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The front door opened with a soft click, followed by the rustle of plastic and the low shuffle of shoes against hardwood. Rain whispered against the windows; London gray, gentle and steady, the kind of weather that usually made Harry hum under his breath on the walk home.
But tonight, there was no humming.
Louis barely looked up from the couch at first. He was curled in his usual corner, legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves shoved over his hands, half-watching a game show with the volume turned low. The lights were off except for the lamp in the corner, casting everything in a soft amber haze. The kind of cozy glow that usually made Harry drop-kiss the top of his head in greeting, call him granddad for nesting so early in the evening.
None of that happened.
“Got the good biscuits?” Louis called out, casual.
No response.
He turned his head lazily toward the entryway, expecting some kind of grunt or sarcastic remark, maybe even a damp curl popping out from under a hoodie. Instead, he caught only the blur of Harry’s silhouette moving past the living room; hood up, plastic bags in hand, head low. His steps were quick but not hurried. Just muted. Distant.
Louis straightened a bit.
“Haz?”
Still nothing.
Harry turned the corner into the kitchen without so much as a glance in Louis’ direction. He set the bags down on the counter with a thud that sounded too loud for a flat so quiet, then disappeared down the hallway. The bedroom door clicked shut a moment later. Not slammed. Just gently, definitely closed.
Louis blinked.
His chest gave a subtle squeeze, the kind he only felt when something was off and he hadn’t figured out what yet. He replayed the image of Harry’s face as he passed; blotchy cheeks, rain-speckled lashes, lips pressed tight like he was holding something in. His eyes had been red. Not tired-red. Crying red.
Louis sat all the way up now, legs pulling in, blanket sliding to the floor.
Something was wrong.
Really wrong.
He stood slowly and padded to the kitchen, trying not to overthink it, even though his gut already had. He told himself it was probably just a bad day. Maybe traffic. Maybe the weather. But Harry would’ve at least looked at him, gave a soft smile, or even went to Louis for comfort.
He stopped short at the counter.
The groceries were there, still in their bags, barely unpacked. One bag sagged sideways, its contents half-spilled. Harry never left things like that. He had this neurotic little habit of organizing everything as he went; eggs in first, then fridge stuff, then snacks, like unpacking groceries was some kind of calming ritual.
Louis exhaled through his nose and stepped forward. He tugged the bag upright and began pulling things out one by one.
Bananas. Slightly green, the way Louis liked them. A few cereal boxes. Oat milk. A familiar tea blend Harry always bought but never drank unless he was anxious.
In the second bag, a bottle of paracetamol.
And then, bandages.
A full box, unopened.
Louis paused.
A few loose receipts rustled as he pulled the box out, holding it in his hand for a second too long. Not weird, really. Bandages were normal. Sensible. They’d run low once on tour and made a whole thing out of hunting down plasters in some tiny town in Norway.
Still, Harry hadn’t said they needed more. And they hadn’t.
No accidents. No burns or cuts. No fights with kitchen drawers.
He frowned, just slightly. Maybe Harry had grabbed them on impulse, just for precaution. Or maybe he’d scraped his arm carrying gear in yesterday and didn’t want to mention it. For half a second, Louis entertained a ridiculous thought: what if he’d gotten into it with a pap again? Thrown a punch like he used to threaten to do when he was younger and full of fire?
That didn’t make sense either.
None of it did.
He set the bandages on the counter. Didn’t tuck them away. Just left them there.
His stomach was beginning to knot. Everything felt off, unusual.
He glanced down the hall toward the bedroom. The door was still shut. Rain tapped against the windows. The kitchen ticked with quiet; clock, fridge, kettle cooling.
He rubbed his palms against his thighs. It would probably be best to give him a minute. Let him breathe.
He stood there, unmoving, for almost a full minute.
Then he stepped into the hall. His mind full of worries and concerns.
The hallway was quiet, long and shadowed, lit only by the warm spill of light from the kitchen behind him. Rain still tapped steadily against the windows, a gentle percussion in the silence.
Louis walked slow, socked feet silent on the hardwood, past framed photos and half-closed doors. He passed their bedroom first. The door was cracked open slightly, the bed untouched. That sent a jolt through his chest.
Harry wasn’t in there.
He reached the end of the hall and paused.
The bathroom door was closed.
Soft light bled out from under the frame.
Louis didn’t hear water running, but something about the air felt damp. Heavy. Like steam or tears or the kind of silence that only followed crying.
He hesitated. Then knocked, gentle.
“Haz?”
No answer.
He waited. Five seconds. Ten.
“Harry, love… it’s me.”
Still nothing. But then, he heard it. The sound of movement, a quiet scuff on tile, a breath drawn too sharply.
Louis’ chest pinched. He reached for the knob just as it turned from the other side.
The door creaked open slowly, and there was Harry.
He looked like he’d been peeled open.
His hoodie was gone. His curls were wet, not from the rain, but from washing his face, probably. His cheeks were flushed, eyes red and glassy, lashes clumped together. He looked stripped down, brittle around the edges, like one more word might shatter him.
And he didn’t say anything.
He just stood there in the doorway, holding his breath like he was waiting to be yelled at or told off or told to pull himself together.
Louis didn’t do any of that.
He opened his arms.
Harry blinked once, and folded into him like he’d been waiting all night to fall apart.
Louis wrapped him up, tight and careful, hands smoothing over the back of his tee shirt, one palm curling protectively around the back of his head. Harry clung to him with shaking arms, face tucked into Louis’ neck, breath stuttering like he was trying not to cry again and failing miserably.
Louis walked them slowly backward, guiding them out of the doorway, down the hall, toward their room. Harry followed without protest, his grip never loosening.
They didn’t talk.
They didn’t need to.
Louis sat them down on the edge of the bed, still holding him close, letting him breathe and break and breathe again.
After a while, when Harry’s shaking had dulled to a soft tremor, Louis leaned back just enough to brush the hair from his forehead. His voice was gentle, so low it barely counted as sound.
“Want to tell me what’s going on, sweetheart?”
Harry was quiet. For a moment, Louis thought he might not answer. Then…
“Look at Twitter,” he whispered, his voice shaky and raw.
Louis didn’t ask questions. He just reached over to the nightstand, picked up his phone, and opened the app.
It didn’t take long.
It was everywhere.
Post after post. Screencaps. Quotes. Reactions. Headlines.
HARRY STYLES COMES OUT: ‘I’M GAY’
#HeWasOurs trending with photos of crying fans
Thousands of quote tweets—disappointment, mockery, cruel jokes disguised as “opinions”
Louis’ stomach twisted as he scrolled. He stopped reading after the fifth post that called Harry selfish, after the sixth one that said they’d “lost respect” for him. The comments under fan edits were worse.
His thumb froze.
He looked up slowly.
“You told them?”
Harry nodded without lifting his head from Louis’ shoulder. His voice was raw. “Management said it could be quiet. Just… a statement. No interview. Just honesty, I could be myself. Said I should control the story.”
Louis swallowed hard. His jaw clenched. He kept his voice even.
“They said this would help?”
“They said it wouldn’t matter.”
Louis tilted his head back and let out a breath through his nose. Furious didn’t even begin to cover it, but now wasn’t the time.
He looked down again and gently brushed his fingers along Harry’s cheek. “And you didn’t tell me you were gonna do it?”
“I didn’t want to drag you into it,” Harry whispered. “I thought… I thought if it went badly, at least you wouldn’t get blamed. If it went well, we could…”
He trailed off.
Louis nodded, soft and understanding, but it still hurt in that dull, quiet way when someone you love thinks they have to protect you from themselves.
“You don’t have to carry this alone, y’know,” he said, voice thick but calm. “You’re not a burden.” His arms begin to move down to his arms.
Harry flinched, just barely.
And that’s when Louis knew.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face. “Harry… what happened?”
Harry shook his head. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
But his arms were trembling. His fingers still clenched in Louis’ sweatshirt like he was anchoring himself. His eyes darted, not quite meeting Louis’s.
Louis’s gaze drifted downward. To Harry’s sleeves.
They were pushed down a little too far. The cuffs wrinkled and tight around his wrists.
Louis’s heart dropped into his stomach.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t accuse. Just reached up slowly and touched the edge of the sleeve, his fingers warm and steady.
Harry didn’t pull away.
He just shut his eyes, lips trembling, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Louis cupped his cheek with one hand. “Don’t be sorry.”
Harry finally looked at him, like it hurt to do it.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” he choked. “They all hate me. And I thought; if I just felt something else for a second, anything else…”
He couldn’t finish.
Louis leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Harry’s. “I’m right here,” he whispered. “You’re not doing this by yourself. Not ever.”
The room was dim and quiet except for the soft rhythm of the rain outside. It tapped against the windows like a lullaby, low and constant, just enough to blur the silence without interrupting it.
Harry sat on the edge of the bed like his bones were too heavy for him to move.
Louis didn’t say anything right away. He just reached for him slowly, letting his hand hover for a moment before settling gently on Harry’s knee.
“Let’s get you warm, yeah?” His voice was soft, coaxing. Like he wasn’t trying to fix anything, just… make it a little easier to exist.
Harry didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either.
Louis stood up and walked around the bed, tugging open the top drawer of Harry’s dresser. His fingers closed around a soft, worn-in shirt, one of Harry’s old sleep ones, long enough to swallow him whole, faded from too many washes. Pale gray with a stretched collar and a tiny hole near the hem.
He brought it over without a word.
Harry looked up at him, lashes still wet, mouth parted like he wanted to apologize again but didn’t have the strength.
Louis didn’t give him the chance.
He crouched in front of him slowly, hands resting on Harry’s knees. “Can I?” he asked, tilting his head toward the hoodie.
Harry nodded, barely.
Louis reached up and tugged it off gently, careful not to make him lift his arms too high. He folded it neatly, setting it on the foot of the bed like it was something fragile. Harry sat there in just his undershirt, arms tight around his waist, skin pale and goosebumped from the chill still clinging to him.
Louis reached for the shirt next.
“Arms up,” he murmured.
Harry obeyed, slow and quiet.
Louis slipped it over his head, careful with the sleeves, smoothing it down once it was on. It swallowed Harry’s frame, soft and baggy and comforting. He brushed a hand through his curls as he stood again, then leaned down to press a soft kiss to the top of his head.
“Let’s get you comfy.”
Harry didn’t argue.
Louis stepped back toward the dresser and pulled out a pair of sweatpants, then crouched again. He tapped lightly at Harry’s knee, giving him a crooked smile. “Alright, up you go. Let me help.”
Harry gave the faintest huff of air, maybe not quite a laugh, but something close. He stood slowly, and Louis helped him step out of his jeans, guiding him like he was handling something delicate. Which, in a way, he was.
He held out the sweats and helped Harry into them, pulling the waistband up carefully before letting his hands settle at Harry’s hips. His thumbs rubbed slow, grounding circles against the cotton.
“There we go,” Louis said gently, like it was the last puzzle piece falling into place. “Much better.”
Harry’s shoulders dropped just slightly. He wasn’t crying anymore, but his eyes were still glassy, his mouth tight in that way that said he was holding too much in.
Louis could feel the ache of it under his skin.
He held out a hand again, palm up. “Come here.”
Harry took it without hesitation.
Louis led him to the far side of the bed and pulled back the duvet. Harry crawled in wordlessly, curling onto his side, his back brushing against Louis’s chest as Louis slid in behind him.
The blanket settled over them like a weightless shield.
Harry pressed close, letting his head rest just below Louis’s chin. Louis wrapped his arms around him slowly, one around his waist, the other tucked under his neck, fingers stroking along his ribs like a lullaby.
They lay there in silence for a while. The kind of silence that didn’t ask for anything, didn’t demand explanations. Just warmth and breath and the occasional heartbeat Louis could feel through the cotton of Harry’s shirt.
“You’re safe now,” Louis whispered after a while, voice barely audible against the curve of Harry’s shoulder. “Just rest. I’ve got you.”
Harry didn’t answer, but the way he melted deeper into Louis said everything.
Louis pressed a kiss to his temple and closed his eyes.
He could wait.
There was no rush. No pressure. Just the slow, careful way love was supposed to feel; quiet and steady and all-encompassing.
**
The storm outside hadn’t let up. Rain still tapped against the windows in soft waves, like it was mimicking the rise and fall of Harry’s breath.
Louis hadn’t moved in over half an hour.
He just lay there, wrapped around Harry like he could shield him from the outside world. His fingers moved in soft, thoughtless patterns, rubbing little circles into Harry’s hip, stroking the curve of his ribs, brushing through the curls that stuck to the nape of his neck.
Harry was quiet. Not asleep. Just… still.
Louis didn’t push.
But after a while, he dipped his head, resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder.
“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.
Harry shifted slightly in his arms. “Yeah.”
Louis’s voice stayed low. “The bandages on your arm. That wasn’t the first time… was it?”
He didn’t say it accusingly. Just gently. Like he already knew the answer and wanted Harry to know he was safe in telling the truth.
Harry didn’t answer right away. His fingers clutched lightly at the edge of the duvet, knuckles white under the soft fabric.
“No,” he whispered finally.
Louis exhaled slowly. Not relief. Not surprise. Just the kind of breath you take when your heart breaks and you need to keep it quiet.
“How long?” he asked, softer still.
Harry’s voice was even quieter. “Since last year.”
Louis closed his eyes.
They’d been on tour. Recording. Running on fumes and autopilot and miles of smiling for cameras.
He hadn’t noticed.
“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered.
That snapped Louis out of it. He opened his eyes and leaned in, shifting so Harry would look at him. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize.”
Harry blinked up at him, eyes glassy again. “I didn’t know how else to deal with it.”
Louis touched his face, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Haz. But I want to understand.”
Harry swallowed thickly. His eyes drifted away again, toward the window. “It’s not about… dying. It’s not that. It’s just…” He paused. “Sometimes it feels like I’m full of noise. Like my thoughts are shouting at me. And I can’t shut them up unless I feel something louder.”
Louis didn’t speak. Just listened, his hand never still, tracing slow lines across Harry’s skin like he was reminding him he was real.
“It’s not always bad,” Harry said quietly. “It’s not every day. Some days are fine. Some days are… good. But then something stupid happens, someone says something, or I mess up a lyric, or I see my name trending; and it’s like my brain flips a switch.”
“And hurting yourself helps?” Louis asked gently, without judgment.
Harry nodded. “Just for a minute. It makes the noise stop. Makes everything feel quiet. And then I hate myself for doing it, and it gets worse, and I try not to, but…” His voice cracked. “But sometimes I don’t know how else to get it out.”
Louis’s throat burned.
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead, then another to the bridge of his nose.
“I’m so sorry you’ve been dealing with this on your own,” he murmured. “You never had to.”
Harry gave a tiny shrug. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”
Louis flinched like he’d been slapped.
He pulled back enough to look him in the eyes. “You are never a burden. Never.”
Harry’s eyes filled again.
Louis cupped his face with both hands. “You hear me, baby? Not once. Not ever. You’re allowed to feel things. You’re allowed to be overwhelmed. That doesn’t make you a problem.”
Harry’s lip trembled. He turned his face into Louis’s palm and closed his eyes.
Louis kissed the corner of his mouth. “I’m not mad. Just… heartbroken that I didn’t know. That you thought you had to hide this from me.”
“I didn’t want you to think I was… broken.”
“You’re not broken.” Louis rested their foreheads together. “You’re human. You feel more than most people ever will, and that’s not a flaw, Harry. It’s not something to fix. It’s part of what makes you so beautiful.”
Harry didn’t say anything. He just leaned forward until their lips met, soft and slow, like he needed to feel it to believe it. Louis kissed him back with everything he had, gentle and steady, like a promise.
When they pulled apart, Harry’s cheeks were flushed and wet again.
Louis kissed the tears too.
Then he settled back against the pillow and pulled Harry tighter into his chest.
“Next time it gets loud,” he whispered, “you come to me, yeah? You tell me. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s two in the morning. I want to be the one who helps you turn the volume down. Not the one you hide from.”
Harry nodded against his collarbone, voice wrecked. “Okay.”
“You can still talk to someone, if you want. A therapist. A counselor. But either way, I’m not going anywhere. I’m in this with you.”
Harry sniffled. “You don’t have to do that.”
Louis shook his head, smiling faintly. “No, but I want to. I love you, Harry. You don’t scare me.”
And that, more than anything, made Harry fall apart.
But this time, it wasn’t silent or ashamed. It wasn’t heavy.
It was soft, and full of air, and surrounded by hands that held him through it. Louis let him cry, let him melt, let him breathe. He kissed the top of his head and rubbed his back and whispered, “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” until Harry’s tears dried on his skin.
They stayed like that for a while, curled into each other, breathing in sync. The world had gone quiet again, the kind of quiet that comes after a storm, like even the universe was catching its breath.
Harry shifted slightly, nudging his nose into Louis’s neck.
“I love you,” he said, low and hoarse, not a declaration, but a reminder.
Not the kind you say casually before bed or over morning coffee. The kind that meant “I’m still here. I still want to be here.” The kind that was shaky but sure, said with his whole bruised heart.
Louis wrapped his arms around him tighter, tucking Harry even closer against his chest. “I know,” he whispered back. “I’ve got you.”
Harry hummed something soft in reply, the tension in his body finally starting to let go.
And they just stayed there, pressed together under the covers, safe in the soft dark—two people, one tangle of limbs and love, surviving it all just by holding on.
Harry fell asleep with his face tucked against Louis’s neck, breath warm and even. The kind of sleep that comes after a storm; bone-tired and raw.
Louis didn’t move for a long time.
He kept one hand in Harry’s curls, the other splayed low across his back, grounding him. He watched his chest rise and fall, the way his lashes trembled every so often, like he was still fighting something even in his dreams.
And the longer he lay there, the more the quiet began to pulse.
Not with peace, but with rage.
It built slow, curling in his chest like smoke. At first it was just a pressure. Then it burned. Because the more he replayed the last few hours; the tears, the shaking, the bandages, the more his stomach turned.
Not at Harry. Never at Harry.
At them.
At the people who were supposed to protect him. Who let him walk through fire for a headline and didn’t lift a single finger when the flames got too high.
Louis clenched his jaw and carefully, carefully, slid out from under Harry. He pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead as he went.
“Sleep, baby,” he whispered. “I’ll be right back.”
He crossed the room, grabbed his own phone off the dresser, and padded barefoot into the hallway, closing the bedroom door just enough to keep the light out.
The glow from his screen made his eyes ache, but the fury kept him focused.
First, Twitter.
He opened the app, thumb hovering for a second.
Then, he typed.
“If your first reaction to someone living their truth is hate, you were never a real fan to begin with. You don’t deserve Harry. He’s braver than all of you combined.”
No hashtags. No names. Just that. Direct and sharp enough to cut.
He hit send without flinching.
Then, still holding his phone, he returned to the bedroom, sat gently on the edge of the bed, and reached for Harry’s phone on the nightstand.
It was unlocked already, Harry had never bothered setting a code for him.
Louis opened the Twitter app, went straight to the settings, and silenced his mentions. Turned off notifications. Blocked a few of the worst replies he scrolled past. His hands were shaking by then, but he did it anyway; quietly, efficiently, the way you clean up a wound someone else left.
It still didn’t feel like enough.
So he opened his email app back on his phone and begin typing.
Subject line: Unacceptable.
“I want to know why you approved Harry’s coming out statement but haven’t made a single post of support. Not one tweet. Not one press release. Not even a text to him.
You threw him to the wolves and walked away.
You told him it would be okay. You said you had his back.
And now he’s lying in bed with tear tracks down his face, shaking in my arms, because the world is ripping him apart and none of you have said a word.
Either you fix this, or I will. Loudly.
– Louis”
He stared at the message for a long moment.
Then sent it.
He stood there for another minute or two, letting the silence settle, the adrenaline fade. His chest still burned. His fingers twitched.
But it helped. A little.
He slid Harry’s phone back onto the nightstand, careful not to wake him, and climbed back into bed.
Immediately, instinctively, Harry reached for him in his sleep. Louis gathered him close, wrapping his arms around him and resting his chin on top of his head.
“‘M here,” he whispered, barely audible. “I’ve got you.”
Harry didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to. His body relaxed, pressing closer, breath evening out again.
Louis closed his eyes, lips pressed to Harry’s temple.
He was tired, and raw, and still furious. But Harry was safe in his arms. The world could wait.
For now, it was just the two of them. And Louis wasn’t going anywhere.
**
The sunlight crept in slow through the gap in the curtains, painting soft golden lines across the hardwood floor and the rumpled bedsheets. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that only came after a storm, like even the house knew it needed to be gentle today.
Harry stirred before Louis, still wrapped up in the thick comforter, limbs tangled with his. His eyes opened slowly, blinking against the soft morning light, a little disoriented until he felt it, Louis’s arm slung protectively around his waist, their legs knotted together, Louis’s face pressed into the space between his shoulder and chest.
He was still here.
Not that Harry ever doubted he would be. But waking up to it, to the truth of it, settled something deep in his chest.
His body felt a little sore, a little heavy, but warmer than it had in days. His brain wasn’t racing for once. Just… quiet.
Harry looked down at the boy curled against him and felt something tender swell in his throat. Louis looked peaceful when he slept, less guarded, soft around the edges. His lashes fanned across his cheeks and his lips were parted slightly, his breath warm where it hit Harry’s skin.
Harry reached out and gently brushed a bit of hair off Louis’s forehead, fingers lingering. “You’re so good to me,” he whispered, voice hoarse from sleep and something heavier.
Louis stirred, eyes fluttering open. He blinked up at Harry for a moment, like he was still catching up to the day. “Hi,” he mumbled, voice rough and low. “You okay?”
Harry nodded slowly. “A little better.”
Louis shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at him properly. “How’s your head?”
“Still foggy. Still a little heavy,” Harry admitted. “But better than last night.”
Louis’s hand slid over his, fingers curling around his gently. “You scared me.”
“I know,” Harry said quietly. “I scared me too.”
Louis leaned down and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, letting it linger. “You wanna talk more? You don’t have to. Just asking.”
Harry thought for a moment. The fear was still there, but the silence between them felt different now, softer. Like something that could hold him instead of swallow him.
“Yeah. I think I do.”
Louis’s thumb brushed the side of his hand in slow, soothing circles. “Okay.”
“I don’t really know how to explain all of it,” Harry said slowly. “It’s like… sometimes it just builds up. All the noise. The pressure. I feel like I’m too much for everyone. And it’s stupid, but… hurting myself makes it quiet for a second. Makes me feel like I’m in control again.”
Louis’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything right away. He just nodded, eyes never leaving Harry’s. “It’s not stupid. I hate that you feel that way. But I get it.”
“I’m trying to stop,” Harry whispered. “I want to. I just… I need help.”
“You’ve got it,” Louis said instantly. “Whatever you need, I’ll give it. I’ll sit with you through the hard stuff. You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”
Harry’s eyes went glassy. “I know. Last night… the way you held me… it made me feel safe. I haven’t felt that in a long time.”
Louis leaned in and kissed his cheek, then his jaw, then right over his heart. “You are safe. With me, you always are.”
Harry’s voice was barely a breath. “Thank you. For everything. I saw your tweet.”
Louis’s mouth twitched into a guilty smile. “I was pissed.”
Harry gave a soft laugh, quiet and scratchy. “I could tell.”
“I also turned off your mentions and blocked some of the worst people,” Louis added, threading their fingers together. “Hope that’s alright.”
“You took my phone?” Harry teased, a smile finally starting to tug at the corner of his mouth.
“You were unconscious,” Louis deadpanned. “Sue me.”
Harry laughed again, something real in it this time. “It’s more than alright. It means a lot.”
“I also emailed management,” Louis said, a little darker now. “Told them exactly what I thought of their silence.”
Harry stared at him, a little stunned. “You did?”
“Hell yeah, I did,” Louis said. “They said they supported you, but they didn’t show it. They let you face it alone. I’m not letting that slide.”
Harry reached up and cupped Louis’s cheek, thumb brushing under his eye. “You’re always protecting me.”
Louis turned his head to kiss Harry’s palm. “I’ll never stop. Even if you don’t always think you deserve it.”
Harry swallowed hard. “I do now. I think I do.”
Louis smiled, soft and radiant. “Good. Took you long enough.”
They lay there for a while longer, arms and legs tangled, the world outside still mercifully quiet.
Eventually, Louis looked over and whispered, “Wanna get up? Make some breakfast? I think there’s still strawberries left.”
Harry hummed, eyes fluttering closed again. “Only if you cut them fancy.”
“I always cut them fancy,” Louis said proudly. “It’s my one domestic talent.”
Harry cracked a sleepy grin and rolled into him, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “I love you.”
Louis smiled against his skin. “I love you more.”
He nudged Harry gently. “Come on. Let’s make breakfast. Then we’ll figure out how to tell the world to piss off, together.”
And when Harry laughed, really laughed, it sounded like healing.