Chapter Text
Part I: Before Dawn
The alarm never needs to ring.
Harry's eyes open at 5:47 AM, same as every weekday, like his body runs on something deeper than mechanics—some internal clock wound tight by years of little hands and little feet, by the knowledge that 5 other people in this house depend on the quiet hum of his existence before the sun even thinks about rising.
The bedroom is still dark. Soft gray light filters through the gaps in the curtains, the kind of pale pre-dawn glow that Los Angeles offers before the smog catches it and turns everything gold. The air is cool against his face, carrying the faint scent of sandalwood and cedar—Louis's scent, soaked into the pillows, the sheets, the very walls of this room they've shared for fifteen years.
Harry turns his head on the pillow, just slightly, just enough.
Louis is still asleep beside him, sprawled on his stomach like a man who owns the world and dreams of conquering more. His dark hair is mussed against the white pillowcase, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other stretched across the mattress toward Harry's side even in unconsciousness. His breathing is deep and even, that steady alpha rhythm that Harry has memorized down to the smallest rise and fall of his broad back.
Beautiful, Harry thinks, and the word is so familiar in his mind that it barely registers as a thought anymore. More like a prayer. More like a fact of the universe. The sun rises. The sky is blue. Louis Tomlinson is beautiful.
He lets himself watch for another thirty seconds. The sharp line of Louis's jaw. The way his eyelashes fan against his cheeks. The small crease between his brows that only appears when he's deep in sleep, like even his dreams demand his full focus and intensity.
Then Harry moves.
The shift from horizontal to vertical is a negotiation these days. His body doesn't spring out of bed the way it used to at twenty-two, newly mated and dizzy with love, eager to start every day in this kitchen of their first tiny apartment. At thirty-six, after four pregnancies and fifteen years of running a household, his body has opinions about being upright before six in the morning.
His ankles are the first to complain.
Harry swings his legs over the side of the bed and immediately feels the familiar ache—a dull, throbbing tightness that wraps around both ankles like invisible hands squeezing too hard. Swollen. They're always swollen now, especially after a day of chasing Daisy and Ellie, of standing at the stove for an hour making dinner, of climbing the stairs forty-seven times because someone always forgets something and someone else always needs a new bandage and someone else always wants one more glass of water.
Sitting is a luxury, he thinks, pressing his feet flat against the warm hardwood floor. Sleeping is a distant memory. But this family didn't build itself.
He stands.
His back twinges—lower back, the kind of deep ache that lives in the bones now, a souvenir from carrying Daisy for nine months when he was already thirty-two and his body had started sending him polite notices that maybe four was enough. He ignores it. He's very good at ignoring things. Pain, exhaustion, the little voice in his head that whispers you look tired, you look old, you look like someone who's had four kids and it shows—all of it gets filed away under "not now."
There's no time for not now. There's breakfast to make.
Harry pulls his hoodie from the foot of the bed—a soft, faded gray thing that once belonged to Louis, stretched out at the collar and decorated with a constellation of old stains: blueberry puree from Ellie's baby days, paint from Nico's first-grade art project, something that might be chocolate or might be something else entirely. He doesn't care. It's warm and it smells like home and it covers the parts of him that he doesn't always want to see first thing in the morning.
He pads across the bedroom on bare feet, past the dresser where Louis's suits hang in their garment bags, past the framed photo on the wall—their mating day, fifteen years ago, Harry in white, Louis in black, both of them so young and so thin, Harry so unaware of how much hia body would change and grow and stretch and still somehow holding everything at the end of every single day.
The hallway is dark and quiet.
Harry moves through it like a ghost, his footsteps silent on the runner rug, his hand trailing along the wall out of habit. He passes Felix's door first—closed, always closed now—and feels that familiar twist in his chest. The same twist that happens every morning when he walks past this door and doesn't open it. The same twist that happens every time he hears a short, sharp whatever, Dad or watches his first baby roll his eyes and walk away.
Not now, he tells the twist. Not now. Breakfast first. Breakdown later.
He passes Nico's room—door half open, the sound of soft breathing drifting out, along with the faint smell of boy and blankets and the apple-scented shampoo that Nico insists on using even though it's "for girls." Harry smiles and makes a mental note: Nico first. He takes forever to wake up.
Ellie's room is next, pink fairy lights glowing through the crack under the door, a tiny nightlight shaped like a unicorn plugged into the wall. He can hear her talking in her sleep, a soft mumble of princesses and dragons and something about a lost shoe.
Daisy's room is at the end of the hall, the door plastered with stickers—unicorns, stars, a slightly peeling "Daisy's Garden" sign that Louis made her for her second birthday. The baby monitor on the wall blinks green, silent for once. She'll be up soon. She's always up soon.
Harry continues down the stairs, holding the railing because his ankles are already complaining and he's learned the hard way that skipping steps is a young man's game.
The kitchen greets him like an old friend.
It's a beautiful kitchen—Louis made sure of that when they bought this house six years ago, when Harry was pregnant with Ellie and Louis had just made senior partner and they'd stood in this empty space while Louis waved his hands and described a Viking stove and a farmhouse sink and enough counter space for Harry to "spread out and create." The kitchen is warm and lived-in now, nothing like the sterile showroom it must have been before they moved in. The copper pots hanging above the island are slightly dented. The farmhouse sink has a permanent ring from Ellie's tea parties. The windowsill above the sink holds a collection of tiny succulents that Nico waters too much and Daisy picks the petals off of and somehow they're still alive.
Harry flicks on the pendant lights above the island—soft glow, not too harsh—and stands for a moment in the quiet.
This is his favorite time of day. These few minutes before the house wakes up, before the chaos descends, when he can stand in his kitchen and breathe and remember that this is his. His family. His home. His life, even with the swollen ankles and the aching back and the stretch marks that spiral across his stomach like the rings of a tree.
He presses a hand to his belly without thinking.
The hoodie hides it, mostly. But he can feel it—the soft give of flesh that wasn't there at twenty-two, the rounded curve that no amount of crunches (not that he has time for crunches) would ever erase. Four babies. Four entire humans built inside this body, cell by cell, from nothing but love and biology and the stubborn determination of an omega who refused to let anything stop him from giving Louis the family they both dreamed of.
They were worth it, Harry thinks, and he means it. He would do it again. He would do it ten more times if it meant holding each of those babies one more first time.
But still.
He pulls the hoodie down, smoothing the fabric over his stomach, trying to make it look flatter than it is. There's no one here to see. Louis is asleep upstairs. The kids are all in their rooms. And still Harry finds himself tugging at the hem, hiding himself from himself, because some mornings it's hard to look down and not see everything that's changed.
Stop it, he tells himself firmly. There's no time for this. Your family needs breakfast. Your husband needs his lunch packed. Your oldest needs—
He stops that thought before it can finish.
Felix.
Harry pushes away from the counter and moves toward the refrigerator, pulling out eggs, milk, butter, bacon. The waffle iron is already on the counter—he left it out last night because he knew, he knew, that this morning he would make Felix's favorite breakfast in the desperate, probably futile hope that his first baby would come downstairs and sit at the table and let Harry pretend for twenty minutes that nothing had changed between them.
Blueberry waffles. Not the frozen kind—the real kind, from scratch, the way Harry used to make them every Sunday when Felix was little. The way Felix used to help him, standing on a step stool in his tiny dinosaur pajamas, dumping blueberries into the batter with more enthusiasm than accuracy. The way they would laugh when a blueberry bounced off the counter and rolled across the floor, and Felix would chase it on all fours, shrieking with joy, and Harry would sweep him up and cover his face in kisses and call him my sunshine, my best boy, my heart.
Harry's eyes burn.
He blinks rapidly and turns on the oven. Preheat to 200 degrees, to keep the waffles warm. Bacon in the pan first—it takes the longest, and the smell will drift upstairs and maybe, maybe, tempt a certain teenager out of his cave.
The bacon sizzles and pops, filling the kitchen with salt and smoke and the promise of something good. Harry moves on autopilot, measuring flour, cracking eggs, whisking batter until it's smooth. His back twinges again, and he shifts his weight, leaning more heavily on his left leg to give the right one a break. His ankles throb in protest.
You're fine, he tells himself. You're fine. This is nothing. This is just a normal morning. You've done this thousands of times.
And he has. That's the thing. He's done this so many times that his body has memorized the motions even as it's forgotten what it felt like to wake up without pain. He knows exactly how long to whisk the batter (until it ribbons off the whisk, no longer). He knows to put the blueberries in last, folding them gently so they don't burst and turn everything purple. He knows to cook the bacon until it's crispy but not brittle, because that's how Felix likes it.
Felix.
Harry pauses with the waffle iron open, staring down at the batter. The first waffle is almost done—steam rising, the scent of vanilla and butter filling the air. He made it heart-shaped. The waffle iron is old, a wedding gift from Louis's mum, and it makes four perfect hearts at a time. Felix used to beg for the hearts. Can we have heart waffles, Daddy? Please? With extra whipped cream?
"With extra whipped cream, baby," Harry whispers to the empty kitchen. "Always."
He blinks again, harder this time, and closes the waffle iron.
The kids will be up soon. He needs to move faster. The bacon needs to be drained, the waffles need to be kept warm, the table needs to be set, and Louis's lunch needs to be packed—a salad with grilled chicken, his favorite, because Harry knows exactly how his alpha likes his food even after fifteen years of marriage.
Harry works quickly, efficiently, the way only someone who has done this a thousand times can. He transfers the bacon to a paper towel-lined plate. He stacks the finished waffles on a baking sheet and slides them into the warm oven. He measures coffee into the machine—dark roast, strong, because Louis doesn't believe in weak coffee and Harry doesn't believe in arguing with Louis before he's had his first cup.
The kitchen smells like heaven. Bacon and waffles and coffee and something else—something soft and sweet, the way Harry always smells when he's been cooking, like vanilla and honey and the warmth of a home that's actually lived in.
He looks down at himself, suddenly self-conscious even though no one is here to see. His hoodie is stained. His sweatpants are old, the elastic slightly stretched, the fabric faded from too many washes. There's a spot of waffle batter on his right thigh. His hair is a mess—curls flattened on one side from sleep, sticking up on the other. He probably has pillow creases on his cheek. He definitely has dark circles under his eyes.
This is who you are now, he thinks, and it's not entirely kind. A tired omega in stained sweatpants with a body that's been through too much and a face that shows every single year of it.
He tugs the hoodie down again, smoothing it over his belly, and turns away from his reflection in the microwave door.
No time, he reminds himself. There's never enough time. Go wake the kids.
Part II: The Waking
The stairs creak under Harry's weight—the third one from the bottom, the one Louis keeps promising to fix and never does. Harry makes a mental note to mention it again, even though he knows Louis will just pull him into a hug and say I'll fix it this weekend, love and then the weekend will fill up with soccer games and birthday parties and Daisy's tantrums and the stair will stay broken.
Nico's room first.
Harry pushes the door open gently, stepping into the soft blue glow of his eight-year-old's room. Nico is sprawled diagonally across his bed, one leg hanging off the side, his dinosaur comforter twisted around his waist like he fought it in his sleep and lost. His dark curls are everywhere—he has Harry's hair, thick and unruly, and it's a disaster every morning. His mouth is slightly open, a small puff of air escaping with every breath.
Harry's heart swells.
This, he thinks. This is why. This is what it's all for.
He sits on the edge of the bed, and the mattress dips under his weight. Nico stirs but doesn't wake. Harry reaches out and brushes the curls off his son's forehead, his touch light as air.
"Sunshine," he murmurs. "Time to wake up, my love."
Nico makes a sound—something between a groan and a whine—and burrows deeper into the pillow.
Harry smiles. "I know, baby. I know. But breakfast is almost ready, and your papa is going to be downstairs soon, and you don't want to miss the waffles, do you?"
One eye cracks open. Blue, like Louis's. "Waffles?"
"Blueberry waffles. With bacon. And whipped cream."
Nico's other eye opens. He's awake now, the way only children can be awake—zero to sixty in the span of a single word. "Blueberry? Like the ones you used to make?"
Harry's chest tightens. "Yeah, buddy. Like the ones I used to make."
Nico sits up, his hair a catastrophe, his pajama shirt inside out. "Is Felix coming down?"
The question hits Harry like a small, unexpected punch. He keeps his smile in place, because he's had years of practice hiding hurt from his children. "I hope so. I made extra, just in case."
Nico nods sagely, like he understands more than an eight-year-old should. "I'll sit next to him if he comes. So he doesn't feel alone."
Harry's eyes burn again. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Nico's forehead, breathing in the warm sleepy smell of his son. "You're the sweetest boy, you know that?"
"I know," Nico says, because he's eight and humility hasn't fully developed yet. "Can I wear my dinosaur shirt today?"
"It's in the dryer, sunshine. I'll bring it up after breakfast."
"Okay." Nico scrambles off the bed, already awake, already moving, already full of the boundless energy that Harry envies and adores in equal measure. "I'm gonna get dressed! By myself!"
"That's my big boy," Harry says, and he means it.
He leaves Nico wrestling with a pair of jeans and moves down the hall to Ellie's room.
••••••••••••••••••••••••
Ellie's room is a explosion of pink and purple and everything soft. Fairy lights strung across the ceiling cast a warm glow over the chaos—dolls everywhere, a tea set set up in the corner, a tiara dangling from the lampshade. Ellie is curled in the center of her bed like a small, sleeping princess, her blonde hair fanned across the pillow, her favorite stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm.
Harry stands in the doorway for a moment, just watching her breathe.
Six years old. She came into the world screaming, all lungs and fury, and she hasn't stopped since. She's fierce and imaginative and stubborn and so much like Louis that it sometimes takes Harry's breath away.
But she's also soft. She's the one who notices when Harry is tired, who climbs into his lap without being asked and presses her tiny hand to his cheek and says You need a hug, Daddy. She's the one who picks flowers from the garden and tucks them behind Harry's ear and tells him he's beautiful. She's the one who still believes in magic, in fairy tales, in the absolute and unshakeable goodness of the world.
Harry doesn't ever want her to lose that.
"Princess," he says softly, sitting on the edge of her bed. "Time to wake up, my love."
Ellie's nose wrinkles. She doesn't open her eyes. "Five more minutes."
Harry laughs quietly. "You said that yesterday, and then you missed the strawberries."
One eye peeks open. "There's strawberries?"
"Not today, sweetheart. Blueberry waffles."
Ellie considers this. Her little face scrunches up in thought, and Harry marvels at how someone so small can look so serious. "With whipped cream?"
"With whipped cream."
"And sprinkles?"
Harry raises an eyebrow. "We don't have sprinkles, princess."
"Then can we get sprinkles? Please? Pretty please with a cherry on top?"
"We'll talk about it at the grocery store tomorrow. Now come on, up you get."
Ellie sighs dramatically, the way only a six-year-old can, and holds her arms up. "Carry me."
"You have legs, sweetheart."
"But Daddy, I'm tired."
Harry's back twinges in protest at the mere thought of carrying a six-year-old down the stairs. But Ellie is looking up at him with those big blue eyes, and her bottom lip is doing that little tremble thing, and Harry is weak. He's always been weak for his children. It's his greatest strength and his greatest flaw.
"One piggyback ride," he concedes. "But only to the bathroom. You're walking down the stairs yourself."
"Deal," Ellie says, and she's already scrambling onto his back before he can change his mind.
She's heavier than she used to be. Six years old and solid, sturdy in the way that children are when they're healthy and loved and well-fed. Harry lifts her easily enough—he's stronger than he looks, stronger than his tired body sometimes remembers—and carries her down the hall to the bathroom, her little arms locked around his neck, her cheek pressed against his shoulder.
"I love you, Daddy," she mumbles against his hoodie.
"I love you too, princess. More than all the stars in the sky."
"That's a lot," Ellie says seriously.
"It is," Harry agrees. "That's how much."
He sets her down at the bathroom door, and she toddles inside, still half-asleep, her blonde hair a tangled mess. Harry watches her go and feels that familiar ache—the one that lives somewhere behind his ribs, the one that reminds him that every single one of these moments is borrowed, temporary, slipping through his fingers like sand.
Stop it, he tells himself. You're being morbid. Go wake the baby.
Daisy's room is at the end of the hall, and Harry approaches it with a mixture of love and exhaustion. Three-year-olds are a lot. Daisy is more than a lot. Daisy is a force of nature wrapped in a tiny body with chubby cheeks and a devastating smile and absolutely no concept of the word "no."
He opens the door quietly, peeking inside.
Daisy's room is the smallest, but it's the fullest—stuffed animals piled in the corner, books scattered across the floor, a mobile of paper stars hanging over her crib (she's too big for the crib now, has been for months, but she refuses to sleep in her big-girl bed and Harry has learned to pick his battles). The curtains are half-open, letting in the first pale light of morning, and Daisy is standing up in her crib—because of course she is, she never sleeps like a normal child—clutching the railing with both hands and bouncing on her mattress.
"Dada Harry!" she shrieks the moment she sees him.
Harry winces slightly at the volume and then smiles, because he can't help it. Daisy's joy is contagious, a bright and blazing thing that fills up every room she enters.
"Good morning, my little love," he says, crossing to the crib and lifting her out. She's warm and solid and smells like baby powder and sleep, and she immediately wraps her arms around his neck and squeezes with all her three-year-old strength.
"Hungry," Daisy announces. "Want waffoes."
"Waffles," Harry corrects gently, kissing her temple. "Say wa-ffles."
"Waffoes."
"Close enough." Harry shifts her to his hip, ignoring the way his lower back protests. "Let's get you changed, and then we'll go downstairs, okay?"
"Okay, Dada."
Daisy is easy to dress—she's three, so "easy" is relative, but she's not at the age yet where she wants to choose her own clothes and throw tantrums about seams and tags. Harry pulls a purple shirt and leggings over her head, brushes her wild curls with his fingers, and carries her back to the hallway.
Nico's door is open now; he can hear Nico talking to himself in his room, probably negotiating with his reflection about the dinosaur shirt situation. Ellie is still in the bathroom, singing something off-key about a dragon and a princess.
And Felix's door is still closed.
Harry pauses outside it, Daisy on his hip, Nico's dinosaur shirt debate floating down the hall, Ellie's singing echoing off the tiles. The closed door looms in front of him like a wall he can't climb.
Knock, he tells himself. Just knock. You're his dad. You're allowed to knock.
He knocks.
"Felix? Sweetheart? It's time to wake up."
Silence.
Harry's heart sinks, but he tries again. "I made breakfast, love. Blueberry waffles. Your favorite."
Still silence. Not even the sound of movement, of sheets rustling, of a teenager grunting in acknowledgment. Just the heavy, deliberate quiet of someone who doesn't want to be disturbed.
Harry presses his forehead against the door for just a second, closing his eyes. Daisy pats his cheek with her tiny hand.
"Dada sad?"
"No, baby," Harry lies, forcing a smile. "Dada's fine. Let's go downstairs."
He doesn't open the door. He's learned that lesson—the hard way, through trial and error and the slamming of doors and the sharp edge of Felix's voice when he's been pushed too far. He knocks, he calls out, he invites. But he doesn't enter without permission anymore. Not since the last time, when Felix had looked at him with cold eyes and said Can you just knock like a normal person?
Harry had knocked. He'd always knocked. But that hadn't mattered, because Felix wasn't really angry about the knocking. He was angry about something else, something bigger, something that Harry couldn't fix with blueberry waffles and gentle words.
You're losing him, the voice in his head whispers. He's slipping away and you don't know how to hold on.
"Not now," Harry whispers to himself, and carries Daisy down the stairs.
Part III: The Chaos Descends
The kitchen is chaos within seconds.
Harry has barely set Daisy in her high chair when Nico comes barreling down the stairs, fully dressed in his dinosaur shirt (which is, notably, not the one Harry said was in the dryer—it's a different dinosaur shirt, one that Harry is almost certain is dirty, but he doesn't have the energy to fight that battle).
"Dad! Dad! Can I have chocolate milk? Please? With the waffles?"
"Juice or water, Nico. You know the rule."
"But chocolate milk is better."
"The rule is the rule, sunshine. Juice or water."
Nico huffs dramatically and throws himself into his chair, nearly tipping it over. Harry catches the back of the chair with one hand, steadying it, and sends up a silent prayer for patience.
Ellie appears next, still in her pajamas despite Harry's instructions to get dressed, her hair a wild blonde halo around her face. "Daddy, I can't find my bunny."
"Your bunny is on your bed, princess. I saw him there when I woke you up."
"No, that's not my bunny. That's a bunny, but not my bunny. My bunny has a different face."
Harry takes a breath. "Ellie, there is only one bunny."
"No, there's two bunnies. The one on my bed is the fake one. The real one is—" She pauses, thinking hard. "In the garden."
"The garden."
"Yes. He went on an adventure."
"Ellie, bunnies don't go on adventures. They're stuffed animals."
"Mine does."
Harry rubs his temples. "Finish breakfast, and then we'll look for the real bunny together. Okay?"
Ellie considers this, then nods solemnly. "Okay. But if he's not there, I'm going to be very sad."
"I know, sweetheart. I know."
He plates the waffles—four heart-shaped pieces for each child, with a mountain of whipped cream on top because he's weak and they're cute and life is too short for dietary restrictions on a Tuesday morning. The bacon goes on the side, three strips each, and Harry pours juice into small cups and coffee into Louis's favorite mug (the one that says "Alpha in Charge" that Felix bought him for Father's Day two years ago, back when Felix still bought Father's Day presents with his own allowance and wrapped them in construction paper covered in glitter).
Daisy bangs her spoon against the high chair tray. "Waffoe! Waffoe! Waffoe!"
"Coming, little love. Patience."
"No patience! Waffoe!"
Harry gives her a waffle, and Daisy immediately shoves the entire thing into her mouth. He's not entirely sure she chewed. He chooses not to think about it.
The chaos is constant. Nico is asking questions—endless questions, the kind of questions that only an eight-year-old can ask, bouncing from Why is the sky blue? to Do fish have eyelids? to If I ate a waffle every day for the rest of my life, would I turn into a waffle? Ellie is telling a very long, very involved story about a princess who was also a secret spy and also a cat, and Harry cannot follow the plot but he nods along anyway because she's looking at him with those big eyes and waiting for validation. Daisy is throwing pieces of bacon onto the floor and shrieking with delight every time they land.
Harry moves between them like a conductor leading an orchestra—refilling juice, wiping syrup off Ellie's chin, retrieving a piece of bacon from under the table (Daisy had very good aim), answering Nico's questions with patient, gentle responses even though his back is throbbing and his ankles are swollen and he can feel exhaustion pulling at the edges of his consciousness like a tide.
This is what you wanted, he reminds himself. This is the life you chose. The noise, the mess, the never-ending demands on your time and your body and your heart. You wouldn't trade it for anything.
And he wouldn't. That's the truth of it. Even on the hard mornings, the mornings when he can barely drag himself out of bed, the mornings when the stretch marks and the soft belly and the tired eyes make him feel like a stranger in his own skin—he wouldn't trade this for anything.
"Dad?" Nico tugs on his hoodie sleeve. "Dad, are you listening?"
Harry blinks, realizing he's been standing in the middle of the kitchen for ten seconds, staring at nothing. "Sorry, sunshine. What did you say?"
"I said, if you could be any animal, what animal would you be?"
"A cat," Harry says without hesitation. "Cats sleep for like eighteen hours a day."
Nico giggles. "That's not why people pick animals, Dad. You're supposed to pick an animal that's like your personality."
"Then definitely a cat. Cats are soft and they pretend they don't need anyone but secretly they do."
Ellie looks up from her waffle. "I would be a bunny. Because I'm cute and I like carrots."
"You don't like carrots, Ellie. You throw them on the floor like Daisy throws bacon."
"Then I would be a bunny who doesn't like carrots. Bunnies can have preferences, Nico."
Harry hides his smile behind his coffee mug. These children. These beautiful, chaotic, exhausting children. They are everything.
He's cutting up more waffles for Daisy when he hears it—footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Deliberate. The kind of footsteps that belong to someone who wants to be heard but doesn't want to admit it.
Harry's heart leaps.
He turns toward the kitchen doorway, hands still sticky with syrup, and watches as Felix appears.
His oldest son is thirteen, going on thirty. He's tall for his age—already nearly Harry's height, with the same broad shoulders as Louis and the same sharp jawline. His hair is dark, pushed back from his forehead in a way that he probably spent twenty minutes on but pretends is effortless. He's wearing a hoodie—black, with the hood up even though he's indoors—and jeans that are slightly ripped at the knees.
He doesn't look at Harry. He walks straight to the counter, grabs a plate, and starts piling waffles onto it without a word.
"Good morning, sweetheart," Harry says, and he's proud of how steady his voice sounds. "I made blueberry. Your favorite."
Felix doesn't respond. He adds bacon to his plate, three strips, exactly the way Harry knew he would.
"Felix. I'm talking to you."
"I heard you." The words are flat. Dismissive. Felix picks up his plate and turns toward the table, still not meeting Harry's eyes.
Harry's chest aches, but he pushes through. "Will you sit with us? I saved you the chair next to Nico."
For a moment, Felix hesitates. Harry sees it—the tiny pause, the almost-imperceptible flicker of something that might be longing. But then Felix's jaw tightens, and he walks to the far end of the table and sits down, as far away from Harry as the kitchen allows.
"I'm fine here," he says, and starts eating.
Nico looks between his dad and his brother, his young face creased with confusion. "Felix, Dad made your favorite. Aren't you gonna say thank you?"
Felix's fork pauses over his plate. "Why? It's his job."
The words land like a slap.
Harry feels them hit his chest, sharp and cold, and he has to physically stop himself from flinching. He turns back to the counter, busies himself with pouring more coffee, because if he looks at Felix right now, he might cry, and he refuses to cry in front of his children.
It's his job.
Is that what Felix thinks? That all of this—the early mornings, the swollen ankles, the back pain, the endless hours of cooking and cleaning and worrying and loving—is just a job? Something Harry does because he has to, not because he wants to?
"Dad?" Ellie's voice is small. "Are you okay?"
Harry turns, and he smiles. It's not his real smile—he can feel the difference, the way it doesn't quite reach his eyes—but it's close enough. "I'm fine, princess. Eat your waffles."
He glances at Felix as he says it, just for a second. Felix is staring at his plate, his shoulders hunched, his jaw working like he's chewing on something other than bacon.
He didn't mean it, Harry tells himself. He's hurting. He's a teenager. He didn't mean it.
But the words echo in his head anyway, cold and sharp, and Harry has to grip the edge of the counter to steady himself.
Part IV: The Alpha Arrives
Louis comes down at 7:15, and the energy in the kitchen shifts the moment his foot touches the bottom stair.
Harry feels it before he sees him—the subtle change in the air, the way his own body relaxes slightly because his alpha is here, because the weight of the morning doesn't have to be carried alone anymore. It's not that Louis takes over. It's just that Harry doesn't have to pretend quite so hard when Louis is in the room.
Louis is dressed for work—charcoal gray suit, crisp white shirt, no tie yet. His hair is styled, pushed back from his forehead, and he's shaved, and he looks like he stepped out of a magazine while Harry is standing there in his stained hoodie and messy bun and tired eyes.
God, Harry thinks, I must look like a disaster next to him.
But Louis doesn't seem to notice. Or rather, he notices, but not in the way Harry expects. Louis's eyes sweep the kitchen—the chaos, the children, the mess—and then land on Harry, and something softens in his face. Something warm and private and just for them.
"Morning, love," Louis says, crossing the kitchen in three long strides.
And then he's there, right there, pressing a kiss to Harry's cheek, his hand coming up to cup the back of Harry's neck in that way he has, that alpha gesture that says mine and safe and I've got you all at once.
Harry leans into the touch, just for a second, letting himself be held. "Morning, Lou."
"You're tired," Louis says. It's not a question.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're standing on one leg because your ankles hurt."
Harry looks down. He is, in fact, standing on one leg, his weight shifted entirely to his left foot to give his right ankle a break. He hadn't even noticed.
"Observant," he mutters.
"I notice everything about you." Louis's thumb traces a slow circle on the back of Harry's neck. "Have you eaten?"
"I'll eat when everyone's settled."
"You'll eat now." Louis pulls out a chair—the one next to Felix's empty seat—and raises an eyebrow. "Sit."
"Louis—"
"Sit, omega. That's an order."
There's no heat in it. No alpha dominance, no command. Just love, wrapped in teasing, wrapped in the kind of authority that comes from fifteen years of marriage and knowing exactly when to push and when to let go.
Harry sits.
Louis plates a waffle for him—heart-shaped, with whipped cream and bacon—and sets it in front of Harry with a flourish. "Eat."
"You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"I love you," Harry corrects, and the words come out softer than he intended, weighted with everything he doesn't have time to say.
Louis's eyes go warm. "I love you too. Now eat your waffles before they get cold."
He moves through the kitchen like he owns it, which he sort of does, pouring himself a cup of coffee and checking on each of the children in turn. He ruffles Nico's hair, which makes Nico squawk and giggle. He kisses the top of Ellie's head, and Ellie beams up at him like he hung the moon. He picks a piece of bacon off the floor before Daisy can grab it and eats it himself, which makes Daisy shriek with indignation.
"Papa! My bacon!"
"You threw it on the floor, little one. Floor bacon is Papa's bacon."
"No fair!"
"Life's not fair, sweetheart." Louis winks at her and takes another bite.
Harry watches all of this from his chair, a warmth spreading through his chest that has nothing to do with the coffee. This is what he wanted. This is what he built. A family that fills every corner of their home, loud and messy and chaotic and theirs.
But then Louis glances toward the stairs, toward the hallway that leads to Felix's room, and his expression shifts.
"Where's Felix?"
Harry's shoulders slump before he can stop them. He tries to hide it, tries to arrange his face into something neutral, but Louis sees everything. Louis always sees everything.
"He came down," Harry says carefully. "He ate. He went back upstairs."
"He didn't sit with us."
"He sat at the end of the table."
Louis's jaw tightens. "Harry."
"Louis." Harry meets his eyes, and there's a silent conversation between them, the kind that only married people can have—the kind that carries years of history and heartbreak and hope. Don't. Not now. Not in front of the kids.
But Louis is already looking toward the stairs, and Harry can see the alpha in him rising, the protective instinct that wants to march upstairs and handle this, to fix it with force and words and the sheer weight of his authority.
"I'm going to talk to him," Louis says, and it's not a question.
Harry reaches out and catches his hand. "Not yet. Please."
"Harry, he can't keep treating you like this. He can't—" Louis cuts himself off, his jaw working. "I see it, you know. I see how much it hurts you. And I hate it. I hate that he makes you feel like you're not—" He stops again, and his grip on Harry's hand tightens. "You're everything. You're the reason this family exists. And he doesn't get to make you feel like you're less than that."
Harry's eyes burn. He blinks rapidly, looking down at their joined hands—Louis's large and strong, Harry's smaller, softer, marked by years of dish soap and diaper cream and the kind of work that doesn't leave calluses but leaves something else, something deeper.
"He's thirteen, Lou. He's figuring things out. He's hurting."
"He's not the only one hurting." Louis's voice is rough. "You're hurting too. And you don't deserve it."
"I know." Harry looks up, and he tries to smile, tries to be brave. "But yelling at him won't help. It'll just make him pull away more. We need to be patient. We need to give him space."
"How much space?" Louis demands. "It's been months, Harry. Months of him ignoring you, snapping at you, acting like you're invisible. How much longer are you going to let him do this?"
Harry doesn't have an answer. He doesn't know how much longer. He doesn't know if there's a limit, if there's a point where he'll finally give up and stop trying and let Felix slip away entirely. The thought makes him feel sick.
"I'm his dad," Harry says quietly. "I don't get to give up."
Louis stares at him for a long moment. Then he sighs, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. He pulls Harry's hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to his knuckles.
"You're too good for all of us," he murmurs against Harry's skin. "You know that?"
"I'm really not."
"You really are." Louis releases his hand and looks around the kitchen. "Alright. Where's my lunch? I'm going to be late if I don't leave in ten minutes."
Harry's shoulders drop in relief. The crisis has been averted, at least for now. He stands—his back twinges, but he ignores it—and retrieves Louis's lunch bag from the refrigerator. Salad with grilled chicken, a container of berries, a small bag of almonds. A love note tucked into the side pocket, because Harry has written one every day for fifteen years and he's not about to stop now.
"You spoil me," Louis says, taking the bag.
"You deserve to be spoiled."
"I don't deserve anything. I just work. You do everything else."
Harry shakes his head. "We're a team, Lou. You bring home the money, I make it a home. That's the deal."
Louis cups his face in both hands, tilting Harry's chin up so their eyes meet. Harry is suddenly very aware of how he must look—tired and messy and definitely not put together, with syrup on his hoodie and bags under his eyes and his hair escaping from his bun in messy tendrils.
"I look a mess," Harry whispers, embarrassed.
Louis's thumbs trace over his cheekbones, gentle and reverent. "You look like my omega. You look like the father of my children. You look like the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and if you say otherwise, I'm going to be very upset."
"Louis—"
"I mean it." Louis's voice drops, serious now. "I don't care about the hoodie or the stains or any of that. I care about you. This you. The one who gets up before dawn to make sure our children are fed. The one who loves us even when we don't deserve it. The one who—" His voice cracks, just slightly. "The one who gave me four perfect children and never once complained about what it did to her body."
Harry laughs wetly. "I complain. I complain all the time."
"You complain about your ankles. You complain about being tired. You never complain about your body. Not where I can hear."
"Because you'd just tell me I'm being stupid."
"Because you'd be wrong." Louis kisses his forehead, soft and lingering. "You're perfect, Harry. Every inch of you. Every stretch mark, every curve, every single thing you think is a flaw. It's all perfect. You're all perfect."
Harry closes his eyes and lets himself believe it, just for a moment. He lets himself be held, be seen, be loved in this messy kitchen with syrup on his clothes and chaos all around them.
"I love you," he whispers.
"I love you more," Louis whispers back.
They stand there for a second longer, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air. And then Ellie tugs on Louis's suit jacket.
"Papa, are you going to work?"
Louis pulls back, and the spell breaks. "I am, princess."
"Can you bring me a present?"
"I can bring you a hug. How about that?"
Ellie considers this. "Two hugs."
"Two hugs. Deal." Louis scoops her up and gives her two very dramatic hugs, the kind that make her shriek with laughter. Then he kisses Nico's head, blows a raspberry on Daisy's belly, and looks toward the stairs one more time.
"I'll talk to him tonight," Louis says quietly to Harry. "Not to yell. Just to... check in."
Harry nods, even though his chest is tight. "Okay."
"Okay." Louis kisses him one more time—a real kiss, on the mouth, quick but warm. "Have a good day, love."
"You too, Lou."
And then Louis is gone, the front door closing behind him, the sound of his car starting in the driveway. The kitchen feels emptier without him, quieter, even with the children still chattering and bickering and making messes.
Harry stands in the middle of it all, his hand pressed to his chest where he can still feel the warmth of Louis's kiss, and tries to remember how to breathe.
Part V: The Closed Door
The kitchen is clean.
Well, clean-ish. The dishes are in the dishwasher. The counters have been wiped. The floor has been swept of the worst of the bacon debris. Harry stands at the sink, his hands in warm, soapy water, staring out the window at the backyard. The grass needs mowing. The garden needs weeding. The swing set needs new chains, because Daisy has taken to swinging so high that Harry's heart stops every time.
He adds it to the mental list.
There's always a mental list. Groceries. Laundry. That email to Nico's teacher about the field trip permission slip. Ellie's bunny, which is probably under the couch. A thousand small tasks that fill the hours between breakfast and dinner, between one child's crisis and another's.
Harry pulls the plug on the sink and dries his hands on a towel, moving slowly because his back is screaming and his ankles have given up on subtlety and are now just throbbing constantly, a dull background hum of pain that he's learned to live with.
You should sit down, a sensible voice in his head says. Just for five minutes. Just to rest.
But if he sits down, he might not get back up. And there's still so much to do.
Upstairs, he can hear Nico and Ellie playing in Nico's room—something about dragons and princesses and who gets to be the king. Daisy is down for her morning nap, a rare moment of quiet that Harry should probably use to rest, but instead he finds himself walking toward the stairs.
Toward Felix's room.
The door is still closed.
Harry stands outside it for a long moment, his hand hovering over the wood, not quite knocking. He can hear music playing inside—something with a heavy beat, the kind of music that Felix thinks makes him look cool. Harry thinks it sounds like noise, but he would never say that. He would never say anything to push Felix further away.
He knocks.
"Felix? Sweetheart?"
The music doesn't change. No response.
Harry knocks again, a little louder. "Felix, can I come in? I just want to talk for a minute."
A pause. Then, muffled through the door: "I'm busy."
"Please? It'll just take a minute."
Another pause, longer this time. Harry holds his breath, hoping.
The door opens.
Felix stands in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression carefully blank. He looks so much like Louis that it sometimes steals Harry's breath, but right now, with that cold expression, he looks like a stranger.
"What?"
Harry's heart aches. "I just wanted to check on you. You left breakfast so fast, you didn't eat very much."
"I ate enough."
"You usually eat two helpings. You only had one."
Felix's jaw tightens. "Are you keeping track of how much I eat now?"
"No, of course not, I just—I worry about you. That's all."
"Well, don't." Felix's voice is flat. "I'm fine."
Harry wants to reach out. He wants to cup Felix's face the way he used to, the way he still does with Nico and Ellie and Daisy. He wants to smooth back that messy hair and press a kiss to his forehead and tell him that everything is going to be okay, that whatever is bothering him, they can figure it out together.
But he doesn't. Because the last time he tried, Felix flinched away like Harry's touch burned.
"Okay," Harry says softly. "Okay. I just wanted to say that I love you. And I'm here. Whenever you're ready to talk."
Felix's expression flickers—something there, something that might be guilt or longing or pain—but it's gone before Harry can name it.
"Whatever," Felix mutters, and closes the door.
Harry stands there, staring at the wood grain, feeling the familiar ache spread through his chest. He presses his palm flat against the door, just for a second, as if he can reach through it and touch his son on the other side.
I miss you, he thinks. I miss you so much it hurts. I miss the little boy who used to hold my hand and tell me I was his best friend. I miss the way you used to run to me when you fell down, the way you used to climb into our bed after nightmares and fall asleep on my chest. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.
But he doesn't say it. He doesn't say any of it. He just pulls his hand back, turns around, and walks down the stairs to face the rest of the day.
Part VI: The Boy in the Room
On the other side of the door, Felix is falling apart.
He doesn't show it. He never shows it anymore. He's gotten too good at hiding, at building walls, at pretending he doesn't care when every nerve in his body is screaming.
But the moment the door closes, the moment he hears Harry's footsteps retreating down the stairs, Felix's composure cracks.
He leans against the door, his forehead pressed to the wood, and closes his eyes. His hands are shaking. His chest is tight. There's a lump in his throat that he refuses to acknowledge, that he will never acknowledge, because crying is for babies and Felix is thirteen and he doesn't cry anymore.
Liar, the voice in his head whispers. You cried last week. You cried in the shower where no one could hear.
He pushes off the door and crosses to his bed, collapsing onto the mattress with his face in his pillow. His room smells like him—like teenager, like the cologne he stole from Louis's bathroom, like the faint scent of alpha that's started developing over the past year, the one that reminds him he's growing up even when he doesn't want to.
His room is... fine. It's a teenager's room—posters on the walls (soccer players, bands Harry has never heard of), a desk buried under homework and empty soda cans, a gaming chair that cost more than it should have. The bed is unmade, the closet door is open, and there's a pile of dirty laundry in the corner that Harry would probably wash if Felix let him.
But Felix doesn't let him anymore. He doesn't let Harry do anything for him. It's easier that way. Easier to keep his distance, to push Harry away before Harry can push him.
He wouldn't push you away, the voice argues. He's never pushed you away. You're the one doing the pushing.
Felix rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. There's a glow-in-the-dark star up there, left over from when he was seven and obsessed with space, when Harry used to lie next to him at night and point out constellations that didn't exist because the stars were plastic and glued to the ceiling.
That's Orion's belt, Harry would say, tapping a cluster of stars with his finger. And that's the Big Dipper. And that one right there—that's the Felix star. The brightest one in the whole sky.
There's no Felix star, Felix had said, but he'd been smiling, because he was seven and he still believed that his dad could do anything, that his dad was magic, that his dad would always be there.
Felix closes his eyes, and the memory washes over him, unbidden and unwelcome.
••••••••••••••••••••••
He's five years old, sitting on the kitchen counter while Harry makes pancakes. Real pancakes, not the frozen kind, with chocolate chips arranged in a smiley face because Felix is five and smiley faces are the height of culinary sophistication.
"Daddy," Felix says, kicking his feet against the cabinet. "Daddy, guess what?"
"What, sunshine?" Harry asks, flipping a pancake with a flick of his wrist that Felix thinks is the coolest thing he's ever seen.
"I decided something."
"Oh yeah? What did you decide?"
Felix puffs out his chest, full of five-year-old importance. "We're best buddies."
Harry's face softens into something so warm, so full of love, that Felix feels it in his chest like a hug. "Are we?"
"Yeah. For life. Best buddies for life." Felix holds out his pinky, the way he's seen grown-ups do on TV. "Promise?"
Harry hooks his pinky around Felix's tiny one and shakes. "Promise, my love. Best buddies for life."
And then Harry pulls him off the counter and swings him around the kitchen, and Felix shrieks with laughter, and the pancakes burn but neither of them cares because they're best buddies, they're best buddies for life, and nothing will ever change that.
••••••••••••••••••••••
Felix's eyes snap open.
The ceiling is still there. The plastic star is still there. But the kitchen is downstairs, and Harry is downstairs, and Felix is alone in his room with a memory that feels like a knife in his chest.
Best buddies for life.
What a joke.
Felix sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His room feels too small, too quiet, too full of the ghosts of who he used to be. He looks at the desk where Harry used to sit with him while he did homework, explaining math problems in that patient, gentle voice. He looks at the bookshelf where Harry used to pick out bedtime stories, reading the same ones over and over because Felix couldn't get enough of them. He looks at the window where Harry used to wave goodbye every morning when Louis drove Felix to school, standing on the front porch with Daisy on his hip, blowing kisses.
He used to see you, Felix thinks. He used to really see you. And now—
Now there's Nico, who needs help with his homework and wants Harry to read him stories and still climbs into Harry's lap like he's five years old. Now there's Ellie, who tucks flowers into Harry's hair and calls him the best dad ever and looks at him like she hung the moon. Now there's Daisy, who is three and needs everything and takes up so much of Harry's time and energy that there's nothing left at the end of the day.
And Felix is just... there. In the background. An afterthought.
That's not fair, he tells himself. He doesn't mean to ignore you. He's just busy. He's tired. He has three other kids to take care of.
But the voice that says that sounds weak, sounds like an excuse, sounds like the lies Felix tells himself so he doesn't have to admit the truth.
The truth is, Felix is jealous.
He's jealous of Nico, who gets to be the baby boy, who gets to be silly and loud and demand attention without anyone rolling their eyes. He's jealous of Ellie, who is the only daughter and therefore special, who Harry calls princess and sweetheart and looks at like she hung the moon. He's jealous of Daisy, who is tiny and perfect and can do no wrong, who Harry carries around on his hip like she's made of gold.
And Felix—Felix is the oldest. The forgotten one. The one who's supposed to be fine on his own, who doesn't need his dad anymore, who has outgrown bedtime stories and piggyback rides and the kind of love that used to feel like the safest thing in the world.
But you're not fine, the voice whispers. You're not fine at all.
Felix stands up and starts pacing, his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. The music is still playing, that heavy beat, but it's not helping. Nothing helps. Nothing fills the space where Harry used to be.
He stops in front of his mirror and stares at his reflection.
Thirteen years old. Tall. Dark hair. Louis's jaw. Harry's eyes. He looks like both of them and neither of them, like some strange amalgamation that doesn't quite fit anywhere.
You're being dramatic, he tells his reflection. It's not that deep. He's just busy. He still loves you.
But does he? Does he really? Because Felix has been pushing and pushing and pushing, testing to see how far he has to go before Harry finally snaps, finally yells, finally gives up. And Harry never does. Harry just keeps being patient and gentle and loving, no matter how many doors Felix slams in his face.
And that makes Felix angrier than anything else.
Because if Harry would just get mad—just once, just lose his temper and scream and tell Felix that he's being an ungrateful brat—then Felix could hate him. Then Felix could tell himself that Harry doesn't care, that Harry is the problem, that this distance between them is Harry's fault.
But Harry doesn't get mad. Harry just looks at him with those sad, kind eyes and says I love you and I'm here when you're ready and I made your favorite breakfast, sweetheart.
And it's unbearable.
It's unbearable because Felix knows the truth. He knows that he's the one causing this. He knows that Harry would drop everything if Felix just asked. He knows that all he has to do is walk downstairs and say Dad, can we talk? and Harry would clear his whole day, would sit with him for hours, would hold him and let him cry and tell him that everything is going to be okay.
But Felix can't do that.
He can't because he's thirteen and pride is a thing and vulnerability is terrifying and admitting that he needs his dad feels like failure. He can't because he's spent months building these walls, and tearing them down feels like admitting defeat. He can't because he's angry—not at Harry, not really, but at the situation, at the unfairness of it all, at the way time keeps moving forward and dragging him along with it.
Best buddies for life, he thinks bitterly. Yeah, right.
He sinks back onto the bed, his head in his hands.
The thing is, he remembers. He remembers everything. He remembers the way Harry used to sing to him at night, soft lullabies that Felix pretended to hate but secretly loved. He remembers the way Harry's hand felt on his forehead when he was sick, cool and gentle, checking for fever. He remembers the way Harry would run to his room after a nightmare, scooping him up and holding him close and whispering It's okay, sunshine, Daddy's here, Daddy's never going to let anything hurt you.
Harry was his whole world. His safe place. The person who made everything better just by existing.
And then Nico came along, and Felix was happy, he was, he loved his little brother, but suddenly Harry was tired all the time, and there was a baby who needed constant attention, and Felix had to share. And then Ellie came, and Daisy came, and with each new baby, Harry had less and less time for Felix.
Not because he didn't love him. Felix knows that. Harry loves him—Felix can see it in the way Harry looks at him, in the way Harry keeps trying even when Felix pushes him away.
But love isn't enough. Not when there are three other kids demanding attention. Not when Harry is exhausted all the time, falling asleep on the couch before dinner, too tired to play catch or help with homework or do any of the things they used to do together.
Felix misses his dad.
He misses him so much it hurts, a physical ache in his chest that never goes away. He misses the way things used to be, when he was the center of Harry's world, when he didn't have to compete for attention, when he could just be with his dad without feeling like he was in the way.
It's not fair, he thinks, and he's surprised to feel tears pricking at his eyes. It's not fair. He was mine first. He was mine before any of them. And now—
Now Felix is alone in his room, listening to music too loud, pretending he doesn't care, when all he wants is to go downstairs and bury his face in Harry's chest and feel those arms wrap around him and hear that voice say I've got you, sunshine, I've got you.
But he can't.
He can't because he's too proud. He can't because he's too scared. He can't because he's already pushed so far that he doesn't know how to come back.
So he sits on his bed, and he stares at the door, and he hates himself a little bit for every cruel word, for every slammed door, for every time he's watched Harry's face fall and done nothing to fix it.
I'm sorry, he thinks, but he doesn't say it. He never says it. I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be like this. I just miss you. I miss you. I miss you.
Downstairs, he can hear the faint sounds of the house—Nico laughing, Ellie chattering, the soft clink of dishes. And underneath it all, the sound of Harry moving through the kitchen, taking care of everything, taking care of everyone.
Everyone except Felix.
But that's Felix's fault. He knows that. He's the one who pulled away. He's the one who built the wall. He's the one who refuses to tear it down.
He would come if you called, the voice says. He would run. You know he would.
Felix wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, angry at himself for crying, angry at everything.
Maybe tomorrow, he tells himself. Maybe tomorrow he'll go downstairs and eat breakfast with the family. Maybe tomorrow he'll say thank you for the waffles. Maybe tomorrow he'll let Harry hug him and pretend that everything is okay.
But not today.
Today, he sits in his room, alone with his memories and his regrets, and waits for the courage to do what he knows he needs to do.
Part VII: The Table
Downstairs, Harry is folding laundry.
It's mindless work—matching socks, folding shirts, sorting the never-ending mountain of clothes that four children generate. He's sitting on the couch in the living room, the laundry basket on the floor beside him, a mindless reality show playing on the TV that he's not really watching.
Nico and Ellie are in the playroom, their voices drifting through the house in a constant stream of imaginative play. Daisy is still napping, which is a miracle Harry doesn't question. And Felix is upstairs, behind his closed door, lost to Harry in a way that feels permanent.
Harry picks up a tiny shirt—Daisy's, purple with a unicorn on the front—and folds it carefully, smoothing out the wrinkles with his palm. His hands are dry from too much dish soap. His wedding ring catches the light, and he stares at it for a moment, remembering the day Louis slid it onto his finger.
Fifteen years, he thinks. Fifteen years of marriage. Fifteen years of building this life, this family, this home.
He wouldn't trade it. Not for anything. But there are moments—like this one, sitting alone in the living room while his oldest son hides upstairs—when the weight of it all feels almost too heavy to carry.
The front door opens.
Harry looks up, surprised. Louis isn't supposed to be home for hours. But there he is, standing in the doorway in his suit, his tie loosened, his hair slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it.
"Lou? What are you doing home?"
Louis crosses the room in three long strides and sinks onto the couch next to Harry, close enough that their thighs press together. "Meeting got canceled. I thought I'd come home early."
Harry's heart lifts, just slightly. "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to." Louis looks at him, really looks at him, and Harry knows that Louis can see everything—the exhaustion, the hurt, the way Harry's hands are trembling slightly as he folds another tiny shirt. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm fine."
"Harry."
"I'm fine, Louis." Harry sets down the shirt and meets his husband's eyes. "It's just a hard phase. He'll come around."
"And if he doesn't?"
Harry's throat tightens. "He will. He's a good kid. He's just... lost right now."
Louis is quiet for a moment. Then he reaches out and takes Harry's hand, lacing their fingers together.
"He's hurting, Harry. He's really hurting. He's just too stubborn to admit it."
"He gets that from you," Harry says softly.
Louis huffs a laugh. "Probably." He lifts Harry's hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles. "He'll come around. You're right. He's a good kid. He just needs time."
"And what if time isn't enough?" Harry whispers. "What if he pulls away so far that I can't reach him anymore?"
Louis sets down Harry's hand and cups his face instead, tilting Harry's chin up so their eyes meet. "Then we go after him. Together. We don't give up on our kids, Harry. That's not who we are."
"I know." Harry's voice cracks. "I know. I just—I miss him, Lou. I miss him so much. I miss the way he used to run to me. I miss the way he used to hold my hand. I miss—" He stops, a tear slipping down his cheek. "He was my first baby. My first everything. And now he looks at me like I'm a stranger."
Louis pulls him into his arms, holding him tight against his chest. Harry buries his face in Louis's neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his alpha, and lets himself cry. Just for a minute. Just a few tears, quiet and quick, because he doesn't have time for more.
"He still loves you," Louis murmurs into his hair. "He's just bad at showing it right now. But he loves you. He could never stop loving you."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that." Louis pulls back and looks at Harry, his eyes fierce. "Because you're impossible not to love, Harry. You're the most loving person I've ever met. You give and you give and you give, and you never stop, even when you're exhausted, even when it hurts, even when no one is thanking you. Felix sees that. He might not show it, but he sees it. And one day, he's going to realize how lucky he is to have you. They all will."
Harry laughs wetly. "You're biased."
"I'm your husband. Being biased is literally in the job description." Louis wipes the tears from Harry's cheeks with his thumbs, gentle and careful. "Now, are you going to sit here and cry, or are you going to let me make you lunch?"
"I'm not hungry."
"Too bad. You're eating." Louis stands and pulls Harry to his feet. "Come on, omega. Let's go raid the refrigerator."
Harry follows him into the kitchen, still sniffling, still exhausted, but feeling lighter than he has all day. Louis makes him a sandwich—turkey and cheese, the way Harry likes it—and sits across from him at the table while Harry eats, their knees touching under the surface.
They don't talk about Felix again. They talk about other things—Louis's meeting that got canceled, Nico's dinosaur obsession, the fact that Ellie has decided she wants to be a cat when she grows up. Normal things. Safe things.
And for a little while, Harry almost forgets the weight pressing on his chest.
Almost.
But not quite.
Part VIII: The Afternoon
The afternoon passes in a blur of small tasks.
Harry does laundry while Louis takes Nico and Ellie to the park. Daisy wakes up from her nap and spends an hour "helping" Harry fold clothes, which mostly involves her throwing socks across the room and shrieking with joy. Harry chases her, tickles her, kisses her round cheeks, and tells himself that this is enough. This is good. This is what matters.
But his eyes keep drifting to the stairs. To the closed door at the end of the hall.
Felix doesn't come down for lunch. He doesn't come down when Louis and the kids get back from the park, all flushed and happy and full of stories about the swings and the slide and a very exciting encounter with a squirrel. He doesn't come down when Harry starts making dinner—spaghetti and meatballs, another family favorite—and the smell fills the whole house.
Harry sets the table without any hope.
"Felix!" he calls up the stairs. "Dinner's almost ready!"
No response.
Harry tries again. "Felix, sweetheart? Can you hear me?"
A pause. Then, muffled through the door: "I'm not hungry."
Harry closes his eyes and counts to ten. "You need to eat, love. Please come down."
The door opens. Felix appears at the top of the stairs, his arms crossed, his expression sullen. "I said I'm not hungry."
"It's spaghetti. Your favorite."
"I don't care." Felix's voice is sharp. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"
The words hang in the air between them, cruel and careless. Harry feels them hit his chest like stones, one after another.
Why can't you just leave me alone?
Because you're my son, Harry wants to say. Because I love you. Because I made you, carried you, raised you, and I will never, ever stop trying to reach you, even when you make it impossible.
But what comes out is: "Okay. I'll save you a plate in the fridge."
Felix's jaw tightens. For a second, something flickers in his eyes—regret, maybe. Or guilt. But then he turns around and goes back into his room, and the door closes with a soft click that feels louder than a slam.
Harry stands at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at the closed door, his hand on the railing.
He's hurting, he reminds himself. He's hurting. He doesn't mean it.
But the words echo anyway, and Harry has to blink back tears as he walks back to the kitchen.
Part IX: The Evening
Dinner is quieter than usual.
The younger three eat with their usual enthusiasm—Nico slurping spaghetti, Ellie carefully twirling hers around her fork, Daisy smearing sauce all over her face and hair and high chair tray. Louis asks about their day, listens to their stories, laughs at their jokes. He's trying, Harry can see that. Trying to fill the silence left by Felix's absence.
But the empty chair at the end of the table is impossible to ignore.
Harry picks at his food, pushing meatballs around his plate without really eating. His stomach is tight, his appetite gone. Louis watches him but doesn't say anything, just reaches under the table and squeezes his knee.
After dinner, Harry cleans up while Louis gives the kids baths. He stands at the sink, scrubbing the spaghetti pot, and watches the sun set through the window. The sky turns pink and orange and purple, beautiful and indifferent, and Harry wonders if Felix can see it from his room.
Probably not. His blinds are always closed these days.
Louis comes downstairs after putting Daisy to bed, Nico and Ellie not far behind. Nico wants to show Harry a drawing he made—a dragon, very fierce, with fire coming out of its mouth. Ellie wants a bedtime story, specifically the one about the princess who saves herself, which is her current favorite.
Harry sits on the couch with Ellie in his lap and Nico pressed against his side, and he reads the story in his best princess voice, making all the sound effects, even though he's exhausted and his back hurts and his ankles have swollen to twice their normal size.
Nico falls asleep against his shoulder halfway through. Ellie makes it to the end, but her eyes are drooping, her head heavy against Harry's chest.
"Daddy," she murmurs, barely awake. "Daddy, Felix is sad."
Harry's heart stutters. "What makes you say that, princess?"
"I saw him. Earlier. He was sitting on the stairs, and he was..." She yawns. "He was making a sad face. Like when I lost my bunny."
Harry exchanges a look with Louis over Ellie's head. Louis's expression is tight, worried.
"Maybe he just needs a hug," Ellie continues, her voice getting softer. "Hugs fix everything. That's what you always say."
"That's what I always say," Harry agrees, his throat tight.
"Then give him a hug, Daddy." Ellie snuggles closer, her eyes closing. "Give him a hug and he won't be sad anymore."
Harry holds her tighter, pressing a kiss to her hair. "I'll try, sweetheart. I'll try."
Louis carries Ellie up to bed, and Nico stirs just enough to walk upstairs on his own, sleepy and stumbling. Harry stays on the couch, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of his family settling in for the night.
The house gets quiet.
Louis comes back downstairs and sits next to Harry, their shoulders touching. "They're all down. Daisy's out cold. Ellie asked for three goodnight kisses. Nico wanted me to tell you he loves you."
Harry smiles weakly. "I love him too."
"I know." Louis puts his arm around Harry, pulling him close. "What do you want to do? Watch something? Go to bed?"
Harry looks toward the stairs. Toward the closed door at the end of the hall.
"I want to try one more time," he says quietly.
Louis nods slowly. "Okay."
"I know he'll probably just shut me down again. But I need to—I need him to know that I'm still here. That I'm not going anywhere."
"He knows that, Harry."
"Does he?" Harry stands up, his body protesting. "I'm not so sure anymore."
He walks to the stairs, each step heavy. The house is dark around him, the only light coming from the kitchen and the soft glow of the nightlight in the hallway upstairs. He climbs slowly, holding the railing, giving himself time to think about what he wants to say.
But when he reaches Felix's door, he realizes he doesn't have a plan. He never has a plan with Felix. He just loves him, and he hopes that's enough.
He knocks.
"Felix? It's Dad. Can we talk?"
No response.
Harry presses his forehead against the door. "I'm not going to yell at you. I'm not going to lecture you. I just... I want to see you. That's all. I miss you, sweetheart."
The silence stretches on, long and painful.
And then, so quietly that Harry almost misses it: "Go away."
Harry closes his eyes. "Felix—"
"I said go away." The voice is sharper now, trembling at the edges. "Just leave me alone. Please."
The please is new. The please cracks something in Harry's chest, because it sounds like begging. It sounds like Felix is asking for something—not to be left alone, maybe, but something else. Something he doesn't know how to ask for.
"I love you," Harry says through the door. "I love you, and I'm not giving up on you. I will never give up on you. You're my son. My first baby. My sunshine. And I will keep knocking on this door every single day until you let me in."
Silence.
"I'll save you some spaghetti," Harry continues, his voice softer now. "It's in the fridge. There's meatballs too. And I made brownies for dessert. They're on the counter."
Still silence.
"Goodnight, Felix. I love you."
Harry waits. One second. Five. Ten.
From the other side of the door, so quiet it might be his imagination: "Goodnight, Dad."
Harry's breath catches. It's not much. It's not an apology or an explanation or an invitation. But it's something. It's a crack in the wall, small but real.
He presses his palm flat against the door, wishing he could reach through it, wishing he could hold his son.
Then he turns and walks back down the stairs.
Louis is waiting for him at the bottom, his face full of questions. Harry just shakes his head and holds out his hand.
Louis takes it.
They stand there for a moment, in the dark of the stairwell, holding onto each other. And then Louis leads Harry into the living room, onto the couch, and pulls him close.
"He'll come around," Louis murmurs against Harry's hair.
"I know," Harry whispers.
But he doesn't know. He hopes. He prays. He believes in his son, in the love they used to share, in the possibility of finding their way back to each other.
He doesn't know. But he hopes.
And for now, that has to be enough.
Part X: The Night
Later, much later, when the house is dark and quiet and everyone is asleep, Harry lies in bed with Louis's arm wrapped around his waist.
His body hurts. His ankles are throbbing. His back is a symphony of pain. But Louis is warm against him, solid and real, and Harry focuses on that instead.
"You were amazing today," Louis says quietly. "You always are. But today especially."
Harry huffs a soft laugh. "I burned the first batch of waffles."
"You made heart-shaped waffles for a teenager who didn't even say thank you. That's not burning waffles. That's sainthood."
"Louis."
"I'm serious." Louis shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at Harry. The moonlight filters through the curtains, casting silver shadows across his face. "You get up before dawn. You take care of everyone. You never complain. You never stop. And you still found the energy to make brownies and save Felix a plate and knock on his door even though you knew he'd probably shut you down."
"He said goodnight to me."
Louis's eyebrows lift. "He did?"
"Through the door. But he said it." Harry's voice cracks. "It's not nothing, Lou. It's something. It's a start."
Louis leans down and kisses him, soft and slow. "It's a start," he agrees. "And we'll take it. One day at a time."
Harry wraps his arms around Louis's neck and holds on. "I love you."
"I love you more."
"I love you most."
"That's not a word."
"It is now." Harry smiles, small but real. "I love you most, Louis Tomlinson. More than yesterday. Less than tomorrow."
Louis's eyes soften. "Did you just quote a romance novel at me?"
"Maybe."
"I married the right omega."
"You definitely did." Harry pulls him down for another kiss, and for a few minutes, he forgets about the swollen ankles and the aching back and the closed door at the end of the hall.
For a few minutes, it's just them. Alpha and omega. Husband and husband. Two people who built a family out of love and stubbornness and the unshakable belief that they could make it work.
And when Harry finally falls asleep, his head on Louis's chest, Louis's hand splayed over his soft belly, he dreams of his children.
He dreams of Daisy laughing. Of Ellie dancing. Of Nico chasing butterflies.
And in the corner of the dream, standing apart from the others, Felix turns and looks at him.
Dad, he says, and holds out his hand.
Harry reaches for him.
And for the first time in months, he doesn't wake up alone