Chapter Text
The first thing Louis felt when he woke was the weight. Not from the duvet pooled around his waist, not even from the crisp morning air seeping in through the balcony doors—but from the day ahead. The party was already there in his head, a ticking clock that would pull him into a suit, pin a fake smile on his face, and set him on display under the chandeliered scrutiny of everyone who mattered in his parents' world.
It was always like this on event days—anticipation dressed as dread.
A rapid, persistent knock broke through his thoughts. "Louis!" a small voice chirped. "It's breakfast! Come on!"
He didn't need to open the door to picture Gracie, maybe still in her cartoon pajamas, hair sticking out in every direction. The knocking kept going, a sweet kind of relentless, and somewhere behind her he could hear Jack's muffled giggle.
"I'm coming, Gracie," he called, voice gentler than it ever was for anyone else in the house. His little twin siblings were his one unshakable joy—the only people who looked at him without judgment in their eyes.
But the thought of walking into that dining room already made his stomach knot. Breakfast meant watching his mother's gaze flick to his plate, her perfectly glossed lips tightening as she commented—casually, always casually—on what he didn't need to be eating. It meant his father's questions about law school, delivered like accusations, and the inevitable comparison to Rachel.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, raking a hand through his hair. The mansion was quiet except for the faint echo of Gracie's retreating footsteps on the marble floor, and the faint hum of staff moving somewhere downstairs. He could delay for maybe five minutes, but not much longer—another thing his parents disapproved of was keeping them waiting.
Louis straightened his back, pushed his feet into slippers, and told himself he could handle it. He always did.
Louis dressed slowly, as if dragging out the minutes might make the day pass differently. He pulled a clean white shirt over his head, smoothing it down over his chest, then buttoned the cuffs with mechanical precision. His wardrobe was full of tailored perfection—pressed trousers, polished shoes, knit sweaters his mother insisted "projected an image." He'd long since learned that wearing what he wanted only invited comments.
In the mirror above his dresser, he caught his own reflection and looked away before his mind could start picking him apart the way Jessica, his mother, always did. He ran a comb through his hair, pushed it into something halfway presentable, something sort of like a cinnamon swirl he'd always thought, and inhaled. Another day. Another performance.
The soft scent of fresh coffee and warm bread drifted up from downstairs, pulling him toward the grand staircase. His footsteps were muffled by the runner rug, but the marble beyond echoed faintly, each tap a reminder of the scale and coldness of the house. He could already hear the low clinking of cutlery from the dining room.
Gracie spotted him first. She was perched in her seat at the long mahogany table, school uniform crisp, hair tamed into pigtails. Jack sat opposite her, tie askew and a mischievous glint already in his blue eyes. Both lit up when they saw him.
"Louis!" Gracie's voice was bright enough to cut through the morning stiffness in his chest. Jack gave him a wide grin and waved his fork in greeting.
He leaned down to kiss the tops of both their heads, breathing in the faint scent of their shampoo and the buttery warmth of toast on their plates. "Morning, you two," he murmured, smiling despite himself. Moments like these were precious—a pocket of ease before the storm.
He slid into the seat beside Jack, setting down his plate. A couple of eggs, a slice of toast, some fruit—nothing outrageous, but enough to fuel the morning.
The click of his mother's tongue came almost instantly. Jessica sat at the far end of the table, posture rigid, a silk robe cinched tightly at her waist. "Louis," she said lightly, her voice carrying that deliberate softness that made it sound less like concern and more like a scalpel. "You won't fit into your suit tonight if you keep eating like that."
Heat rose to his face, pooling beneath his skin like a slow burn. He focused on his plate, the edge of his fork cutting into the toast. No reply. No argument. Just the familiar flush of embarrassment and the quiet calculation of how many bites would look acceptable before he pushed the plate away. Louis was a skinnier man, he'd always thought so at least. But, his mother must've seen something different, always. Always picking at the tiny bit of extra stomach he had.
The steady rhythm of approaching footsteps on the marble announced Daniel, his father, before he appeared. His father stalked into the room in his suit, the morning paper tucked under one arm, his cologne arriving a moment before he did. He took his seat at the head of the table and glanced briefly at Louis before reaching for his coffee.
"Rachel," he began, as though her name were a standard by which all others should be measured, "Just called, she's taking on a top class case today. You know Louis, when she was your age she was top of her class. She had internship offers lined up before she even graduated. You might want to think about following her example."
Louis's grip on his fork tightened, but he kept his gaze on the yolk spreading across his plate. His mouth stayed shut. There was no point in reminding his father that Rachel's path had never been the one he wanted—or that law school felt more like an obligation than a calling.
Instead, he minded his food, chewing slowly, the taste dulled by the heaviness in the air.
By the time Louis had finished eating—more slowly than necessary, trying to delay the inevitable—the twins were bouncing with the energy only seven-year-olds could summon before eight a.m. Jack had already shrugged into his blazer, Gracie clutching her lunchbox like it held priceless treasure.
The driver, a tall man in a dark cap, stood patiently by the open front door as the children chattered about their day ahead. Louis followed them into the entry hall, the rich scent of polished wood and faint hint of rain seeping in from outside.
"Be good," he said, crouching to wrap both of them in his arms. Gracie giggled into his shoulder; Jack pretended to squirm away but hugged him just as tightly. He breathed them in—warm shampoo, faint sugar from their breakfast—holding on for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Then they were gone, their bright voices fading into the drizzle as the door closed behind them. The mansion seemed to exhale in their absence, returning to its usual state of muted formality.
Outside, the rain was steady, beading against the tall windows and tracing silver lines down the glass. London in fall was always like this—grey and damp, as though the city had forgotten what sunlight felt like. Louis had stopped noticing years ago; the rain was as much a part of his life as the marble floors and cavernous rooms that never felt warm enough.
From the dining room, Jessica's voice floated out, crisp and precise. "Louis, be ready by six-thirty. The car will be here to take us to the party, and I expect you to be presentable."
He stepped back inside, shrugging one shoulder. "Alright."
Daniel looked up from the paper, folding it neatly before speaking. "You should go see Sophia this afternoon. Tell her about the party, make sure she's prepared. Bring her back here once she's decided what to wear."
The name landed like a stone in Louis's stomach. Sophia. His girlfriend—if the term even applied anymore. Years together, more out of expectation than choice. No fire there ever, none. They'd had sex once, one boring endeavor. Their families' wealth and influence made the pairing almost inevitable. His parents had never been subtle about it: they expected him to marry her one day, to have children, to merge their fortunes and keep the Tomlinson image intact.
The idea made his chest tighten, the same way it always did. Marriage. Kids. A life mapped out in someone else's handwriting. He could already hear Sophia's sharp voice critiquing his suit choice, the way she'd glance around the party like she was taking inventory of everyone worth knowing.
Still, he nodded. "Okay." He always did. No matter the knots in his stomach, no matter the quiet sickness at the thought of that future, he kept saying yes. Because a scrap of approval from Daniel or Jessica still felt like it might be worth something, even after twenty-three years of never really getting it.
The rest of the morning passed in the only place in the house where Louis could breathe—the library.
It was tucked at the far end of the west wing, past the formal sitting rooms nobody ever used, its heavy oak door muting the clatter and footsteps of the rest of the mansion. The moment he stepped inside, the air changed—warm and faintly dusty, with the scent of old leather bindings and polished mahogany.
He had always loved this room. The towering shelves lined with books collected over generations felt like an entire universe unto themselves. Here, nobody told him he was eating too much or not studying enough. Nobody cared whether he was a lawyer-in-the-making or a complete failure. Here, he was just... quiet.
He sank into the deep burgundy armchair in the corner, the one with the seat molded perfectly to his frame from years of use, and opened the worn copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray he'd pulled from the shelf.
It didn't take long before he was somewhere else entirely—not the mansion, not London, not his life at all. He was in 19th-century drawing rooms with glittering chandeliers and whispered scandals, losing himself in Wilde's sentences, pretending that the sharp ache in his chest was something poetic rather than the dull, persistent weight it really was.
Hours passed without his noticing, rain pattering steadily against the tall windows in an endless, soothing rhythm. The grey light shifted subtly, and when he finally glanced at the clock on the far wall, it was nearly two-thirty.
With a reluctant sigh, he closed the book, running his thumb over the gold-embossed title one last time before sliding it back into its place. Time to do what his father had told him to do.
The drive to Sophia's flat was silent. His car cut through slick streets, the windshield wipers swiping away the rain only for it to bead back again seconds later. London blurred past in shades of slate and silver, neon signs smeared by the water on the glass.
When he pulled into her drive, he took a moment before getting out, gripping the steering wheel loosely and watching the droplets gather on the side mirror. Then he climbed out into the drizzle, the chill clinging to his coat as he walked up to her door.
He knocked once. The door swung open almost immediately, revealing Sophia in a silk robe, her hair in a loose bun, already mid-complaint.
"Louis, you took ages I didn't even know when to expect you. I've been trying to get my nails done but the place was packed. Honestly, if you came to the gym with me more often, you wouldn't look so tired all the time—"
He tuned out halfway through, his jaw tightening. "There's a party tonight." he said flatly, cutting through whatever tangent she'd been chasing.
Her irritation melted instantly into something bright and self-satisfied. "Oh, perfect. I've been dying for something worth dressing up for. You should have told me sooner."
"I'm telling you now," he replied, his tone even.
She waved a hand dismissively. "I'll just get my own ride there. I don't want to be late if you're still fussing over your tie or whatever."
He only shrugged. "Fine." It made no difference to him either way.
Sophia leaned in to kiss him, the motion quick, perfunctory. He returned it because it was easier than not, his lips meeting hers with the same mechanical indifference as always. No spark, no warmth—just obligation dressed as intimacy.
"See you tonight," she said, already turning back inside.
He left without another word, stepping back into the drizzle. The drive home felt longer, his irritation simmering under the low hum of the engine. All that time, all that rain, for something that could have been settled in a single text.
By the time Louis got back to the mansion, the rain had only deepened, coming down in a steady curtain that blurred the hedges along the drive. The heavy front doors swung shut behind him with a hollow thud, the quiet of the place broken by the sound of footsteps thundering toward him.
The twins.
His sour mood eased instantly. The moment his little brother and sister came barreling into the entry hall, all grins and energy from a day at school, he crouched to pull them into a tight hug.
"Hey, you two. Did you miss me?" he asked, ruffling his brother's hair until the boy swatted at his hand with a laugh.
"Are you excited to see Sharon later?" he added, smiling at the thought. Sharon had been their babysitter for years—decades, really, if you counted all the neighborhood families she'd looked after. She knew the twins better than most of their own relatives.
But before either of them could answer, his mother's voice floated in from the sitting room. "Sharon can't make it tonight."
Louis straightened, turning toward her. "What do you mean she can't make it? Who's going to watch them, then?"
His mother set down her teacup as if the matter were already settled. "A young man named Harry Styles. I know his mother from college—lovely woman, raised a lovely son. He'll be here at six."
"Some man?" Louis repeated, the word coming out sharper than intended. "You're letting some stranger watch them?"
"He's not a stranger to me," she replied, her tone clipped but calm. "And you needn't act as if I've plucked him off the street. He comes highly recommended, and he's doing it for far less than Sharon would have charged."
Louis folded his arms, unsettled. "That's not the point. I don't know him. They don't know him."
"Calm down, Louis," she said in the way only she could—stern, cool, and dismissive all at once. "Harry is a good young man. He'll be just fine with them."
Louis bit back the urge to argue further, but the knot of irritation stayed tight in his chest. He didn't like the idea of leaving his siblings with someone he'd never met, no matter how nice his mother swore he was.
Upstairs, the quiet was a welcome change from the murmur of staff downstairs. Louis moved into his bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him. The wardrobe doors swung open to reveal neat rows of suits—every shade, cut, and fabric imaginable—but his hand went almost automatically to the black one.
Black hides imperfections, his mother's voice echoed in his mind, sharp and certain.
He laid the suit out on the bed with practiced precision, shrugging out of his casual clothes and slipping into the crisp trousers, the jacket sliding over his shoulders in a smooth, expensive whisper of wool. In the mirror, he adjusted the lapels, buttoned the single button, then stood there far longer than necessary, comb in hand.
He tugged at his hair again and again, chasing an elusive perfection he'd never truly believe he possessed. Years of his mother's commentary had worn away whatever confidence he might have had—every glance in the mirror came with an invisible checklist of flaws she'd once named. He pressed his lips together, finally setting the comb down when the reflection looking back at him was at least acceptable.
Straightening his tie, he stepped out into the hallway and padded down to the twins' room. He knocked lightly.
From inside, Gracie's voice rang out, full of mischief. "You have to say the secret password!"
A smile tugged at his mouth despite himself. "The password is... 'Pineapple biscuits.'"
The door swung open immediately, both twins beaming up at him like he'd just told the funniest joke in the world. He stepped inside, crouching down to join them on the rug where a small kingdom of plastic figures and wooden blocks sprawled across the floor.
He stayed with them longer than he meant to—helping Jack build a crooked tower, letting Gracie braid his fingers into the tiny doll's hair. When it was finally time, he gathered them both close, his arms wrapping tight around them.
"Be good for the sitter tonight, yeah? And you remember how to call me if there's a problem."
Two nods, solemn as if they'd just been entrusted with a top-secret mission.
"Good," he murmured, pressing a kiss to each of their heads before pulling away.
Downstairs, the sound of the doorbell broke through the patter of rain against the windows. Louis moved to answer it, already bracing himself.
Sophia stood there framed in the doorway—perfectly coiffed hair, a glittering evening gown that clung like she'd just stepped off a runway, her eyes fixed not on him but on her phone screen as her fingers flicked across it.
Without looking up, she stepped forward. Louis wordlessly shifted aside, letting her sweep in, her perfume curling into the warm air of the foyer like smoke.
Sophia barely spared Louis a glance before her gaze darted toward the living room.
"Louis, darling, is that Sophia?" his mother's voice floated from inside.
"Yes, Mum," he replied, but Sophia was already smoothing her gown and stepping past him with a bright, honeyed smile.
"Hello!" she chirped, gliding into the room like she belonged there. "Oh, you both look wonderful tonight."
Louis lingered in the foyer, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled exasperation. Sophia adored his parents—not out of any deep familial fondness, but because they were the ones with the money, the name, the house. And that was all Sophia ever really cared about: money, status, appearances.
She laughed lightly at something his father said, the sound polished and empty. Louis rolled his eyes and turned away.
The sharp rap of a knock sounded against the front door.
"Louis!" his father called. "Get that, will you?"
With a sigh, Louis crossed the tiled floor and pulled the heavy door open—
—and there he was.
Harry stood in the doorway, rain-slick pavement behind him. Black jeans clung to his long legs, a fitted black T-shirt stretching just enough across his chest to hint at muscle, a jacket that had clearly seen better days hanging loose around his frame. His dark curls were damp at the ends, falling just below his jawline, and his green eyes caught the muted light of the entryway, sparkling in that effortless way that made people stop mid-sentence.
For some reason, Louis's chest felt tight, like the air had been punched right out of him. It was ridiculous. He didn't know why. And he didn't care to think about it.
Harry's smile was warm, friendly—unaffected by the chill of the rain. "Hi. Harry Styles," he said, his voice low and easy.
"Right, yeah—uh—hi—Louis, I'm—uh—I mean, obviously I'm Louis I'm sure my mum mentioned me or maybe not." He heard himself rambling, words tumbling out in no particular order. "I live here. Well, obviously, I'm the only son, 23, you know—"
He exhaled sharply, cutting himself off. Brilliant. He sounded like an idiot.
"Right, come in," he muttered, stepping back and letting Harry cross the threshold.
Louis turned his head toward the living room. "Mum! The sitter's here!"
"Gracie! Jack! Come down and meet Harry!" Louis's mum called from the living room, her voice echoing up the grand staircase.
A few seconds later, the thump of small feet on the steps filled the hallway. The twins appeared at the landing, Gracie in her mismatched socks and Jack clutching his ever-present toy car.
Harry crouched slightly as they reached the bottom, a warm smile already in place. "Hey there," he said, holding out his hand as if meeting two very important people. "You must be Gracie and Jack."
Gracie beamed and shook his hand with exaggerated seriousness, while Jack mumbled a shy hello but quickly lit up when Harry admired his car. "That's a cool ride. Bet it goes fast, yeah?"
Within moments, Harry was down on one knee, rolling the car across the floor with Jack and listening intently as Gracie explained the "rules" of the house. Louis found himself watching, shoulders easing without him realizing it. Harry didn't just tolerate the kids—he seemed to genuinely enjoy them.
Still, Louis's fingers kept tugging at the lapels of his suit jacket, smoothing them even though they didn't need it. His mother's voice in his head was relentless—look sharp, stand tall, never be less than perfect.
"All right, you two," Louis's mum said after a few minutes, "you be good for Harry tonight, understood?"
"Yes, Mum!" they chimed, already pulling Harry toward the living room to show him the stack of board games.
Louis's father appeared in the foyer, coat in hand. "Come on, we'll be late."
Louis gave the twins one last look. "You know how to call if there's a problem," he reminded them. They nodded, distracted, and he followed his parents and Sophia toward the door.
Just before stepping out, he glanced over his shoulder.
Harry was standing by the archway, hands tucked into the pockets of his worn jacket, curls falling into his eyes as he watched Louis leave. Their gazes caught—just for a second—and Louis felt that odd jolt in his chest again.
He looked away quickly, shutting the door behind him and stepping into the waiting car.
The car ride was quiet, save for the muted hum of the rain against the roof and Sophia scrolling endlessly on her phone. Louis's parents made occasional small talk about the guest list, but his mind was elsewhere—drifting back to the easy way Harry had knelt to greet the twins, the way his smile had seemed to belong in their home as if he'd been there a hundred times before.
He shifted in his seat, straightening his cuffs, forcing the thought out of his head. This night was about surviving, nothing more.
When they arrived, the party was already in full swing. The sprawling mansion loomed ahead, all stone columns and glittering windows. Inside, the air was warm, buzzing with champagne laughter and the low murmur of expensive conversation. Every person seemed perfectly polished, moving about as though they were on display—silk gowns and tailored suits gleaming under the crystal chandeliers. It was a gallery of the well-bred and well-connected, each guest strutting and preening like a thoroughbred in a show ring.
Sophia's face lit up the moment she spotted her circle of friends gathered near the grand staircase. Without hesitation, she slid her hand onto Louis's arm, pulling it around her waist like she was adjusting an accessory. "Come on, darling," she purred, steering him across the marble floor.
"Look who's here!" one of her friends gasped, all bright smiles and air-kisses.
The teasing started almost immediately. "So when's the engagement, Sophia? Don't keep us waiting too long!" another laughed, eyes darting to the diamond-less space on her hand.
Sophia played along effortlessly, her laugh smooth and practiced. "Oh, you'll just have to wait and see," she said, glancing at Louis as if sharing some private joke which Louis knew didn't exist.
Louis only offered a small, polite smile, shifting his weight as the conversation swirled around him. He kept his posture straight, his expression pleasant, but every nerve felt tuned to the awareness of eyes on him. He hated these parties—the stale perfume of pretension, the constant performance, the way every interaction was a transaction.
The room sparkled, the people sparkled, but it was all glass.
Everyone waiting to shatter.
Sophia clung to him like she always did when the audience was just right—fingers tracing down his arm, hand curling possessively at his waist, leaning in close enough that her perfume drowned out everything else. She laughed too loudly at things he didn't say, angled her body toward him so everyone could see just how devoted she was.
Louis let her. He always did. He half-rested a hand on her hip, not quite returning the squeeze, nodding vaguely when she spoke, his eyes scanning the room rather than her face. It wasn't worth the energy to put on a convincing show anymore. Not for her. Not for them.
"Louis," came his mother's sharp call over the din.
Before he could react, she was at his side, her manicured hand closing around his arm, pulling him away from Sophia's carefully curated grip. "Come, there are people you need to meet."
She swept him through the crowd to a pair of older men standing near the bar, their tailored suits probably worth more than his car. "This is my son, Louis," she said brightly, her smile sharp enough to cut. "He's no Rachel, but he could be on his way to where she is."
Louis felt the words hit like cold water, his cheeks flushing instantly. He loved his older sister, he knew it wasn't her fault that they compared the two of them relentlessly, but it still always stung.
The men chuckled, rich and indulgent, like they were humoring a child. One clapped him on the shoulder as if to say good luck, lad, while the other launched into some shallow question he barely heard.
Louis nodded, forcing polite answers through the heat in his face. He could feel eyes on him, not in admiration, but in quiet judgment—always compared, always falling short, and now in public, no less.
The laughter around him was honeyed and hollow. The champagne fizzing in crystal glasses. The air thick with perfume and pride.
And all Louis could think about was how badly he wanted to be anywhere else.
Louis slipped away the moment the conversation with the two men sputtered out, weaving through the crowd until he found the nearest bathroom. He shut the door behind him and exhaled, pressing his palms to the cool marble counter.
These parties had only gotten worse the older he got. More of a show. More people to look perfect for. More eyes, more expectations. More time Sophia spent locking herself to his side, her touch just tight enough to hurt, her smile just polished enough to fool them all.
It was always stressful. Constantly stressful.
His mother's voice, Sophia's laughter, the clink of champagne glasses—it all still rang in his ears, even here.
He probably needed a therapist. God knew he'd thought about it often enough. But his father didn't believe in therapy—only in money, status, and keeping the family name shiny. If you had wealth, you had no problems. That was the rule.
Louis turned on the tap and splashed cool water over his face, watching the droplets run down before grabbing one of the thick, folded towels and patting himself dry. He stared at his reflection for a moment longer than he meant to—checking his suit, smoothing his hair, trying to push the tightness in his chest somewhere deeper.
When he stepped back into the party, the noise rushed in again like a wave. Sophia spotted him almost instantly. She glided over, all silk and diamonds, looping her arm through his without missing a beat.
"There you are," she cooed, already steering him toward her cluster of friends.
And just like that, he was back on display.
Sophia's friends lit up the moment they saw her, all glossy smiles and clinking glasses.
"Oh, look at you two," one of them gushed, eyes flicking between Louis's arm around Sophia's waist and her perfectly placed hand over his. "Seriously, when's the proposal happening?"
Another chimed in before Louis could blink. "Yes! You'd better not keep her waiting too long, Louis. She's a catch, you know."
"Cutest couple here," a third added with a wink, swirling champagne.
Sophia laughed prettily, leaning into him as if she'd just heard the most charming thing in the world. "Well," she teased, "I suppose we'll see, won't we?"
Louis's stomach churned. The thought of marrying her—of standing across from her and making vows he didn't mean—hit like a cold weight in his chest.
He didn't love her. Probably never could.
So he just smiled faintly, the way he always did, letting them read whatever they wanted into it.
Sophia's hand closed around his wrist the moment her friends were distracted, her smile melting into a sharp glare. She tugged him a few paces away, just enough to keep the conversation from carrying.
"Louis," she hissed under her breath, "could you at least pretend to be affectionate? Touch my waist, hold my hand, something. You're stiff as a board out there. People notice."
He stood there, posture relaxed, gaze drifting over the glittering room like he hadn't heard a word. A woman in diamonds was laughing too loud near the buffet. A man with a cigar was talking about yachts. Same party, different day.
Her tone sharpened. "Are you even listening to me?"
"Mm," Louis murmured, eyes still scanning.
She huffed, eyes flashing with frustration, before storming off into the crowd. He thought he might finally be free—until she came back, this time with his father in tow.
"Son," his father began, voice low but heavy with disapproval. "You do not make a fool of your girlfriend in public. Sophia is an exceptional young woman. If you can't muster some basic decency, at least fake it. I raised you better than this."
Louis's jaw worked, the rebuttal burning at the back of his throat. But it wasn't worth it. It was never worth it.
"Fuck this," he muttered, turning on his heel.
He was out the door before either of them could stop him, the sharp night air hitting him like a slap. His polished shoes clicked against the pavement as he walked, no direction in mind but away.
Under his breath, he mocked them both—Sophia's saccharine scolding, his father's pompous lectures—each imitation more biting than the last.
By the time he reached the street corner, he'd had enough. He threw up a hand, hailing the first cab that passed, sliding inside with a terse, "Just drive."
The cab's tires crunched over the gravel drive, the
mansion looming in the darkness like a reminder of everything he'd just walked away from. Louis shoved a hand into his pocket for his keys—empty. He checked the other pocket. Nothing.
"Brilliant," he muttered, leaning his head back against the seat in defeat before paying the driver.
The cold bit at his face as he stepped out. He trudged up the front steps, each one heavier than the last, and knocked.
The door swung open a moment later, and there he was again—Harry. Same black jeans, same worn jacket, curls falling loose around his face. His green eyes caught in the warm glow of the hallway light.
"Louis?" Harry blinked, a flicker of surprise in his voice. "Everything alright?"
"Fine," Louis said quickly, maybe too quickly, brushing past him into the hall. "Just—forgot my key."
He glanced toward the staircase. "Where are the twins?"
"Put them to bed about ten minutes ago," Harry said with an easy smile, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Louis exhaled, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "Right. Thanks."
Louis lingered in the entryway longer than necessary, his jacket still on, his mind still buzzing from the party. The house was quiet—peaceful in a way it never was when the twins were awake.
Harry closed the door softly, his movements unhurried, his presence steady. "You left early?"
Louis gave a humorless huff. "Yeah. Wasn't exactly my scene tonight."
Harry tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling slightly. "Not a fan of all the glitz and champagne?"
"Or the people who come with it," Louis said before he could stop himself. He looked at Harry—really looked at him—and found no judgment there, only that calm, cool expression he'd worn when they met earlier.
Harry shrugged lightly. "Fair enough. I've never been to one of those parties, but I imagine it's... exhausting."
"That's one word for it," Louis muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable exactly, but it was... strange. Heavy.
He caught himself staring too long. What the hell am I doing?
"I should... get to bed," Louis said quickly, forcing his eyes away.
Harry only nodded, easy as ever. "Night, Louis."
"Night," Louis replied, turning for the stairs.
In his room, he stripped out of his suit with the same urgency as someone tearing off a too-tight bandage. The starched fabric felt suffocating, a lingering reminder of the night he'd escaped. Pulling on his pajama bottoms and a worn t-shirt, he sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, not thinking about the fact that he wanted—strangely—to go back downstairs and talk to Harry some more.
He lay back instead, staring at the ceiling until his mind finally slowed.
Louis's phone wouldn't stop buzzing on the nightstand.
He groaned, dragging it toward him without lifting his head from the pillow.
Sophia: Where are you? We're going to the after party.
Sophia: You're coming.
Sophia: Louis, answer me.
He typed out no with a sharp jab of his thumb and tossed the phone aside. But before it could even hit the duvet, it buzzed again.
Sophia: Not optional.
Louis pressed his knuckles to his eyes, exhaling hard through his nose to keep the burn behind them from spilling over. He stayed like that for a moment—still, tense—before letting out a quiet curse and sitting up.
Back into formal clothes. Not the suffocating suit from earlier, but still sharp enough to pass. A black shirt, blazer, trousers. Something she'd approve of.
He was just tightening his belt when he heard the front door downstairs. Voices—familiar ones.
By the time he reached the bottom of the staircase, his parents were inside. His father spotted him instantly, his expression hardening.
"Storming out of the party like a sulking child? Do you have any idea how that makes us look!?"
Louis's mum stood to the side with her bag in hand, trying to press a folded note of cash, more than he'd asked for, into Harry's palm. Harry refused it with a small shake of his head, but his eyes weren't on her. They were on Louis, watching as his father's voice rose.
"You're embarrassing yourself. Embarrassing me. As always! You couldn't even bother to show Sophia the courtesy she deserves—"
Louis didn't answer. He stood there and took it, jaw locked, shoulders squared, a stillness that was half-defiance, half self-preservation.
"I'm going to pick up Sophia," he said flatly when the tirade paused for air. "We're going to the after party."
He reached for his coat.
"Maybe," his father called after him, "you'll try to actually get some tonight instead of avoiding that beautiful woman like she's the plague!"
Louis's grip on the doorknob tightened. He didn't turn around.
He stepped out into the night.
The cold air bit at Louis's cheeks the moment he stepped outside. His car waited in the driveway, sleek and polished, a showpiece he barely cared about.
He stood with one hand on the door handle, head bowed, chest rising and falling in deep, deliberate breaths. Like if he just breathed slow enough, hard enough, he could keep himself from falling apart.
Behind him, the door clicked shut again. Footsteps.
Harry was coming out too, his coat pulled tight, keys in hand. He hesitated a few steps from Louis, rocking slightly on his heels before speaking.
"You okay?"
Louis turned, eyes sharp. "Why the hell do you care? You don't even know me."
Harry took a step back, palms half-lifting in surrender. "Just trying to be nice."
"I don't need nice," Louis shot back. "I need to go get fucking wasted or something."
Harry's jaw tightened, but he didn't bite. He just shook his head, walked toward the curb, and unlocked a beat-up old car that looked like it had seen more years than Harry had.
Louis exhaled, turning back to his own pristine vehicle. Sliding inside, he gripped the steering wheel, leaning forward until his forehead nearly touched it. A low, frustrated groan escaped before he sat back again.
He'd apologize. Next time he saw him. Maybe.
For now, he pulled out of the drive and headed for Sophia's.
The drive to Sophia's place was quiet—tense in the way only two people who had long since run out of things to say could manage. She climbed into his passenger seat with a bright, fake smile plastered on her face, chattering about who would be at the after party, how they needed to be seen there, how it was "good for them." Louis just grunted and drove.
The after party was exactly what he expected and dreaded—too loud, too bright, too many rich twenty-somethings throwing money and powder around like confetti. Every laugh was too sharp, every bass drop rattling in his teeth.
He wasn't even halfway into the crowd before he was already on his third beer, the cold liquid sliding down his throat faster than he could think about it.
Sophia was draped over him like a scarf, fingers curled around his bicep, leaning into his ear to make sure everyone saw. He kept nudging her off, only for her to cling tighter.
Then she caught his hand and pulled.
Before he knew it, he was in a cramped, dim bathroom with the door locked behind them. Her dress hiked up around her hips as she stepped toward him, breath sweet with liquor.
"Come on," she murmured, tugging at his belt. "Just a quickie."
"I—" He didn't even get the word out before she had his pants halfway down.
Every part of him recoiled. Every nerve screamed no.
When nothing happened—when his body stayed stubbornly unresponsive—her expression snapped from sultry to scathing in seconds.
"Are you kidding me?" she hissed, yanking her hands back.
"I just—"
"You can't get hard? With me?" She slapped him across the face, sharp and stinging, before stepping back and straightening her dress. "I'm the hottest person you will ever be with, Louis. But you never want to fuck me! I have needs unlike you. You should be grateful."
The words were knives, and she didn't wait to watch them land. She unlocked the door, storming out into the music and chatter without another glance.
Louis stayed where he was, cheek stinging.
Pants still halfway down, breath stuck somewhere between his lungs and his throat, the walls of yet another bathroom closing in on him.
Feeling hollow. Feeling small. Feeling like nothing.
Louis didn't last long after that. Another beer sat unfinished in his hand before he finally shoved it onto a counter and pushed his way toward the door. Another failure in a long string of them.
He almost made it out clean—until he nearly collided with a familiar figure in the foyer.
"Liam?"
"Louis! Mate." Liam's grin was warm and easy as ever. They clasped hands, the gesture more genuine than most Louis endured in these circles.
Liam had dated Rachel years ago, and even though things between them had ended, there had been no blow-ups, no ugly words. He and Louis had stayed friends, bound by a mutual respect that had survived the breakup.
"Good to see you," Liam said. "Tell your sister I said hi."
"Will do," Louis replied, managing a small smile. They exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then Louis was slipping out into the cold night air.
The drive home was silent, rain streaking across the windshield, the city smeared into watery shapes through the glass. But when he pulled into the driveway, he didn't move.
He sat there in the dark, knuckles white around the steering wheel, the quiet pressing in until it broke him.
Frustration burned behind his eyes, then spilled over, hot and unrelenting. He let his head fall forward against the leather, shoulders shaking, breath catching in gasps. The rain pattered harder, drumming on the roof as if it wanted to drown the sound of him.
By the time he dragged himself out of the car, his face felt raw.
The house was dim, hushed. No one saw him slip up the stairs, the carpet swallowing his footsteps.
In his room, he changed quickly into a t-shirt and joggers, climbed into bed, and pulled his Bible from the nightstand. The familiar pages rustled under his fingers as he read the night's few passages.
But even as his eyes traced the words, his mind kept wandering—back to the driveway, back to the sound of Harry's voice when he'd asked if he was okay. Back to the sting of his own snap in reply.
He pressed his lips together, thumb pausing on the page.
He felt bad. He hated that he'd been so sharp. And he hated that it mattered at all.
Shaking the thought away, he turned over and closed the book, deciding the moment didn't mean anything anyway.
The next morning Louis didn't bother to get up for breakfast.
It was one of those slow, heavy Saturday mornings where the air in the house felt thicker somehow, each sound muted, as though the walls themselves were still half-asleep. He lay there long after the sun had pulled itself high, sprawled on his back and staring at the faint cracks in his ceiling. His phone sat on his chest, idly scrolling through feeds he didn't care about, eyes glazing over headlines he didn't read. Time slid by in syrupy increments, and he let it.
It wasn't until the clock on his nightstand read nearly 11:30 that he finally swung his legs over the side of the bed. That was late for him—too late for someone who prided himself on always being up before the house was properly awake.
He tugged on a plain tee and soft joggers, but instead of heading straight downstairs, he found himself caught in front of the mirror. His own reflection stared back, unforgiving. The same jawline he thought was too dull, the same mouth that never quite looked like it was smiling right, the same set of shoulders he always thought looked better on other men.
The insults came uninvited, fast and practiced. Too thin, but still too much extra skin on his stomach. Too pale. You look tired. You look old. It was a ritual he knew too well—one that didn't even feel dramatic anymore, just... routine. Like brushing his teeth.
He exhaled hard through his nose and looked away before the familiar spiral could take him deeper.
The muted hush of the house was broken by the quick patter of small feet. By the time he reached the bottom of the grand staircase, the sound had doubled in volume, and then Gracie and Jack were barreling toward him.
Gracie's curls bounced with every step, her grin wide enough to nearly split her face. Jack followed close behind, his shorter legs pumping hard to keep up.
Louis couldn't help smiling. He crouched down just in time for them to crash into his arms, wrapping him in the kind of fierce, unhesitating hug only little kids seemed to give.
"How'd you like Harry?" he asked once they'd pulled back, still holding onto their small shoulders.
Gracie lit up even more—if that was possible. "He was so silly! He played princesses with me—he even wore the crown—and then he played race cars with Jack after!"
Jack nodded so fast his hair flopped, revealing a gap in his smile where a tooth used to be.
Louis laughed under his breath. "Sounds like he was a hit."
Warmth spread through his chest, a soft ache that came from knowing the kids had liked him. But right behind it came a different feeling—guilt, sharp and quick—because Harry's impression of him from last night had been anything but warm.
He straightened, ruffling Jack's hair before heading toward the kitchen. The smell of coffee lingered faintly in the air, though the pot had clearly been emptied hours ago. His mum was perched on one of the counter stools, nibbling absently on a rice cake.
"We're going out this evening," she said the second he appeared in the doorway, not even looking up from the magazine in her lap. "Your father and I—benefit dinner."
Louis only shrugged at his mum's announcement, feigning disinterest while hiding the small thread of relief curling through him. If they were gone for the evening, that meant a quiet house. Just him and the kids. No expectations, no stiff conversation at the dinner table. He could actually enjoy himself for once—make Gracie laugh until she snorted milk out of her nose, let Jack stay up past bedtime just to watch cartoons or play video games.
The day dragged on in its usual way, minutes stretching into hours as Louis moved between the living room, his room, and the kitchen. By the time the sky outside had begun its slow shift to the golden haze of late afternoon, he found himself drifting downstairs again, the sound of his mother's heels clicking against the marble floor marking the start of their departure routine.
They were in the foyer when he appeared, his mum fussing with the clasp on her bracelet while his dad straightened his tie in the mirror.
"Harry should be here in about ten minutes," his mum said lightly, as though it were the most normal thing in the world.
Louis froze halfway down the staircase, his brows knitting. "Why's he coming if I'm here?"
Her smile wavered into something faintly amused. "Just for extra hands."
The meaning hit him immediately—extra hands to make sure the house didn't collapse into chaos.
"You mean because you don't trust me."
She gave a little laugh, the kind that was meant to defuse tension but only lit a spark in his chest. "Oh, Louis—"
"No, seriously," he pressed, his voice rising without his permission. "Why the hell don't you trust me with my own siblings?"
"Louis." His father's voice cracked through the air like a whip. "Do not speak to your mother like that."
The reprimand stung, sharp and humiliating, and Louis bit down on whatever he'd been about to say next. His jaw locked tight, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
His parents swept out moments later, the heavy front door shutting behind them with a finality that left the foyer unnervingly still. He stood there alone, staring at the door, irritation thrumming under his skin. It was the same every time—accused, underestimated, brushed off. He should've been used to it by now, but somehow it always found a way to ache.
He told himself to shrug it off. He would shrug it off.
Not even three minutes later, a steady knock broke the silence.
Louis opened the door to find Harry standing there, framed by the early evening light. He looked effortlessly put together—dark coat draped over his broad shoulders, curls slightly damp as though from a quick shower, that sharp cologne hitting Louis immediately. It was strong but not overwhelming, something clean and warm, the kind that lingered even after the person had left the room.
The smell alone made Louis's chest feel uncomfortably tight.
It wasn't attraction. It wasn't. Just... cologne. He told himself it was the kind of scent anyone would notice. That was all.
"Hey," Harry said, shifting his weight like he wasn't entirely sure how he'd be received.
Louis stepped aside to let him in, their shoulders brushing briefly as Harry passed. He shut the door and turned, his voice low. "Listen, I'm sorry. For yesterday."
Harry's brows lifted a little, clearly not expecting that. But then he nodded. "It's alright. I get it. Your dad came down on you pretty hard back there. Anyone would've been frustrated."
Louis swallowed, the sharp edge of guilt loosening just a fraction. He gave a single nod, the smallest of concessions. "Yeah. Thanks."
They stood in the foyer for a beat, neither quite moving, the sound of the clock ticking in the corner far too loud in the quiet. Louis kept his distance, but it didn't matter—the cologne was still there, threading through the air, pulling his attention in ways he didn't want it to.
It was fine. He could deal with it. He'd been dealing with things like that his whole life. He knew what to ignore.
Even if his stomach felt strange. Even if his thoughts flickered, unbidden, to the way Harry's voice had softened just then.
Louis cleared his throat, breaking the moment before it could stretch too far.
This was just one evening. Babysitting. That was all. And maybe—maybe they could get along. Be friends, even.
But nothing more.
Absolutely nothing more.
He told himself that as he turned toward the living room, the echo of Harry's cologne trailing after him.
Still, somewhere in the back of his mind, a quiet, unwelcome curiosity curled up and settled in.
And Louis had no idea how the night ahead would unfold.