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Harry and Louis had been planning this weekend for weeks—meticulously, secretly, and with the kind of precision usually reserved for covert operations or last-minute school projects. The thing is, having three small (and, more importantly, wildly restless) children doesn't leave much room for romance. Harry always insists they all take after Louis. Late-night cuddles often get interrupted by Theo scaring Darcy again, or Ryan declaring, at 11:47 p.m., that he simply cannot sleep and must now live in their bed permanently.
So when they finally managed to offload the kids at the Tomlinsons’ for a full weekend (an absolutely rare miracle) they were ready for uninterrupted love and luxury.
And then, of course, they had a fight.
Not even a real fight, honestly. Something dumb. But they were both tired and stubborn and maybe a little too excited, which is a terrible cocktail, and the argument snowballed faster than Louis could say, “You're being dramatic,” which, as Harry pointed out, was deeply ironic.
After hugging the kids goodbye and offering Louis’ mum an almost suspiciously enthusiastic ‘thank you’ (she was, after all, saving them from a weekend of domestic chaos), Harry and Louis watched the front door close behind her.
Their faces changed instantly. The beaming, borderline manic smiles dropped into matching grimaces of quiet offence. Of course, they weren’t going to talk to each other. That much had been silently agreed.
All their carefully laid plans went down the drain. The weekend that was meant to be romantic and restorative would now be spent sulking in the same house, pretending the other didn’t exist.
Still, the house was undeniably set for romance. The lights were low, the air gently scented with something floral, candles were scattered about, though Louis hadn’t actually got round to lighting them before the argument. Romantic music still played softly in the background. It should’ve been a dream.
Harry even laid out the clothes he had prepared for the restaurant on the sofa. Of course, this was before their argument escalated. Louis had promised him the very best offensively expensive restaurant and proper, gentlemanly behaviour. So Harry, excited, had gone all out. He’d ironed his favourite Louis shirt (the same one he had given Louis for their last anniversary), paired with dark, classic trousers. Harry was particularly looking forward to that bit, as he usually only saw Louis in sweatpants or shorts. For himself, he’d chosen the green shirt (the one Louis always said brought out his eyes) and now it, too, sat untouched. Because, naturally, the restaurant was cancelled.
The silence between them was loud.
They could have sulked forever, honestly. But then the doorbell rang. Both of them turned towards it like it had personally betrayed them. Harry opened it.
A courier stood there, looking mildly overwhelmed, holding what could only be described as a floral monstrosity. A bouquet, utterly ridiculous in scale. Ivory roses, peonies, wildflowers in soft shades, all bundled into a bouquet so enormous it nearly swallowed the poor man whole.
“There’s... a note,” the courier offered helpfully, peering around the blooms.
Harry took it without saying a word. The bouquet was so large that it covered his entire torso. When he turned back inside, Louis, still standing at the edge of the hallway, saw only a wobbling wall of petals floating into the kitchen.
From somewhere behind the bouquet, Harry’s voice floated back: “They’re for you.”
Louis crossed his arms. “Bit much, aren’t they?”
A pause. Then Harry’s head popped out from behind the roses, just long enough to glare at him.
“Shut up,” he muttered, walking past Louis with the most energetic stride a person carrying a bouquet could muster. He dropped the thing onto the kitchen island with a theatrical thud, petals puffing into the air.
Louis tried not to smirk. He failed, lips twitching as he reached for the little card nestled among the blooms. Harry didn’t look his way, but he definitely noticed.
Louis read aloud with a dry tone, “‘I love you more than anything. P.S. You owe me the longest lovemaking in history tonight .’”
He blinked at it, trying very hard to keep a straight face. “So... is that offer still on the table?”
Harry finally turned to look at him, brows raised like Louis had just personally insulted him. “Are you being serious right now?”
Louis shrugged. “Well, the note does say—”
Before he could finish, Harry snatched the card out of his hand with a dramatic scoff and turned away.
“Unbelievable.”
“Alright, alright,” Louis said, turning his attention to the flowers. He gripped the stems and tried to lift them off the counter, nearly knocking a wine glass over in the process. “Christ, what did you order? A wedding centerpiece for a cathedral?”
Harry gave him a long, slow look from the hallway, arms crossed.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he muttered.
Louis grinned, breathless from lifting. “I mean... a little. You are weirdly strong.”
“I cannot with you,” Harry sighed and turned on his heel, disappearing into the living room.
Louis chuckled softly to himself, still clutching the flowers. “Guess that’s a no on the history-making lovemaking,” he called after him.
“Don’t push it, Louis,” he heard from the other room.
Louis lingered in the doorway for a moment, tapping his fingers against the frame. Then, with a soft exhale, he wandered into the living room. Harry sat on the sofa in complete silence, arms folded, staring at a blank TV screen like it might eventually entertain him out of sheer guilt.
“The telly’s off,” Louis said flatly.
Harry didn’t blink. “Is that funny to you?”
“A little,” Louis admitted, lips twitching in betrayal of his tone. He shifted awkwardly, then cleared his throat. “I, um… I already made the down payment for the table.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What are you on about?”
“The dinner reservation?” Louis gestured vaguely toward the front door. “The one we planned for this very romantic, very not-sulky weekend?”
Harry blinked. “You’re joking.”
Louis raised both eyebrows. “What? I was being proactive.”
Harry didn’t say anything at first. He just stood up, dramatically exhaled through his nose and trudged off down the hallway.
“Wait, are we actually going?” Louis blinked.
Harry reappeared a moment later, already halfway into his trousers, expression carefully blank. “Apparently you’ve paid a non-refundable deposit, and I refuse to let your terrible planning waste money.”
They got dressed in silence. Louis buttoned his shirt slowly, sneaking glances in the mirror at Harry behind him. Harry diligently avoided eye contact, adjusting the cuffs of his green shirt with an unnecessary focus.
“But I’m not talking to you,” Harry said firmly, grabbing his coat from the peg without looking his way.
Louis bit down on a grin, his voice maddeningly calm. “That sounds incredibly mature.”
***
They arrived at the restaurant just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting that stupidly romantic golden glow over everything. The sort of lighting that made buildings look poetic and people look in love. It was infuriating.
Harry walked a step ahead, cool and aloof, like he hadn’t spent the past week texting Louis heart emojis every five minutes.
Louis, ever the optimist, tried gently wrapping his arm around Harry’s waist as they approached the entrance, hoping to melt the cold shoulder he’d been getting all evening.
“Hands off,” Harry hissed, not even glancing his way.
Louis recoiled like he’d touched an electric fence. His arm dropped so fast it looked like it had been snapped down by an invisible string.
“Alright, bloody hell,” he muttered, eyes wide in exaggerated offence. “Didn’t realise you were in witness protection tonight.”
Harry didn’t respond. Just marched up the stairs like a man on a mission to ignore his idiot husband into oblivion. Louis bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. This was going to be a very long, very romantic, very silent dinner.
The tension at the table had reached such absurd proportions that it was impossible to believe. Louis sat back in his chair with feigned nonchalance, crossing his legs, and kept his eyes fixed on Harry, as if he could force him to break by sheer willpower. But Harry was an impregnable fortress today, motionless, his gaze fixed on his plate the entire time.
Then came the waiter.
“Would you like to see the dessert menu?”
Harry didn’t hesitate. “I’ll have the sticky toffee pudding.”
Louis glanced up. “We’ll share.”
“I’m not sharing with you,” Harry said, tone flat, gaze firmly fixed on the tablecloth.
“Nothing for me then,” Louis sighed, all theatrical resignation.
“Order the damn dessert,” Harry snapped, still refusing to look at him.
“I don’t want a dessert,” Louis replied, smug now, just to be difficult.
“Order. The damn. Dessert.”
“I’ll ask for two spoons for that,” Louis said sweetly, turning to the increasingly alarmed waiter with an angelic smile.
“Don’t give him a spoon,” Harry shot back instantly.
The poor waiter blinked, clearly questioning every life choice that had brought him to this precise moment.
“What is wrong with you?” Louis asked, both exasperated and entirely too amused.
“I told you I wasn’t talking to you,” Harry said, finally looking at him, only to regret it immediately when Louis beamed like he’d just won the argument.
The waiter coughed awkwardly. “So… two spoons or…?”
“Just bring the dessert,” Harry muttered, stabbing a piece of bread like it had personally offended him.
“Two spoons,” Louis added brightly, passing the poor guy a sympathetic glance.
The dessert arrived a few minutes later, two spoons placed delicately on the side of the plate like a truce offering. The waiter didn’t stick around. He placed it down with the delicacy of someone handling a bomb and vanished before either of them could open their mouths.
Harry, without missing a beat, reached over, grabbed one of the spoons, and promptly shoved it into his pocket.
Louis blinked. “Pretty sure that’s called stealing.”
“I’ll put it back after I’m done,” Harry said coolly, already reaching for the first bite with his remaining spoon.
“Petty,” Louis muttered, arms crossed, half-smiling.
Harry didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes stayed fixed on the pudding. He took a slow, deliberate bite, savouring it with the drama of a man refusing to acknowledge the person sitting across from him. Louis watched him, all too amused by the sheer level of spite playing out in real time.
For a long moment, the only sounds were the gentle clinks of spoon against ceramic and the low hum of ambient restaurant music.
Then Harry sighed.
The eye roll he gave was so dramatic it made Louis chuckle, but Harry scooped a generous bite of the warm pudding, turned the spoon with flair, and held it out to Louis across the candlelit table.
Louis didn’t even try to hide his smugness as he leaned forward and took the bite.
“Thank you,” he said sweetly, licking a bit of it off his lip just to be extra annoying.
They still weren’t technically speaking. But Harry fed him another spoonful anyway. Then another. By the fifth bite, a couple at the next table smiled fondly at them like they were witnessing some kind of soft-spoken romance.
And to be fair, it did look romantic if you ignored the bit where Harry still hadn’t taken the spoon out of his pocket.
***
They were almost at the front steps when Harry suddenly stopped walking, patting at his coat like he’d lost something crucial.
“Shit, Lou,” he hissed, voice low and dramatic. “I’ve stolen the spoon.”
Louis turned, baffled. “What do you mean?”
Harry looked around like someone might be following them. “It’s still in my pocket.”
There was a moment of silence before Louis burst out laughing, bending over slightly and holding onto the handrails to keep his balance. Harry looked absolutely betrayed.
“What’s funny? Shut up! I’ve stolen the spoon.”
“You say that like you’ve committed grand theft.”
“It’s theft of property, Louis. I’m a criminal.”
“Right. And tomorrow they’ll print your face on the wall with Wanted: Dessert Bandit .”
“I’m serious,” Harry muttered, fishing the spoon out and holding it up in the dark like it might start glowing. “What do we do?”
Louis bit back another laugh, though his shoulders were still shaking. “We give it back tomorrow.”
Harry squinted at him. “And how do you imagine that, exactly? Walk in and be like, ‘Hi, sorry, I was in the middle of not talking to my husband during your pudding and accidentally smuggled this out with me?’”
Louis wiped a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye. “Well, when you put it like that…”
Harry groaned, then looked at the spoon in his hand.
They stepped inside the flat, the door clicking softly shut behind them. Harry held the spoon carefully, cradled in his palm like it was fragile, illegal, or both.
“Louis,” he whispered, voice low and grave, “I’ve actually stolen the spoon.”
Louis raised an eyebrow, leaning casually against the wall. “You’re still stressing about a bloody spoon?”
Harry nodded, biting his lip. “It’s not just a spoon. It’s evidence. What if someone sees it? What if we get caught?”
Louis blinked, amused. “You’re treating this like you just knocked over the Bank of England.”
Harry’s gaze stayed fixed on the spoon, like it might suddenly detonate. “I feel like a criminal.”
With a huff of exaggerated patience, Louis stepped forward and plucked the spoon from his fingers. “Alright, thief. I’m going to hide this before you start planning your getaway.”
“Thank you,” Harry looked up, startled but relieved.
Louis winked and slid the spoon behind a row of cookbooks on the kitchen shelf.
“There. Safe and sound. Out of sight, so you don’t have to stare at it and feel guilty.”
Harry let out a long breath, clearly still worried but calmer. “I don’t want to be known as the dessert bandit.”
Louis laughed, properly this time.
“So,” he said, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “are we done sulking?”
Harry hesitated, eyes flicking up with that same stubborn vulnerability he always wore when on the edge of forgiveness. Then he gave a small, reluctant nod.
Louis sighed, more relieved than he let on, and closed the short distance between them, his hands settling firmly on Harry’s waist.
“Wanna know what’s actually hot?” Louis murmured, voice low and teasing. “Bad boys.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but a playful smile tugged at his lips. “Shut up.”
“I’m in love with a criminal,” Louis sang instead, making Harry chuckle. “Soooo dangerous. Watch out for your spoons, everyone!”
Harry couldn’t stop the chuckle that slipped out, the last of his stubbornness melting away.
Louis brushed a thumb along Harry’s jawline. “Now, about that longest lovemaking you owe me...”
Harry’s smile deepened, fingers threading into Louis’ hair as he leaned in. “Okay.”
“Really?”
“Mhm,” Harry whispered against Louis’ lips, pulling him into a slow, easy kiss that said everything they didn’t need to say.