close again and bumping their hips together. “You were gonna what, you feral little goblin?”

Louis refuses to answer, only turns toward the sink with his shiny new toothbrush and grumbles, “I’m brushing my teeth. Some of us care about hygiene.”

“Oh yeah? What else do you care about?” Harry teases, curls a bit wild still from earlier.

Louis looks at him through the mirror, a soft sort of smile tugging at his lips. “Apparently? You.”

And maybe that’s the real reveal—quiet and simple, tucked in behind the teasing. The toothbrush glints under the bathroom light like a tiny, absurd symbol of something bigger.

Harry’s still smiling when he steps forward, slipping his arms around Louis’ waist from behind and resting his chin on his shoulder. “You’re such a sap.”

Louis just smiles at Harry through there reflection. He brushes his teeth, like he was so adamant to, Harry holding on to him the whole time. Swaying when he sways, humming when Louis says something. Once Louis done, we twist in Harry’s hold, facing the boy.

There’s something quiet and full in the way they look at each other—something that hums beneath the surface of everything unsaid. Louis tilts his head slightly, brushing the curls back from Harry’s damp forehead.

“You okay?” he asks softly, not just about now, but everything. The shift in them. The trust.

Harry nods, cheeks pink, but not from exertion this time. “Yeah. More than okay.”

Louis smiles, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Come on, let’s go lie down before your legs give out.”

“Already jelly,” Harry mumbles, letting Louis lead him gently out of the bathroom and toward the bedroom. “Might need to be carried. Like a damsel.”

Louis laughs, arm wrapping around Harry’s waist. “I’ll carry you, Styles. Don’t tempt me.”

They make it to Harry’s bedroom, without anyone being carried or without anyone having legs turn into jello.

The room is dim and soft, lit only by the low amber glow of the bedside lamp. The bed’s covered in notes, maybe marks, but Harry picks it up fast. His room feels warm, lived in. Safe.

Harry flops onto it with a groan, limbs loose and dramatic. “We still have that paper to do.”

“That was the plan, to do it tonight, but you ambushed me with your ass and now we’re behind.” Louis teases, toeing off his socks before crawling in beside him.

Harry turns his head to peer at him, one brow arched, curls messy and eyes still a little dazed. “I ambushed you?” he repeats, like he can’t believe the audacity. “You were the one who came out of the bathroom looking like sin, wet, with a towel around your waist, I feel like I was ambushed.”

Louis gives a snort, propping himself up on one elbow, his smile slow and smug. “You invited me in for a shower. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“I did not,” Harry says, completely unconvincing. “You’re projecting.”

“Projecting?” Louis echoes, eyes wide in mock offense.

Harry just hums lazily in response, doesn’t even dignify it with a real answer. Instead, he starts shifting closer—like a very large, very floppy cat—until he’s half sprawled across Louis’ chest, all limbs and heat and unapologetic weight.

He doesn’t stop until he’s practically on top of Louis, draped over him like a weighted blanket that smells faintly of vanilla and sin. His curls tickle Louis’ chin, his arm flops uselessly across Louis’ waist, and his leg somehow wedges itself between Louis’ thighs.

Louis glances down, amused. “Are you… alive?”

Harry doesn’t lift his head. “Debatable.”

“You’re like a fainting goat,” Louis mutters, shifting just slightly so they’re both more comfortable. “You expend all this dramatic energy and then just… collapse.”

“Mm.” Harry exhales into his chest. “That’s accurate.”

Louis wraps his arms around him anyway, letting one hand slide up and down Harry’s back. “So sleep now, and then the paper in the morning?”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles, voice thick with exhaustion and rapidly fading consciousness. “Sounds like a plan.”

There’s a pause, then Harry adds, yawning mid-sentence, “You’re… a very good pillow.”

“I’ve been told,” Louis says smugly. “Five stars on Yelp.”

Harry’s already mostly gone, his breath evening out, limbs heavy with sleep, but he mumbles one last thing against Louis’ chest.

“Mm. Leave a review. ‘Would straddle again.’”

Louis grins, heart stupidly full. “Noted.”

The quiet is easy, Louis lets it take him. Harry’s chest rising and falling with the hum of the outside grounds him.

“Scratching my back helps me fall asleep.” Harry adds His statement more sounds like an ask.

Louis huffs out a soft laugh, already sliding his hand under Harry’s shirt. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

Harry makes a pleased sound, low and smug. “I’m already on top of you. Figured I’d shoot my shot.”

Louis chuckles again, but his fingers are already moving, nails scratching lightly along the plane of Harry’s back in slow, soothing strokes. Harry lets out a sound that’s half sigh, half purr, melting even further into him like he’s trying to fuse their bodies together.

“God, you’re a menace,” Louis murmurs, but it’s fond, quiet, soft in the dark.

Harry hums into his chest. “If it makes it better, it goes to boyfriend points.”

Louis’ fingers still for a second, caught off guard by the word, before resuming their soft path up and down Harry’s spine.

“Boyfriend points, huh?” he echoes, voice low, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. It fits strangely well. Fits right.

Harry shifts a little but doesn’t lift his head. “Yeah,” he says, softer now. “Just saying. In case you’re keeping score.”

Louis smiles, slow and crooked. “I wasn’t. But maybe I should start.”

Harry hums, already halfway back to sleep again. “You’d be winning, if that helps.”

Louis’s heart does a gentle somersault in his chest, and he presses a kiss to the top of Harry’s head.
———

“Holy shit.” Liam curses, a low sound that’s meant to be barely audible.

“Like you actually fuck—” Niall starts to say, a little too loud for the quiet quietness of the study hall.

“Yes,” Louis hisses, slapping a hand over the boy’s mouth, eyes darting to the nearest shelf like the librarian might materialize from behind it. “Me and Harry did the deed,” he adds, eyebrows shooting up with theatrical flair.

Niall’s eyes nearly pop out of his head, his muffled gasp sounding like a dying balloon. Liam, meanwhile, leans back in his chair with the kind of expression reserved for witnessing either a miracle or a multi-car pileup.

Louis drops his hand with a groan. “Will you both not freak out, please?”

“Lou, you’ve been helplessly in love with Harry for the entire year,” Liam hums, still recovering. “And now you’re telling us it’s not so helpless after all? That’s a big deal.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but the tips of his ears turn pink, betraying him. “Okay, yes, fine. It’s a little bit of a big deal. Can you keep your voices down though?”

Niall leans forward, elbows on the table like they’re gossiping over brunch instead of hiding in a study hall. “So when did it happen? Wait—was it after writing that paper?”

Louis lets out a long, exhausted breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Christ. We didn’t even get to the paper. He was trying to find an extra toothbrush and... things kind of escalated. You know.”

“Escalated as in you two had sex in his bathroom.” Niall offers brightly.

Louis glares. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re in love,” Niall counters with a smirk. “Get on my level.”

Liam waves a hand. “Alright, but seriously—was it weird? I feel like it could’ve been weird.”

“It wasn’t,” Louis says too quickly, then hesitates. His voice drops a bit, softening like he’s admitting it to himself all over again. “It was… actually really nice. He was—he is—gentle. Sweet. And hot. Stupidly hot. And he—well, let’s just say, the man knows what he’s doing.”

Niall’s jaw drops again. “Are you saying he gave you a—”

“Yes,” Louis says with the flat tone of someone who’s surrendered to chaos. “Best one of my life. I saw God. And he had curls and dimples.”

Liam lets out a low whistle. “So, blow job and full-on sex? Louis! Why didn’t you tell us the second it happened?!”

“Sorry,” Louis deadpans. “I was a little busy having my brain turned to soup and then spoon-fed back to me with a kiss.”

Niall snorts so hard he nearly knocks his water bottle over. “That is the grossest and most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Besides,” Louis continues, shrugging one shoulder, “we fell asleep after. It was late. And warm. And he kept pulling me in like—like I was allowed to stay, you know? I didn’t really want to move, let alone call you two gremlins.”

Liam grins. “Fair.”

“So what, did you just ghost in the morning?” Niall asks.

Louis shakes his head, eyes going soft. “No. He made us tea. Set it on the nightstand like it was a normal morning. Then we actually worked on the paper.”

Niall clasps a hand over his heart dramatically. “That’s so domestic I could scream.”

“Don’t,” Louis warns, flicking his eyes toward the librarian’s desk with practiced fear. “You’ll get us detention. And then I won’t get to tell you about the part where he called me his boyfriend.”

Silence.

Both Liam and Niall gape at him like he’s just announced he’s won the lottery and adopted a puppy.

“He what?” Liam chokes out.

“He called you boyfriend? Just casually?!” Niall whisper-yells, his voice cracking like he’s fourteen again.

Louis shrugs again, failing to hide the stupid smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. Just dropped it like it was nothing. I was scratching is back and said something about boyfriend points. And then I get a ‘Morning, boyfriend,’ over tea. I nearly choked on a biscuit.”

Niall is physically vibrating now, clutching the edge of the table like it’s the only thing anchoring him to reality. “I swear to God, Louis. If you don't marry this man, I will.”

Liam’s grinning wide now, the kind of smile that’s all teeth and barely contained delight. “That’s it. I’m calling it. You’ve officially entered the soft domestic era. Goodbye, pining Louis. Hello, relationship Louis.”

Louis lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, ducking his head like he can hide from how fond he’s being. “It still doesn’t feel real,” he admits. “Like, I keep waiting for someone to tap me on the shoulder and tell me I dreamt the whole thing in a caffeine coma.”

“No one’s tapping anything,” Niall says with a shrug. “Except, you know… Harry tapping you. Repeatedly.”

“Niall,” Louis groans, face falling into his hands.

Liam snorts. “That was awful. I hate you.”

Niall only winks. “You love me.“

Then Louis leans forward, whispering out of the side of his mouth, “Boyfriend. He called me boyfriend.”

Liams smiles, like one of those smiles that’s just all happy, and teeth. He claps a hand on Louis’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you, mate. Really.”

Louis gives him a look that’s all warmth and unspoken gratitude. “Thanks. For real. Both of you.”
———

“Done!” Louis declares triumphantly, slamming the two freshly printed pages onto Ms. Clark’s desk like he’s just solved world peace instead of scraping together a late paper. “Edited by your all-star student, stapled, and printed out on an actual printer. I even used spell check. Twice.”

Ms. Clark looks up slowly from her keyboard, blinking like she’s unsure whether to be impressed or concerned. Her eyes flick from Louis—still standing there with a ridiculous, overconfident grin—to Harry, who’s lingering by the door like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be part of this academic moment.

She picks up the paper and raises an eyebrow as she scans the title. Louis stands a little straighter, practically vibrating with pride.

“You wrote about the mentor program?” she asks, brow arching higher.

“Yep,” Louis says, nodding with a self-satisfied smirk. “Figured I’d stick to what I know—emotional growth, academic redemption, and falling in love with your mentor-slash-reluctant tutor.”

Harry clears his throat, eyes darting everywhere but toward her. “I, uh—I tried to talk him out of it,” he says, raising a hand like he’s testifying in court. “But he was… very persistent. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Made a whole PowerPoint.”

“With transitions,” Louis adds proudly.

Ms. Clark exhales through her nose, somewhere between amusement and resignation. “Alright, I’ll get this to Professor Jacobs.”

“Make sure he reads the footnote,” Louis calls over his shoulder as he heads for the door. “There’s a very heartfelt acknowledgment about Harry’s patience and my undiagnosed printer anxiety.”

Harry just sighs, shooting Ms. Clark an apologetic look as he trails after him.

———

“You got me a C,” Louis says, practically beaming, both hands cradling Harry’s face like he’s some kind of holy relic.

Harry huffs a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling. “Louis, I fixed the grammar. You wrote the thing. That was all you.”

Louis leans in, pressing a kiss to his lips. It’s brief, soft, not so much about heat as it is about gratitude—the kind of kiss that says thank you for believing in me when I didn’t.

“Still,” Louis mumbles when they part, lips brushing against Harry’s, “without your thighs, I don’t think I’d have been motivated in the first place.”

Harry lets out a sharp exhale, half laugh, half scandalized sigh. “God, you are the worst,” he says, rolling his eyes as he scoots away to sweep up the leftover chaos of their study session—papers, pens, an abandoned mug of tea, and a half-eaten protein bar Louis claimed was “brain fuel.”

They’d given up on the library weeks ago. Too cold, too quiet, too full of judgmental people pretending not to eavesdrop on their flirting. Harry’s house had become their unofficial headquarters. Which unfortunately meant more privacy—and therefore, more distractions.

Harry crawls back onto the mattress and barely gives Louis a second to adjust before climbing into his lap and kissing him again—this one a little less sweet, a little more intention. Tongue brushing, hands already under shirts, like they’re both making up for time spent pretending to care about MLA formatting.

“Your hands are freezing,” Harry murmurs against Louis’ mouth, shifting until he’s straddled perfectly across his hips, settling there like he owns the spot.

“Your body’s warm,” Louis whispers, his grin curling lazy and fond. “Like a fucking heater. Honestly, it’s rude. You should come with a warning label.”

Harry laughs into the next kiss, short and a little shaky, like whatever he’s about to say has been bouncing around in his head for a while. “I want to try something,” he murmurs, quiet now, voice barely brushing between them.

Louis stills beneath him—not pulling away, just tuning in, the way someone does when they’re listening with their whole chest. His hands slide from Harry’s waist to rest on his thighs, thumbs sweeping gentle, grounding circles. His gaze is soft but alert, humor still dancing at the edges.

Then, of course, because Louis cannot not say something:

“Harry, love,” he says, all mock-serious, “I already told you—dildos aren’t really my thing. But if that’s what you’re into, I suppose I could watch… supportively. Clap at the end. Hold up scorecards.”

Harry blinks, expression flickering somewhere between horror and hysterics. “Oh my god,” he groans, slapping Louis’ shoulder with the force of someone who regrets everything. “No, not dildos.”

“So…” Louis drawls, grinning like a menace, “is that a yes to the watching?”

Harry drops his head to Louis’ chest, letting out a strangled laugh. “You are the worst. I am trying to have a vulnerable moment here, and you’re talking about spectator sex.”

“Well,” Louis says, completely unrepentant, “you did straddle me dramatically and whisper ‘I want to try something’ like we were about to have a sexy intervention.”

Harry lifts his head again, eyes rolling but cheeks flushed. “It’s not a sex thing. I mean—not yet. Not exactly.”

Louis’s grin fades into something warmer, more curious now. “Alright then. What’s this thing you want to try?”

Harry sits back slightly, still perched in Louis’ lap, fingers fidgeting with the hem of Louis’ t-shirt. “I want to try… doing this whole thing properly,” he says, slower now. “Not just hooking up and half-assing our way through late-night study sessions and calling it romance.”

Louis cocks his head, mouth tugging up at one side. “You’re saying you want to date me on purpose?”

Harry huffs a quiet laugh, nodding. “Exactly. I want to take you out. Plan stuff. Be intentional. Like… boyfriend-boyfriend. Not just ‘accidental-makeout-in-the-middle-of-an-essay-crisis’ boyfriends.”

Louis bites his lip, a smile curling there like he’s trying not to look too pleased too quickly. “Okay,” he says softly, brushing his thumb along Harry’s hip. “But just so you know, I’m still gonna call you my academic weapon. That’s not negotiable.”

Their kiss deepens in that quiet, searching way—neither of them quite sure if they’re still teasing or if they’ve slipped into something more tender, more real. Louis curls his fingers around the back of Harry’s neck, pulling him closer like he can anchor them both in the moment.

Breaths become a necessary thing, so they pull back.

“But if you’re willing…” Harry whispers, hands sliding under Louis’ shirt, fingertips brushing just along Louis’ happy trail, “I want to try something.”

“Yeah?” Louis smirks, “Are you gonna tell me, or?” His hands squeeze Harry’s hips, grounding and a little possessive, but his tone stays light—inviting, teasing, always just on the edge of giving in.

Harry’s breath hitches. He leans in, brushing his nose against Louis’ cheek, the corner of his mouth curling like he’s got a secret he’s about to whisper into a half-dream. “Do you trust me?”

Louis hums low in his throat, somewhere between amused and absolutely undone. “That’s a loaded question, professor.”

Harry noses down along Louis’ jaw, lips brushing warm and featherlight over the skin just beneath his ear. “Take it as a yes-or-no,” he murmurs. “Nice and simple.”

“Simple,” Louis repeats, like the word itself is a joke. His grip tightens just slightly on Harry’s waist, fingers curling into the soft give of him. “Yeah. I trust you.”

Harry pulls back just enough to meet his eyes—wide, sea glass green and blinking like he can’t believe he got the answer he wanted. His smile flickers into something crooked and devastating. “Good,” he breathes, and then—without giving Louis another second to overthink it—he shifts his weight just right, hips pressing down in that maddeningly slow, precise way.

Louis moans. Loudly. Embarrassingly. The kind of sound that feels like it was punched out of him against his will. He bites his bottom lip hard, like that might somehow shove the sound back in, but it’s too late—Harry’s already grinning like he’s just won a prize at a fair.

“Interesting,” Harry murmurs, eyes glittering with mischief as he dips down to press a kiss just beneath Louis’ jaw. “Good to know that’s the button.”

“You’re a menace,” Louis says, voice hoarse, half a breath and half a groan. “You should have to register that mouth as a deadly weapon.”

Harry hums like he’s considering it. “Only if I get to use it on you,” he says, far too casually, before capturing Louis’ wrists and gently pressing them above his head. His grip isn’t tight—just firm enough to hold, to ask can I? without saying the words.

Louis blinks up at him, breath catching in his throat, then lets out a ragged exhale and relaxes completely beneath him, the smallest smile curling at the corner of his lips. “You’re lucky I like being manhandled by someone with such pretty eyes.”

Harry laughs, low and fond, then reaches down with his free hand to tug Louis’ shirt up—not off, just up, baring his chest like he’s unwrapping something fragile and important. His palm slides across warm skin, fingers brushing over ribs, a teasing graze of knuckles beneath a nipple, and Louis flinches with a hiss.

And then Harry’s body is moving again—slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the way Louis feels under him with every roll of his hips. He shifts back just enough to build space, tension, heat—and then presses forward again, a slow grind that has Louis arching up like he’s caught on a hook.

It doesn’t feel like just pleasure—it feels like ruin. Like every nerve in Louis’ body has decided to scream in harmony. Like he’s being undone at the seams by nothing more than friction and the sound of Harry’s breath catching in his throat.

Louis doesn’t fight it. He doesn’t even try. He just lies there and takes it, like he’s being worshipped and ruined in equal measure, and maybe he is. Because the way Harry’s moving, looking at him, touching him—it’s borderline illegal.

Then Harry stills, lips brushing open-mouthed kisses along Louis’ chest, tongue tracing a lazy, reverent line toward his sternum. He pauses there, lets his fingers toy with the waistband of Louis’ shorts, and looks up through his lashes with a gaze so loaded it knocks the air out of Louis’ lungs.

“What’s my birthday?” Harry asks, voice soft and playful—but his eyes are molten.

Louis blinks, thrown sideways by the question, and also absolutely wrecked. “What?” he croaks, barely able to focus. “Harry, are you—are you trying to pop quiz me while you’re grinding on my dick?”

Harry bites back a smirk, eyes sparkling. “I just think,” he says, lips brushing lower now, “that if I’m gonna do sinful things to you, you should at least know when to buy me presents.”

Louis groans like he’s in actual pain. “Oh my god. Stop talking.”

Harry hums against his skin. “Make me.”

Louis tries. He really does. He grabs at Harry’s hair, pulls him in for a kiss meant to shut him up—but Harry just laughs against his mouth, pleased and smug and impossibly, infuriatingly hot.

“February first,” Louis gasps between kisses. “Your birthday’s February first, you absolute bastard.”

Harry’s grin turns victorious. “Knew you loved me.”

Louis pulls back just enough to narrow his eyes. “You keep grinding like that, and I might even buy you something nice.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, breathless now, mouth already trailing lower again. “Like what?”

Louis threads his fingers through Harry’s curls, tugging just enough to make him groan. “Undecided,” he whispers. “Maybe something leather. Maybe something edible. Depends how well you behave.”

Harry looks up, dazed and delighted. “I’ll be a menace.”

Louis grins, wicked and warm. “Then I’ll spoil you rotten.”

“Good,” Harry hums, voice low and satisfied, like he’s giving Louis gold stars instead of grinding him into the mattress. He keeps moving, slow and devastating, lips trailing wherever he can reach—his mouth brushing across collarbones, jawline, the soft space just under Louis’ ear where his breath stutters embarrassingly hard.

“Shit—” Louis gasps when Harry shifts, just a little, but it’s perfect, and Louis feels it like a lightning strike through his spine. “Holy—fuck, Harry.”

Harry laughs, wicked and breathless. “What’s my favorite color?”

“Green,” Louis blurts, voice cracking on the syllable like his brain is fighting to keep up with the rest of him.

“Good,” Harry says again, a purr this time, as he slides lower down Louis’ body, trailing kisses like breadcrumbs, each one softer than the last but no less destructive. Then he pauses at the waistband of Louis’ shorts, lips hovering there, breath warm, teasing.

“What’s my favorite subject?” he asks, far too innocent for someone with his tongue currently pressed against Louis’ hipbone.

Louis’s head falls back on the pillow, a whimper slipping out. “Anatomy, apparently,” he mutters, teeth catching on the words like he’s barely holding them together.

“Wrong,” Harry sing-songs, suddenly pulling back, his weight lifting slightly—less down and more up, like a punishment. It feels like having sunshine snatched away mid-kiss, like a blessing revoked.

“Wait—what?” Louis blinks at him, dazed and wrecked. “How the fuck is it not anatomy? You’ve been practically writing an essay on my abs with your mouth.”

Harry grins, smug and a little evil. “My favorite subject is English, Louis. You know—language, metaphor, poetic structure. The art of turning someone into a simile and making them feel it.”

Louis makes a wounded noise, somewhere between a moan and a laugh. Harry’s eyes flash, the challenge lighting him up from the inside like a storm in a snow globe. He tips his head to the side, curls brushing his chest as he bites his lip, grinning. “One last chance, what’s my favorite thing about you.”

Louis gapes up at him like he’s just been hit with a trick question on an exam he wasn’t told to study for. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again—his brain trying to push past the fog of arousal and absurdity.

“You’re seriously quizzing me while giving me the best lap dance of my life?” he croaks, breath hitching when Harry shifts just slightly, thighs tightening around his hips like punctuation.

Harry only grins, wicked and expectant, fingers playing lightly along the waistband of Louis’ shorts like he’s flipping through flashcards.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, “answer right and I might keep going.”

Louis groans, flinging an arm over his eyes. “You are deranged.”

“But hot,” Harry says sweetly, “so that cancels it out.”

Louis exhales a laugh, sharp and desperate, then drags his arm away to look up at Harry again—his cheeks flushed, curls a mess, lips kiss-bitten. It’s the most beautiful kind of chaos.

“Your favorite thing about me?” he repeats, voice raw and low. “Is it… my devastating wit?”

Harry hums thoughtfully, rolling his hips once, slow and punishing. “Close.”

Louis sucks in a breath, jaw clenched. “My ass?”

“Tempting,” Harry says, licking his lips. “But no.”

“My dick?” Louis guesses, Harry doesn’t even answer just glares at him, shifting in a way Louis knows the answer is no.

“My charm?” Louis offers, his voice faltering as Harry leans in to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, gentle and aching.

Harry pulls back just far enough to whisper, “Try again.”

Louis lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but there’s something softer underneath now, something trembling at the edges of his chest. He cups Harry’s cheek with one hand, thumb brushing over the curve of it.

“My heart,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “Even when I’m too much. Even when I’m scared. You like that I keep showing up.”

Harry stills.

His whole body seems to go quiet, like someone turned off the background noise. His eyes go wide and soft and impossibly full, and his mouth opens like he’s trying to say something but can’t quite find the words.

Louis swallows, heart thundering in his chest. “That’s it, right?”

Harry nods—just once, shaky and reverent—and then kisses him like he’s falling into something. Like he’s been holding back and finally, finally can stop pretending he’s not all in.

It’s slow, tender, deep. The kind of kiss that melts tension and sets off fireworks at the same time. The kind of kiss that answers questions that haven’t even been asked yet.

When they part, Harry presses their foreheads together, breath warm between them.

“I love that you keep showing up,” he murmurs. “Even when you’re scared. Especially then.”

Louis laughs, broken and breathless. “Yeah, well. I love that you quiz me while grinding on me, so I guess we’re both disasters.”

Harry grins, dizzy and fond. “Hot, emotionally vulnerable disasters.”

Louis pulls him down into another kiss. “The best kind.”