Chapter Text
The tram screeches to a halt with a shudder that rattles straight through Louis’ bones. He swears under his breath and tightens his grip on the handrail, craning his neck to catch the station sign through the grime-streaked window.
Still three stops away.
His watch glares back at him. 6:47 PM. He’s meant to be at the venue by six-thirty for soundcheck.
The gig isn’t massive, nothing close to the fantasy he once nursed of headlining a sold-out room, but it matters. A charity event at a high-end art gallery, the kind with white walls and polished concrete floors that echo when you walk. Harry Styles, the curator, has insisted on live music to “set the tone.” Elijah had nearly shouted down the phone when he told him, rattling off words like exposure and opportunity. The right people in the room. Wealthy donors. Local press. Creatives with influence. A far cry from the sticky floors and half-empty pubs Louis usually plays.
That is, if he even makes it.
He drags a hand over his face, fatigue settling heavily in his chest. The late-night bar shifts, the unpaid rent stacking up, the slow erosion of optimism every time he opens his inbox to another rejection. There are moments, quiet ones he doesn’t admit to anyone, where he wonders if this is where it ends. If music becomes the thing he almost had.
Then Elijah’s call cuts through it, and something fragile sparks back to life.
The tram lurches forward again, the sudden movement knocking him into the woman beside him.
“Sorry,” he mutters, already bracing himself.
She scowls. He lets it go. Today isn’t the day for sharp edges.
Outside, the city smears into motion. Manchester hums with Friday-night urgency. Crowds spill from pubs, taxis lean on their horns, commuters shove past one another with narrowed eyes and weekend plans. Louis can never quite decide if the city exhausts him or keeps him upright. Probably both.
When the tram finally reaches his stop, he bolts through the doors, guitar case knocking against his back as he cuts into the crowd. His boots strike hard against the pavement as he jogs, dodging umbrellas and muttered complaints. The gallery is close now. Just a few blocks.
He checks his phone mid-stride, panic tightening his throat. No missed calls from Elijah yet, which feels like borrowed time.
“Come on, Tomlinson,” he mutters. “Get it together.”
If he’s lucky, there’s still time to set up, to prove he isn’t another unreliable musician who turns up flustered and unprepared. This could be the night that shifts something, even slightly. A reminder of why he chose this life in the first place.
He turns another corner and tries to steady his breathing. The pressure in his chest doesn’t ease, but he pushes it down. He doesn’t have the luxury of doubt right now.
He just hopes this Harry Styles bloke isn’t too quick to write him off.
Louis picks up his pace, weaving through clusters of people who seem determined to move at half speed.
“Excuse me. Sorry. Coming through,” he calls, slipping past a man juggling two pint glasses and a couple locked into a selfie. The guitar strap bites into his shoulder with every stride.
The pedestrian light flips to red ahead. He doesn’t slow. He darts into the road.
A car slams to a halt, horn blaring loud enough to make him flinch.
“Bloody hell,” he shouts, throwing a hand up before catching himself. He forces out an apologetic grin, mouths a breathless sorry, and keeps moving. The driver’s gestures fade behind him.
“Great start,” he mutters.
Sweat slicks his brow. His shirt clings to his back, the summer heat doing him no favours. He’d dressed carefully, dark jeans, fitted black tee, worn-in leather boots, but now he looks less like a professional musician and more like someone who’s just lost a race he didn’t train for.
Then the gallery comes into view.
Sleek. Glass-fronted. All clean lines and quiet judgment.
Relief and dread collide in his chest. He slows just long enough to yank his phone from his pocket. 6:58 PM.
“Brilliant,” he groans, shoving it away.
Nearly half an hour late. Barely enough time for soundcheck, assuming they even bother. For all he knows, he’s already been replaced by a string quartet with better timing and cleaner shoes.
The thought turns his stomach as he crosses the final stretch of pavement and heads for the door.
The gallery entrance looms closer, a strip of red carpet unfurling toward glass doors where clusters of immaculately dressed guests linger with champagne flutes in hand. Louis’ pulse kicks harder. His first impression is going to be sweat-soaked and breathless.
Perfect.
There’s no time to spiral. He draws a steadying breath, squares his shoulders, and pushes through the doors, clinging to the hope that this isn’t already unsalvageable.
Cool air hits him immediately, sharp and almost startling against his overheated skin. He steps into the gallery and feels the contrast at once. Everything gleams. Polished floors catch the light, reflecting it softly upward. Modern art lines the walls in careful intervals, each piece given room to breathe, as though even the empty space has been curated.
Wait staff glide through the room in crisp black uniforms, trays of champagne balanced with effortless precision. Their shoes click quietly against the floor. A few of them glance his way, eyes flicking over him with professional disinterest that borders on judgment. One man, holding a silver tray of canapés, gives him a slow once-over. His gaze lingers on the darkened patches beneath Louis’ arms before he turns away with a faint, dismissive sniff.
Louis drops his eyes to his scuffed boots and rumpled shirt and swallows. He can’t even fault them. He looks less like the evening’s entertainment and more like someone who’s wandered in to repair a leaking pipe.
He moves deeper into the space, every step betraying him. His rubber soles squeak against the floor, each sound ringing far too loudly in the hushed room. The strap of his guitar case creaks as it shifts on his back, the body of the instrument knocking against his spine with an audible swish that makes his shoulders tense. He adjusts it as discreetly as he can, but the weight only amplifies his awareness of himself.
Too loud. Too messy. Too late.
Louis scans the room, eyes darting from wall to wall as panic creeps in. Where the hell is Elijah? There is no way he can face Harry Styles on his own, not looking like this.
Then he spots him.
Near the sleek bar at the back of the gallery, Elijah paces in tight, agitated circles. His phone is clenched in one hand while the other drags repeatedly through his hair. Even from a distance, the tension rolling off him is unmistakable.
Louis exhales and heads toward him, ignoring the curious looks that follow his progress across the room. The urgency in his chest hasn’t eased, but at least Elijah won’t pretend not to see him. Or so he hopes.
He reaches him slightly out of breath, forcing himself to stand still long enough to speak.
“Elijah,” he starts, voice tight with apology. “I’m so sorry. The trams were—”
“What the hell, Louis?” Elijah cuts in, disbelief and frustration etched plainly across his face. His gaze flicks over Louis in quick, ruthless assessment. The sweat. The creased shirt. The guitar case slung awkwardly over his shoulder. “You’re half an hour late, you look like you’ve been dragged backwards through a hedge, and Harry Styles is about two seconds away from losing his mind. This is not how you make a first impression.”
Louis winces and rubs the back of his neck. “I know. I know. The trams were delayed, and it’s Friday, so the city was absolutely mental—”
Elijah waves him off sharply. “No excuses. I had a feeling you’d show up like this, so I planned ahead.” He shoves a sleek black garment bag into Louis’ hands. “Backup clothes. Go change. Now. Because if Harry sees you looking like… this,” he gestures vaguely at Louis’ dishevelled state, “it’s only going to make things worse.”
Louis blinks down at the bag, then back at him. “You’re a lifesaver. Honestly. Thank you. I owe you—”
“Save it,” Elijah snaps. “Bathrooms are to the left. Move.”
Louis nods, murmuring thanks as he backs away, then practically jogs toward the bathrooms.
Inside, he locks the door and unzips the bag. His eyebrows lift despite himself.
A crisp white shirt. Tailored black trousers. A black blazer. Clean, sharp, and very much not his usual look. The outfit radiates a kind of quiet authority that says I belong here and probably owns property.
“Blimey,” he mutters.
He strips out of his damp clothes and pulls the new ones on, surprised by how well they fit. Elijah must’ve guessed his size perfectly. Louis smooths the front of the blazer, adjusts the cuffs, and turns toward the mirror. His hair is still dark with sweat, but a splash of cold water and a quick finger-comb tame it into something respectable.
“All right,” he mutters to his reflection. “Look the part. Act the part. Don’t screw this up.”
He steps out of the bathroom, immediately aware of how unfamiliar the clothes feel on his body. Too sharp. Too deliberate. Like he’s borrowed someone else’s skin. He scans the room and spots Elijah by the bar, deep in conversation with a man Louis doesn’t recognise but instantly assumes must be Harry.
It isn’t just the designer suit or the immaculate grooming, though both stand out. It’s the way Harry holds himself. Completely at ease. Self-possessed without trying for it. There’s authority there, worn lightly, without the need to perform. His auburn curls frame his face with effortless precision, his jaw sharp enough to feel intentional. He gestures as he speaks, silver rings flashing briefly under the lights, while his other hand rests casually in his pocket.
Louis swallows, suddenly acutely aware of the gulf between them.
Harry looks like he belongs here, like he’s been tailored to the space. The olive-green suit fits him perfectly, paired with a silky black shirt left open just enough to reveal a fine chain at his collarbone. Even from this distance, Louis can read his expression. Focused. Cool. Already bordering on unimpressed by whatever Elijah is saying.
Then Harry glances up.
Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second. Harry’s gaze is steady, appraising, clinical in the way it moves over Louis and settles. The assessment is done almost instantly. Louis’ stomach flips, nerves flaring sharp and sudden.
He shifts his guitar bag from his back to his side as he closes the distance, the strap suddenly awkward, the weight of it knocking against his leg with every step. He adjusts his grip, painfully aware of how conspicuous he feels approaching them.
“Louis,” Elijah says as soon as he reaches them, voice tight but professional. “This is Harry Styles, the curator of tonight’s event.”
Harry turns fully toward him, sharp green eyes sweeping over Louis in a quick, deliberate once-over. It isn’t openly hostile, but there’s no warmth in it either.
Louis moves the guitar bag into his right hand and immediately regrets it. The strap slips. As he fumbles to correct it, the bottom of the case swings forward and bumps into Harry’s leg.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” Louis blurts, yanking it back and instinctively offering his free hand, palm still faintly damp. “Nice to meet you. I’m Louis.”
Harry doesn’t take it. He folds his arms instead, expression unmoved.
“You’re very late, Mr. Tomlinson.”
Louis’ stomach drops. He lets his hand fall, rubbing the back of his neck as heat creeps into his cheeks. “It’s just Louis,” he says quietly. “And yeah, I know. I’m really sorry. The trams—”
Harry lifts a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. “I don’t need the explanation.”
Louis closes his mouth and nods, chastened.
Harry exhales slowly, his tone clipped but controlled. “There’s very little time to check your equipment or prepare. I’ll show you where you’ll be playing. Follow me.”
He turns on his heel without waiting, stride confident as he moves deeper into the gallery.
Louis stands there for a beat, blinking after him. Apologising again feels pointless. He glances at Elijah, who gives him a sharp look and tilts his head toward Harry.
“Go,” Elijah mutters. “Don’t just stand there.”
Louis snaps out of it and hurries after him, the guitar bag thudding against his side. Whatever impression he’s made, it hasn’t landed well. And he has no idea how to undo it.
They move through the gallery in silence, their footsteps echoing softly against the polished floors. Louis tries to focus on the art lining the walls, bold abstract pieces bursting with colour beside restrained, minimalist works, but his attention keeps drifting. To Harry’s broad shoulders. The deliberate precision of his movements. The faint tension held through his frame.
After a few moments, Louis jogs to catch up, falling into step beside him.
“So,” he says, nodding toward a nearby canvas scored with jagged black lines against white. “This art. Is it meant to mean something? Or is it more of a… vibe thing?”
Harry glances at the painting, then back at Louis. His expression doesn’t shift.
“It explores the intersection of chaos and control,” he says evenly. “A commentary on the duality of human nature.”
“Oh,” Louis says, blinking. “Right. Yeah. That tracks.”
Silence settles again. Louis adjusts the guitar bag, then pushes on.
“I mean, it’s kind of funny, isn’t it? A musician at an art gallery. Mixing two worlds. A bit like that chaos and control thing you mentioned.”
Harry’s pace slows, but he doesn’t respond.
Louis forces a small laugh. “Or maybe it’s just chaos. Me turning up late and all.”
Harry stops abruptly.
Louis nearly collides with him, jerking to a halt and just managing to keep the guitar bag from swinging into him again. He tightens his grip, pulse thudding.
Harry turns to face him fully. His gaze pins Louis in place, searching, unreadable. He says nothing at first, a faint crease appearing between his brows.
Louis considers filling the silence, then thinks better of it. He shifts his weight, waiting, tension coiling tight in his chest.
Finally, Harry speaks, his voice low and deliberate.
“Mr. Tomlinson, this was a mistake.”
Louis blinks.
“Sorry?”
“I knew I shouldn’t have taken a chance on someone so… unprofessional,” Harry says, his tone cutting. “I don’t know what Elijah told you, but this event matters. It isn’t an open mic night in a dingy bar. I’m not letting an amateur musician ruin it.”
Louis feels his stomach drop, but irritation sparks just as fast. He lifts an eyebrow and squares his shoulders.
“Look,” he says, keeping his voice level. “I know I fucked up. But it’s not fair to assume I’m going to ruin anything. I’m not some clueless beginner. I’ve worked my arse off to be here, and I take my music seriously. So maybe… maybe don’t judge me before you’ve actually heard me play.”
Harry’s gaze doesn’t waver, though his mouth tightens slightly. He raises one eyebrow, as if weighing whether Louis’ pushback deserves a response. Then, without a word, he turns and strides away, long steps carrying him toward the far end of the room.
Louis exhales hard, frustration and nerves tangling in his chest, and follows.
They stop at a small raised platform tucked into the corner of the gallery. A microphone, a stool, and a modest spread of sound equipment wait there, neat and unobtrusive.
Harry gestures toward it with a brief nod. “This is your setup. Do what you need to do, Mr. Tomlinson.”
Louis sets his guitar bag down carefully, the tension between them still hanging heavy.
“It’s just Louis,” he mutters under his breath. “And let’s not ruin your night, then.”
Harry doesn’t respond.
Louis crouches and unzips the case, easing his acoustic guitar out with practiced care. He checks it quickly for damage. Nothing. Relief flickers. He places it on the stand, adjusts the microphone to his height, then tweaks the angle. His fingers skim the sound controls as he hums softly into the mic, testing levels. The sound carries gently through the speakers, drawing a few curious looks from nearby staff.
As he plugs in cables and fine-tunes the setup, his focus narrows. Familiar motions take over, grounding him. When he lifts the guitar again, its weight settles comfortably against him. He strums a quiet chord, listening, adjusting.
“How’s it going, mate?”
Louis turns to find Elijah watching him, concern written plainly across his face.
“Yeah. Fine,” Louis says, a little too quickly.
Elijah arches an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”
Louis hesitates, then lets out a short, humourless laugh.
“Harry’s a bit of a dick, isn’t he?”
Elijah smirks, leaning back against the wall. “He’s under a lot of pressure tonight. And you were half an hour late. What did you expect? A warm welcome?”
Louis bristles but doesn’t argue.
“And,” Elijah adds, lighter now, “this is a very well-paid gig. So if you’ve got to tolerate someone being a bit of a dick to make it work, maybe just swallow it, yeah?”
Louis bites back a reply and nods instead. Elijah gives his shoulder a brief, encouraging pat before heading off.
Alone again, Louis refocuses. He makes final adjustments, strums a few more chords, checks the monitors. Satisfied, he glances at the clock.
Five minutes.
The room hums louder as more guests arrive, voices layering over one another. Louis draws a steady breath. The start hasn’t been great, but he’s here now. He isn’t letting anyone throw him off.
He lets the final note of the song fade before turning back to his sheet music. He flips through the pages, choosing the next cover, something restrained, something that blends into the evening rather than demanding attention. It isn’t his usual style, but tonight isn’t about him.
The room is full now. Well-dressed guests drift through the space with champagne in hand, conversation murmuring beneath the music.
That’s when he spots Harry.
He stands just outside the main cluster, speaking with a small group, posture relaxed. He smiles faintly as he gestures toward one of the paintings, entirely at ease. Whatever sharpness he’d aimed at Louis earlier is gone, replaced by quiet confidence that feels… infuriatingly natural.
Louis watches him, fingers idly plucking at the strings. He tries to place his age. Early thirties, maybe. Not much younger than him, if at all. The thought lands badly. Harry seems to have slid effortlessly into success, curating events like this, moving comfortably among people who belong here.
Louis shakes it off, lips pressing together.
“Not the time,” he mutters, and launches into the next song.
The evening blurs into soft melodies and polite applause. Guests pause, listen, drift away. Louis keeps his head down, plays cleanly, though his fingers itch to rough the songs up a little.
Halfway through the night, Elijah appears and signals for a break. Louis finishes the song, sets his guitar aside, and stretches out his arms.
He steps off the platform and threads his way through the crowd toward the drinks table. Champagne flutes glint under warm lighting. He takes one and sips, bubbles sharp against his tongue, scanning the room.
It still isn’t his world, but he can’t deny the atmosphere. The lighting is perfect. The art carefully framed. Everything hums with money and intention.
Elijah approaches him again.
“I’m heading off,” he says easily. “Everything should run smoothly from here. Gallery closes at nine-thirty. Once you’re done, you’re free to pack up.”
Louis nods, a flicker of unease at being left alone despite himself.
“Got it. Thanks.”
“You need anything before I go?”
Louis shakes his head. “No. I’m good.”
Elijah smiles and claps his shoulder lightly. “You’re doing fine.”
When he leaves, Louis drifts toward the edge of the room and stops in front of one of the paintings. He studies it for several minutes, head tilted slightly.
The composition is chaotic, smudged colour and blurred forms colliding across the canvas. Two naked figures emerge from the disorder, their bodies distorted, almost lost. But their faces are strikingly clear. Their eyes lock onto one another with an intensity that cuts through the abstraction entirely.
Beneath it, a small placard reads:
Chaos and Control.
Louis finds himself drawn to the dynamic. There’s something unsettlingly familiar in the push and pull of the figures, the way connection and conflict seem tangled together, though he can’t quite put his finger on why. He takes another sip of champagne and leans in, studying the details, letting the noise of the room fall away for a moment.
“Well,” he mutters, eyes narrowing, “that’s… something.”
Romantic, maybe. Tense, definitely. Possibly both.
“Louis.”
The sound of his name snaps him out of it. He turns, startled, and spots Harry a short distance away with two other men. Harry lifts a hand, beckoning him over, and what throws Louis completely off balance is the fact that he says Louis, not the stiff, formal Mr. Tomlinson.
For a second, Louis just stares.
One of the men has his arm wrapped securely around the other’s waist, the pair of them radiating an easy, unselfconscious closeness that feels deliberate rather than showy.
Harry waves again.
Louis exhales and moves, weaving through the small crowd until he reaches them. He hesitates at the edge of the group, unsure whether he’s meant to step in properly, but Harry doesn’t give him time to overthink it.
Up close, Harry seems different. Looser. More open. The earlier cool detachment is gone, replaced with something almost approachable, and the shift throws Louis more than he expects.
“Louis, come meet Charlie,” Harry says, gesturing to the man nearest him.
Charlie is short, shorter than Louis, with a round, unremarkable face and hair thinning slightly at the temples. Louis smiles politely and offers his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Charlie.”
“Yes, you too, Louis,” Charlie replies, his eyes flicking briefly toward Harry, his expression unreadable.
Harry turns to the other man. Taller, broader, with a ruddy complexion and a suit that fits a little too snugly. Louis offers his hand again, this time with a flicker of uncertainty.
“And this is Matthew,” Harry says.
“Pleasure,” Matthew replies gruffly, lips pulling into a tight smile.
Louis straightens, glancing at Harry, silently asking what exactly is going on. Before he can open his mouth, Harry turns back to the two men and says, casually, as if he’s commenting on the wine selection, “This is Louis, my boyfriend.”
Louis’ brain short-circuits.
He freezes mid-breath, nearly choking as the words register. His eyes snap to Harry, wide and incredulous, a silent what the fuck are you doing? written plainly across his face.
Harry’s eyes widen too, just slightly, but he holds it together. His lips twitch, the faintest hint of challenge there, like he’s daring Louis to call him out.
The realisation lands hard. This isn’t a slip. It’s a performance.
Louis has no idea why Harry’s doing this, but he knows exactly what would happen if he refused to play along. He forces a grin, smooths the shock away with something practiced and easy.
“Oh, yeah,” he says brightly. “Hi.” He steps closer and slips an arm around Harry’s waist, casual enough to pass, deliberate enough to sell it. “Haz has told me all about you two.”
Harry stiffens at the nickname, just for a beat, before recovering. He sets a hand lightly on Louis’ shoulder.
“Of course I have.”
Matthew and Charlie smile, entirely convinced.
“Well, it’s lovely to meet you,” Matthew says warmly. “Harry always seems so put-together. I had no idea he had such a… charming musician as a boyfriend.”
Heat creeps into Louis’ cheeks, but he laughs, squeezing Harry’s side. “Oh, Haz is the real charmer,” he says, flicking a glance up at him. “I just keep him grounded.”
Matthew and Charlie laugh, exchanging amused looks. Harry gives Louis a faint smirk, and Louis feels the tension between them crackle, sharp and electric, just beneath the surface.
When the conversation shifts, Louis tightens his grip briefly and murmurs, barely moving his lips, “You owe me an explanation, Haz.”
Harry doesn’t answer. He just keeps talking, perfectly composed, leaving Louis to stew.
Louis somehow gets through the rest of the exchange, nodding, smiling, offering vague, agreeable responses while his mind races. What is Harry playing at? And why does stepping into this role feel disturbingly easy?
The moment there’s a natural pause, Louis takes it.
“Well, it was lovely meeting you both,” he says, flashing a grin at Matthew and Charlie. Then he looks pointedly at Harry. “But I should get back to the stage. My boss works me far too hard. Don’t know how I put up with him, honestly.”
Harry laughs, a touch too loudly. “Guilty as charged.”
Matthew and Charlie chuckle politely, offer their goodbyes, and drift back into the crowd. Louis waits until they’re out of earshot before stepping closer again. His fingers curl around Harry’s arm, squeezing just hard enough to pull him down a fraction, bringing their faces level.
“You’d better have a very good explanation for that by the end of the night,” Louis murmurs.
Harry’s smirk holds, though something flickers behind his eyes. “Yeah,” he says smoothly. “Of course.”
Louis releases him, turns on his heel, and heads back toward the stage.
He slips the guitar strap over his shoulder, adjusts the mic, and starts playing again. The familiar rhythm steadies him, but the tension lingers, humming under his skin.
As the night wears on, his gaze keeps drifting back to Harry. The man moves through the room with effortless confidence, chatting, laughing, belonging. More than once, Harry catches him looking. Each time, Louis looks away too quickly, heat creeping up his neck beneath the stage lights.
It’s infuriating.
Posh twat, Louis thinks, striking a chord a little harder than necessary. And yet here I am, blushing like a schoolboy just because he looked at me.
Toward the end of the evening, as the crowd begins to thin, Louis notices Harry standing with an older couple near one of the gallery’s larger pieces. The woman has striking features, sharp cheekbones and piercing green eyes that bear an uncanny resemblance to Harry’s. Her hand rests lightly on the arm of the man beside her, who is clearly her husband.
Louis’ fingers falter for the briefest moment before he recovers, continuing to play as he watches the interaction. Harry seems more reserved now, his usual polished charm softening into something more genuine. Louis can’t hear what they’re saying, but he doesn’t need to. It’s clear these two are important to Harry.
With a quiet sigh, Louis turns his attention back to his guitar. Only one song left to play. Then he can finally pack up, corner Harry, and demand some answers.
Louis’ fingers dance across the strings, a soft, gentle melody filling the air. As always, he saves his original song for last. The crowd has thinned considerably, but the few guests still present seem to listen intently. He watches Harry from the corner of his eye as he gestures toward him while chatting with the older couple, all three of them smiling warmly. Louis can’t help wondering what on earth Harry is saying to make them beam like that. And Matthew and Charlie? Who are they, really? The questions swirl in his mind, gnawing at him.
The final notes of the song linger before trailing off into silence, followed by a light round of applause from the small handful of guests still in the room. Louis gives a polite smile and dips into a small bow, careful not to let his exhaustion show. As he sets the guitar down on its stand and straightens, he smooths his shirt over his chest, trying to keep his composure.
His eyes flick toward Harry and the older couple one last time before he turns his back. There’s a tightness in his chest, something unspoken hanging in the air. He focuses on loading his guitar into its case, desperate for a moment of quiet to collect his thoughts.
“Louis.”
Of course. Louis can almost feel the eye roll coming before he even turns. With a sigh, he straightens and pulls a tight smile onto his face before slowly facing Harry.
Here we go, Louis thinks. The last thing he wants is to be dragged into another one of Harry’s cryptic, confusing conversations. He squares his shoulders and waits, already bracing himself for whatever comes next.
Harry gives him that weird, pleading look. Louis can practically hear the unspoken words in the air: please just go along with it. He isn’t sure what game Harry is playing, but he can’t quite resist the pull to follow his lead. It isn’t as if he has much of a choice anyway. The entire evening has been a whirlwind of confusion, and he’s not about to make things worse by digging his heels in now.
With a deep breath, Louis steps toward Harry and the older couple. They both have that unmistakably expensive air about them, dressed impeccably, their sharp tailoring and subtle yet lavish jewellery quietly screaming wealth. The woman’s diamond bracelet catches the light as she adjusts her position, and the man exudes a calm authority that makes Louis feel suddenly underdressed.
Harry’s hand slips around Louis’ shoulder, squeezing briefly as he clears his throat, and then Louis hears him say, “Mum, Dad, this is Louis, my boyfriend.”
Louis’ eyes nearly pop out of his head. Boyfriend? Again? And this time, to Harry’s parents? His brain scrambles to catch up, but all he can focus on is how casually Harry says it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He blinks rapidly, his mind screaming, This cannot be happening.
Swallowing hard, Louis quickly masks his shock with a polite smile and steps forward to shake Harry’s father’s hand first. His palm is damp, betraying his nerves, but he forces his grip to stay firm. He isn’t sure what’s more unsettling, being introduced as Harry’s boyfriend for the second time tonight or finding himself face to face with Harry’s parents.
Harry’s dad returns the handshake, his gaze appraising but not unkind. “You’ve got a good handshake, Louis,” he says, nodding approvingly. “You can tell a lot about a man by his handshake.”
Louis chuckles nervously, trying to keep things light. “Well, I was taught not to half-ass a handshake,” he quips, even as his thoughts continue to reel.
The older man smiles slightly. “I like that. Good character.”
Louis turns to Harry’s mum and offers her a gentler handshake, which she takes with a warm smile. Her eyes soften as she looks at him, her voice light and welcoming. “It’s lovely to meet you, Louis,” she says. “Harry’s been telling us all about you.”
Louis’ mind stutters. All about me? He barely manages to keep his expression neutral as his thoughts spiral. What exactly has he been saying?
He takes a small step back, desperate to steady himself, but before he can process it further, Harry’s dad is already looking between them with a curious smile.
Louis catches Harry’s gaze and raises an eyebrow, silently screaming, What the hell is going on here?
Harry doesn’t flinch. If anything, he looks faintly amused. He holds Louis’ gaze for a beat, then raises an eyebrow in return, as if daring him to keep playing along.
“Louis,” Harry’s mum interjects gently, her tone curious, “Harry said the two of you first met at that charity gala, didn’t you? The one at the museum a month or two ago?”
Louis freezes, his eyes flicking to Harry for help, but all he gets is a smug little smirk. The realisation hits him all at once: Harry isn’t going to answer. He wants him to.
“Yes, that’s right,” Louis says quickly, his voice steady despite the panic bubbling underneath. He pastes on his most charming smile, adding a touch of humour to buy himself time. “If you ask Harry, he’d probably say it was love at first sight. I think he just liked my suit.”
Harry lets out a short laugh, quickly covering it with a cough, while his parents chuckle, clearly charmed. Louis shoots Harry a fleeting we are going to talk later look, which Harry ignores entirely.
Louis turns back to Harry’s parents, settling into a more confident stance. The tension still sits tight in his chest, but if Harry wants to play this game, he’ll play it properly. He takes a deep breath, deciding that if he’s going to be Harry’s fake boyfriend for the night, he might as well make it believable. Maybe even charming.
“So,” Louis begins smoothly, “this is a lovely gallery. Really impressive. Did you have to come far to see it? You must be very proud of Harry. I can tell he’s had quite a hand in running things here.”
Harry’s mum smiles warmly at the compliment, pride clear in her eyes. “Well, yes, it’s quite the drive from where we live, but when Harry gets involved in something, it’s always worth it.” She glances at her son fondly. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Louis nods, keeping the charm easy in his voice. “I can imagine. It’s not every day your son runs an event like this, right?”
Harry’s dad smiles approvingly, some of the tension easing from his posture as Louis continues chatting.
Feeling himself relax into the role, Louis goes for it. He flashes a grin at Harry’s parents. “Harry really knows how to pull people together, doesn’t he? You’ve raised him well.”
Just then, Harry’s mum reaches out, her hand gentle as she takes Louis’. “You’re very sweet, Louis,” she says softly, her expression turning a little more serious. “We’ve been worried about our Harry, especially after seeing that awful Charlie here earlier. He deserves better than that, don’t you think?”
Louis blinks, caught off guard by the sudden shift. Charlie? The same Charlie Harry introduced him to earlier? He isn’t sure what happened between them, but it’s clear Harry’s mum isn’t a fan.
Before Louis can respond, she continues, her voice lowered, edged with concern. “Charlie, well, he’s the one who cheated on Harry. I’m sure Harry’s told you all about him. Awful boy.” Her gaze sharpens. “And then he has the nerve to show up tonight with Matthew, the very man he cheated with. Can you believe that?”
Louis’ eyes widen slightly at the revelation, his stomach twisting. He hadn’t realised it ran that deep, but suddenly everything clicks. No wonder Harry’s been so tense tonight. This isn’t just a breakup. It’s betrayal.
He pushes down his shock and catches the unspoken context quickly. “Oh, Charlie,” Louis says lightly, a hint of mockery threading his tone. “Well, if there’s one thing men never lack, it’s audacity.”
Harry’s mum lets out a soft laugh, clearly pleased. “Exactly. It’s unbelievable.”
Louis steals a quick glance at Harry, who stands unusually still as he watches the exchange. Louis can’t help wondering how much of this is genuine and how much is part of whatever strange performance they’ve been pulled into tonight. Harry’s expression is unreadable, but the tension in his jaw gives him away. He isn’t nearly as comfortable with this conversation as he pretends to be.
But Louis isn’t about to break character now. Not when he’s already this deep in. If Harry wants it to look real, then Louis will make sure it looks real.
He smiles at the woman, squeezing her hand gently before looping an arm around Harry’s waist and tugging him closer. He feels Harry’s tension immediately, the slight stiffness in his body, but Louis keeps his arm where it is. He forces a casual tone as he responds.
“Well, no worries. He’s in much better hands now,” Louis says, giving Harry a playful smile, hoping it eases some of the tension.
She claps her hands together softly, eyes sparkling as she turns to Harry’s father. “Aren’t they such a lovely couple?” she says with a fond chuckle.
Harry’s dad nods, a small grin spreading across his face. Louis feels warmth creep into his chest at the approval. He isn’t used to this kind of attention, but he leans into it, letting the awkwardness fade for the moment.
Harry’s mum turns back to Louis, smiling. “I can tell I’m going to like you, Louis,” she says, her voice warm and genuine.
Louis’ smile widens. “And you, Mrs. Styles.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Anne,” she corrects him. “Please, call me Anne.”
Louis nods, smile still in place, when Harry’s dad clears his throat, drawing their attention.
“So,” he says, looking directly at Harry, “will you both be coming to the beach house in Cornwall for our anniversary next weekend?”
Louis feels Harry stiffen beside him, the shift immediate. Harry glances at Louis, eyes flicking between him and his dad, before answering, “Uh… we’ll see.”
Louis can’t stop the playful smirk tugging at his lips. He waves Harry off with exaggerated ease.
“Oh, don’t be silly, Haz,” Louis says, grin warm and effortless. “I don’t have any plans next weekend. I’d love to go to Cornwall.”
Harry freezes, blinking, clearly trying to work out whether Louis is serious or just winding him up. Louis only smiles sweetly, his gaze flicking between Harry’s stunned expression and his parents.
Anne’s face lights up, completely missing the tension creeping into Harry’s posture.
“Oh, that would be just wonderful!” she says, delighted. “We’ll make sure everything’s ready for you, Louis.”
Louis chuckles under his breath. He can tell Harry’s been thrown, but Anne’s excitement makes the whole thing too tempting to rein in now.
She turns back to Harry, eyes twinkling. “I’ll send you all the details, love.”
Louis nudges Harry lightly, feeling a small rush of triumph as Harry’s eyes narrow in that quiet, confused way Louis is starting to recognise as frustration.
Anne checks the time and turns to her husband. “We should get going. It’s getting late.”
They say their goodbyes. Anne hugs Harry first, holding him close.
“Take care, darling,” she murmurs, her tone full of affection. She pulls back just long enough to whisper something, her hand lingering on his shoulder. Whatever she says softens Harry’s expression, his posture easing.
“We’re proud of you, Harry,” Anne says, giving him one last squeeze.
Harry’s dad claps him firmly on the back. “You’ve done well, son. Keep it up. We’ll see you next weekend, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Harry replies, steady but quieter than before.
Anne turns to Louis next, her smile unwavering. “It’s been lovely meeting you,” she says, pulling him into a surprisingly tight hug. When she steps back, she smiles up at him. “We’ll see you next weekend in Cornwall. I think you’ll love it.”
Louis blinks, his smile faltering for just a second at the mention of a future meeting, but he recovers quickly.
“Thank you, Anne,” he says smoothly. “It was so lovely to meet you both. I’m really looking forward to Cornwall.”
Harry’s dad gives Louis a polite nod and small smile before following Anne toward the door. They wave one last time as they leave, the gallery falling noticeably quieter in their wake.
Louis turns to Harry, eyebrow arched. “Cornwall, huh? Guess I’m in it for the long haul.”
“What the hell was that?” Harry snaps, his voice sharp.
Louis turns back to the stage, deliberately taking his time as he finishes packing away his guitar. When he finally faces Harry again, irritation washes over him.
“I could ask you the same thing. Boyfriend? I don’t even know you.”
Harry shifts, glancing around like he’s searching for an escape. When he finally meets Louis’ gaze, his frustration slips, replaced by something softer.
“I—” He stops, sighs, and leans against a nearby table, rubbing the back of his neck. “Charlie wasn’t supposed to be here tonight.”
Louis raises an eyebrow. “And that explains the fake boyfriend bit how?”
Harry looks away, jaw tightening. “It’s complicated,” he mutters. “We only broke up a couple of months ago. I came back to our apartment and… found them. In the living room.” His voice drops. “It was pretty awful.”
Louis blinks, caught off guard by the admission. The edge in his chest dulls, just a little.
“That’s… rough,” he says carefully. “But it doesn’t explain dragging me into it.”
“I panicked,” Harry snaps back. “I didn’t know they’d be here. And then seeing them together—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”
Louis folds his arms, holding his ground. “So instead of dealing with it, you pulled me into your mess without a second thought. Do you know how ridiculous I felt back there?”
Harry exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair again, leaving it standing on end. He looks at Louis, then away, clearly trying to organise his thoughts.
Harry apologises again. Louis tells him he can almost understand lying to an ex to make them jealous, but his parents? Surely they’d understand him being single.
“They don’t, though,” Harry says finally, his voice low. “Understand, I mean. They were so worried about me after it all happened. The breakup really… it really hit me hard. And seeing them like that, like they didn’t know what to do with me, it was worse than the breakup itself.”
Louis tilts his head slightly, watching him closely. “You mean the cheating?”
Harry nods. “Yeah. It was humiliating. And then having to start over, back to square one, when everyone around me seems to have it all together… it’s embarrassing. I didn’t want them to think I was some sad, pathetic mess.”
“So,” Louis says, one brow arching, his tone balanced carefully between incredulous and sympathetic, “you thought making up a boyfriend would fix that?”
Harry shrugs, a humourless laugh slipping out. “I don’t know. Maybe. It just came out, and they looked so happy when I said it, I didn’t have the heart to tell them I’d made it up.”
Louis crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall as he processes it. “You could’ve just told them the truth. That you’re figuring things out. That there’s no boyfriend.”
“I know,” Harry says quietly, his head dipping. “But tonight, with him here, with the guy he cheated on me with… I just wanted to look okay. Like I wasn’t still stuck in it.” He looks up at Louis then, his expression raw. “It’s not an excuse, but it’s why. And for what it’s worth, I am sorry for dragging you into it. I’ll pay you extra for tonight, alright? And don’t worry about Cornwall. I’ll make an excuse. You’re not coming.”
Louis studies him for a moment, his frustration easing in the face of Harry’s honesty. “You’re right,” he says eventually. “You shouldn’t have done that. But… I get it. Breakups can make people act a bit mad.”
Harry gives a small, bitter laugh. “Yeah. Pretending you’ve got a boyfriend probably qualifies.”
He glances up again, cautious. “You’re a good guy, Louis. Thanks. I mean it. You were great with my parents, actually.”
Louis gives a lopsided grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve always been pretty charming.”
Harry’s lips twitch. “Fair enough.”
Louis turns back to his guitar, the tension easing slightly, though it doesn’t disappear entirely. Harry stays where he is, watching him, expression unreadable.
Louis slings the guitar case over his shoulder and turns back. “You know,” he says casually, “I’ve always wanted to go to Cornwall. And if it helps you avoid making excuses to your parents… I don’t have any plans next weekend.” He shrugs lightly. “If you’re looking to hire a fake boyfriend, I’d do it.”
Harry’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re serious?”
Louis chuckles, though there’s less mischief in it than usual. “I mean, I’ve never exactly offered this as a service before, but your parents seemed nice. And honestly?” His gaze softens, just a touch. “I feel a bit bad for you.”
Harry frowns. “Bad for me?”
“Look, I know what it’s like to be cheated on,” Louis says bluntly. “But walking in on it? And then having your ex turn up to a work event with the person they cheated with?” He shakes his head. “That’s brutal.”
Harry doesn’t reply right away. His jaw tightens as he looks off to the side. When he speaks, his voice is quieter. “It wasn’t exactly my finest moment.”
“No kidding,” Louis says, smirking faintly. “But seriously, if you need backup next weekend, I’m in. Call it a business arrangement. Just remember travel expenses.”
Harry lets out a dry laugh, some of the tension finally slipping. “You’re something else, you know that?”
Louis grins. “I get that a lot.” Then, more softly, “But I mean it.”
Harry watches him for a long moment, clearly weighing it. Finally, he nods. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”
“Good.” Louis adjusts the strap on his shoulder and heads for the door. “Just let me know. And don’t worry, I’ll be extra charming for your parents.”
Harry watches him leave, something unreadable flickering across his face as the door closes behind him.
Louis wakes to a pale strip of sunlight sneaking through the gap in his curtains. He squints at the clock on his bedside table. 10:43 a.m. Definitely later than planned.
Groaning, he rolls onto his back and reaches for his phone. A couple of notifications. A blank text screen.
He types a message to Elijah first.
Interesting update on last night. Got a huge tip on top. Let me know when you get this.
He sends it, then stares at the screen for a moment before opening a new message.
Also, can you send me Harry Styles’ number?
He hits send, tosses the phone onto the bed, and stretches, his thoughts already drifting to next weekend.
Cornwall. With Harry Styles. And his unnervingly lovely parents.
Could he really go through with that?
Louis drags himself out of bed and pads over to his wardrobe, yanking it open. The contents don’t exactly scream Cornwall with the well-off family of my fake boyfriend. He thumbs through a few shirts before pulling out an old knit sweater, worn thin at the cuffs.
He sighs.
Maybe he could suggest to Harry that this whole arrangement needed to come with an expenses fee to cover some new outfits. Was that too cheeky? Louis tilted his head, considering the idea, then shrugged. Probably. But hey, it couldn’t hurt to float the idea, right? After all, it was Harry’s family he’d be performing for all weekend. If Harry still wanted a fake boyfriend, that is.
Later that afternoon, Louis finally got a response from Elijah. His phone buzzed on the counter as he poured a cup of tea.
What on earth did you do to get an extra tip? Actually… maybe I’d rather not know.
Louis smirked, shaking his head as he read the message.
Another buzz followed.
Here’s his number. Good luck, mate.
Harry’s contact info popped up on the screen, and Louis tapped it into his phone with a smirk still tugging at his lips. Now, all he had to do was figure out how to approach Harry without it being totally weird. Though, after last night, maybe “weird” was the new normal.
Louis sat cross-legged on his couch, staring at the blank text screen. His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he debated how to start. This wasn’t complicated, was it? He was the one doing Harry a favour. Realistically, he had the upper hand here. Harry was the one who needed him.
Still, every time he typed out a message, it didn’t feel right.
Hey, Styles, about Cornwall— Delete.
Guess I’m your fake boyfriend now— Delete.
So, when do I start pretending to be in love with you? Delete.
Louis groaned and dropped his head back against the couch, muttering under his breath, “Get a grip, Tomlinson.” He shook his head, sat up straighter, and finally typed something he could live with:
Hey, about Cornwall—still need a fake boyfriend?
Satisfied, he hit send before he could second-guess himself again.
A second later, he fired off a follow-up:
It’s Louis, by the way.
And then, for good measure:
Tomlinson.
Louis tossed his phone onto the cushion beside him, exhaling like he’d just run a marathon. It was ridiculous how much effort he’d put into a few texts, but at least it was done now. All he had to do was wait for Harry’s reply.
Louis had been aimlessly padding around his flat, tidying a mug here, straightening a book there—anything to keep himself distracted as he waited. His phone buzzed on the sofa, and he nearly tripped over himself to grab it.
I do still need a boyfriend, if you’re up for it. Maybe we should talk on the phone to discuss payment and expectations. Kind regards, –H.
Louis snorted, amused by the unnecessary formality. Kind regards? It sounded like Harry was emailing a colleague, not texting someone he was about to pay to pretend to be his boyfriend.
He quickly tapped out a reply:
Sure, free to talk whenever.
The phone rang almost immediately. Louis jumped, startled by Harry’s speed. He answered, bringing the phone to his ear with a smirk already tugging at his lips.
“Wow,” Louis drawled, not bothering with a hello. “You didn’t even wait five minutes. Eager, are we?”
Harry’s voice came through the line, a touch defensive but mostly resigned. “I just thought it would be easier to sort this out now rather than dragging it on through texts.”
“Right, of course,” Louis teased. “Strictly business. Nothing says romance like a thorough contract discussion.”
There was a brief pause, and then Harry sighed. “Can we just get on with this?”
Louis chuckled, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Alright, Styles. Let’s talk terms. What exactly are you expecting from your fake boyfriend?”
“Right,” Harry said, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “Just to be clear, there’s absolutely nothing physical involved. I’d never ask that of you. I’ll make sure we have separate beds and all that.”
Louis nodded, even though Harry couldn’t see him. “Of course. No funny business,” he replied lightly, though the idea lingered longer than it should’ve. Not that he wanted anything to happen. But still, if it did… Harry wasn’t exactly hard to look at. Louis shook the thought away.
“Good. So, we should also agree the basics,” Harry continued, not noticing Louis’s wandering focus. “Things like how long we’ve been together, plans for the future. My family will ask. My parents are…” He trailed off, likely searching for the right word.
“Observant?” Louis offered.
Harry hummed. “Something like that. They ask questions. A lot of questions.”
“How much detail are they going to want?” Louis asked.
Harry let out a quiet scoff. “We’ll iron out the details before the weekend,” he said. Then his tone shifted slightly, as if bracing himself for the next part of the conversation. “Now, about payment. Since it’s the entire weekend, I was thinking… would £2,500 work for you? Plus, I’ll cover your travel expenses—train tickets, both ways.”
Louis froze. Two and a half grand? He fought to keep his expression neutral, even though no one could see him. His insides, however, were doing somersaults. That was more money than he’d seen in months. It would cover nearly three months of rent. How rich were Harry’s family if this kind of cash was just… casual? Like it was pocket change? Louis blinked, trying to process it.
Before he could respond, Harry added, “Actually, let’s make it £2,750. But that’s my final offer.”
Louis almost choked. Harry had upped the offer? Who did that? He forced himself to snap out of it, swallowing hard. “Uh… no, no, the £2,500 will be sufficient.” He winced the moment the word left his mouth. Sufficient? Who even said things like that? Certainly not him. What was Harry already doing to him?
“Alright then,” Harry said, sounding satisfied. “£2,500 it is.”
Louis let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, his mind still spinning. That was rent, groceries, and a few nights out sorted. For one weekend.
Harry cleared his throat, breaking Louis’s thoughts. “Is there anything else?”
Louis hesitated. He knew he was pushing his luck, but the thought of standing in front of Harry’s well-to-do family in his current wardrobe made his stomach churn. “Well,” he started slowly, “I might need an advance. You know, to buy some appropriate outfits. Gotta look the part if I’m mingling with your family, right?”
He fully expected Harry to laugh or tell him to make do with what he had. But instead, Harry surprised him.
“That’s fair,” Harry said, as if it were no big deal. “I’ll transfer an amount for that as well. Let me know if you require any further assistance.”
Louis blinked, momentarily speechless at Harry’s sudden shift into what sounded like a customer service script. Then he smirked, a spark of mischief lighting his eyes. “You’re spoiling me, Styles.”
Harry let out a soft huff, his tone clipped but not unkind. “I aim to exceed expectations. Now, if that will be all…”
Louis rolled his eyes, unable to keep the grin off his face. “Oh, that’s quite enough, thank you,” he said, mimicking Harry’s formality.
“Good,” Harry replied, his voice as dry as sand. “I trust you’ll have a pleasant evening.”
Louis couldn’t hold back his laugh as he ended the call, still shaking his head. As he stared at his phone, the grin tugging at his lips widened. If nothing else, next weekend was shaping up to be very interesting.
—
Over the next couple of days, Louis wakes up to a notification from his bank app. His eyes widen as he reads the payment note: “Appropriate clothing”—and the amount? £500.
“Of course he did,” Louis muttered, rolling his eyes. Appropriate clothing, as if that wasn’t the most formal and condescending description of a shopping spree he’d ever heard. Still, he couldn’t deny the extra cash was a shock. An extra £500, on top of the already absurd £2,500 waiting for him after the weekend. Harry’s family must really have money to burn.
With a gleeful shrug, Louis decided to fully embrace his role as the spoiled fake boyfriend. He went all out, hitting every store he could think of. By the end of the day, he had bags filled with smart shirts, tailored trousers, casual-but-stylish sweaters, a few pairs of shoes, and even a jacket that made him feel far more posh than he’d ever admit. If he was going to sell this boyfriend act, he was going to look the part.
By the time he finally made it back to his flat, his arms ached from carrying the weight of his purchases. He dropped the bags onto his couch, collapsing beside them with a sigh of relief. He stared at the heap of clothes for a moment before pulling out his phone and drafting a text to Harry.
Shopping complete, thanks sugar daddy ;)
Louis hesitated, biting his lip. He wasn’t sure if Harry was the joking type, but the temptation to test the waters was too strong. After a brief moment of deliberation, he hit send.
The response came surprisingly fast.
Very funny, Tomlinson. Glad to see you’re taking this seriously.
Louis smirked, imagining the slight twitch of annoyance on Harry’s face as he typed it out. He couldn’t resist sending another text.
Oh, I’m very serious. I even bought socks to impress your mum.
This time, there was a longer pause before Harry responded.
As long as they don’t have cartoon characters on them, I’ll allow it.
Louis laughed out loud, kicking off his shoes as he stretched out on the couch. Maybe Harry did have a sense of humour after all.
In the days leading up to Friday, Harry and Louis exchanged a steady stream of messages—some formal, others less so. Harry emailed Louis his train ticket, and Louis noticed, with some amusement, that the itinerary was meticulously detailed, right down to the platform numbers.
Thoughtful of you, Styles, Louis texted after receiving it.
I prefer efficient, Harry replied, predictably curt.
Same thing, Louis shot back, grinning to himself.
Harry explained he’d be driving down to Cornwall himself, which meant they wouldn’t arrive together. Instead, Harry would pick Louis up from the train station when he arrived. The plan was simple enough, but Louis still couldn’t help the faint nerves curling in his stomach. Meeting someone’s family—even fake-meeting them—was a different kind of pressure.
On Friday morning, Louis packed his bag carefully, folding his new clothes with more care than usual. His typical routine of stuffing everything into his duffel wouldn’t cut it this time. Harry’s mum seemed like the sort of person who could spot a creased collar from fifty paces.
He even splurged on a taxi to the train station instead of taking the tram. I deserve a treat, he told himself. After all, he was about to make more money in one weekend than he usually saw in months. What was a few extra pounds for comfort?
When he arrived, he checked the departure board, double-checking the first leg of the journey. Manchester to Cornwall, multiple changes. A long ride ahead. He grabbed a takeaway coffee, plugged in his headphones, and found a window seat.
The train hummed to life, and Louis leaned his head against the cool glass, closing his eyes as the city blurred past. For now, he could forget about the awkwardness waiting at the other end and let the steady motion lull him into something close to calm.
He arrived in Birmingham just before midday, the tannoy announcing the station as the train slowed. Stretching his legs on the platform, he checked the departures board for his next connection. It was running on time, with about twenty minutes to spare before heading on to Plymouth. The full journey would take around six hours. A slog, but manageable.
His stomach growled, and he wandered into a small independent coffee shop just off the concourse, drawn in by the smell of fresh bread and caffeine. After ordering a flat white and a toasted cheese sandwich, he pulled out his phone and typed a quick message.
Halfway there.
He sent it, slipped his phone back into his pocket, and waited by the counter, watching commuters stream past, all of them seeming to move with more purpose than he felt.
When his order was ready, he took the paper bag and coffee outside. The early June air was cool, tinged with car fumes but not unpleasant. He found a quiet spot near the station entrance, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it, inhaling deeply.
Smoke curled around him as he leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting over the busy street. Despite himself, a flicker of nerves tightened his chest. An entire weekend pretending to be Harry’s boyfriend. Meeting his parents. Playing a role that wasn’t really his. It was strange—but then again, his life was rarely straightforward.
He blew out a long stream of smoke and pushed the thoughts aside. It was a job. A well-paid one. If he played it right, he’d come out unscathed. Or at least mostly.
With one last drag, he stubbed the cigarette out on a nearby bin and tossed it away. Checking the time, he grabbed his bag and headed back inside. The platform was already filling with passengers. Time to keep moving.
Louis settled into another window seat as the train pulled away with a jolt. He popped his headphones back in, scrolled through his playlist, and chose something mellow to match the rhythm of the tracks. He’d barely relaxed when someone slid into the seat beside him.
He glanced up automatically, offering a polite smile—and froze.
The guy was really cute. Messy brown hair, warm brown eyes, and an easy, open charm that made Louis sit a little straighter.
“All right?” Louis said, his grin widening.
The guy smiled back. “Yeah. You?”
“Yeah, not bad.” Louis leaned back, suddenly far too aware of how he was sitting.
The stranger turned his attention to his phone, and Louis smiled to himself. Maybe this journey wouldn’t be quite as dull as he’d expected.
The countryside blurred past the window as the train picked up speed. After about an hour, Louis felt the need to stretch his legs—and find the bathroom. He pulled out one earbud and tapped the guy lightly on the shoulder.
“Sorry, mate. Need to squeeze past.”
“Sure,” the guy said, standing and stepping into the aisle.
Louis made his way down the swaying carriage, gripping seat backs for balance and sidestepping a snack trolley. When he returned a few minutes later, the train tilted slightly as it rounded a bend.
The guy stood again to let him pass.
“Cheers,” Louis said as he sat, slipping his headphones down around his neck.
The guy hesitated, then turned to him, curiosity flickering across his face. “So, where are you headed?”
Louis glanced over, lips curving into a small smirk. “Cornwall. You?”
The guy’s brows lifted. “Same. Visiting family?”
Louis considered his answer. He couldn’t exactly explain the truth. “Something like that,” he said with a shrug. “You?”
The guy grinned. “Work, unfortunately. I’m a photographer. Shooting a wedding this weekend.”
Louis raised a brow. “Fancy. Bet weddings keep you busy.”
“They do,” the guy said, laughing softly. “What about you? What do you do?”
Louis hesitated, deciding to keep it vague. “Bit of this, bit of that. Gigs, mostly.” He left it at that, not wanting to get into the specifics of his patchwork career.
The guy nodded, looking intrigued but not pressing. “Cool. Well, I’m Ben, by the way.”
“Louis.” He offered his hand, and Ben shook it with a firm, warm grip.
The rest of the journey passed quicker than Louis expected, mostly thanks to Ben. They struck up an easy rhythm, chatting about everything and nothing as the train sped along. Ben told him about his life in Birmingham, how he got into photography, and how he had an older sister who was annoyingly perfect but also his best mate.
“She’s one of those people who’s good at everything,” Ben said, rolling his eyes. “She’s a doctor, runs marathons, bakes her own bread… you name it.”
Louis laughed. “Sounds exhausting. What’s the sibling dynamic, then? Are you the charming but slightly chaotic one?”
Ben grinned. “Something like that. What about you? Siblings?”
“Four.” Louis raised his eyebrows for effect. “Big family. I’m the oldest. All younger sisters. Bit of a madhouse growing up.”
“Four?” Ben’s jaw dropped. “How do you even get a word in?”
“You don’t,” Louis said with a laugh. “You just learn to shout louder than everyone else.”
When they reached Plymouth, they both had about twenty minutes before their connecting train, so they wandered off together to grab another drink and something quick to eat. They found a café just outside the station. Louis opted for crisps and a bottle of water, while Ben grabbed a wrap and a coffee.
“So,” Ben said as they sat at a small table, “how long are you in Cornwall?”
Louis hesitated, the weight of his strange weekend pressing in. “Just the weekend. I’ll be getting the train back Monday morning.”
Ben’s face lit up. “No way. Same here. Maybe we’ll end up on the same train again.”
Louis raised an eyebrow, lips curving into a small smile. “What are the odds, eh? Well, if we do, first round of train coffee’s on you.”
Ben laughed. “Deal. But only if you’re not too fancy for train coffee.”
Louis chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Mate, after this weekend, I’ll probably need it.”
As they ate, Louis learned more about him. Ben was a couple of years older, had been doing photography full-time for nearly five years, and seemed grounded in a way Louis admired.
“Weddings aren’t exactly what I thought I’d be doing,” Ben admitted, sipping his coffee. “But it pays well, and you get to capture people’s big moments. It’s kind of nice, actually.”
“Yeah?” Louis asked, genuinely curious.
Ben smiled. “Yeah. Not every gig’s glamorous, but you meet good people. Couples, their families. It’s a lot more personal than I expected.”
Louis nodded, letting that settle. If his life weren’t such a patchwork of odd gigs and scraping by, he thought, this might’ve been the kind of person he’d have really gotten along with. Maybe even dated. Ben was thoughtful, kind, grounded in a way that felt rare.
But Louis was on his way to spend the weekend pretending to be Harry Styles’ boyfriend, so… yeah. Weird situation.
By the time they boarded the final train to Cornwall, Louis found himself almost wishing the journey wouldn’t end. Harry sent him a message when he was about an hour out from Cornwall station, saying he’d meet him just outside the platform. Louis replied with a thumbs-up emoji and slipped his phone back into his pocket.
The conversation with Ben continued, easy and light, and Louis found himself thinking how rare it was to click with someone so quickly. Ben was funny, clever, easy to talk to. And if Louis weren’t heading into one of the strangest weekends of his life, he’d have definitely considered him someone worth pursuing.
As the train began to slow, signalling their arrival at the final station, they stood to gather their bags. Ben helped Louis lift his from the luggage rack.
“Here you go,” Ben said, their hands brushing slightly as Louis took it.
“Thanks,” Louis said, smiling. He’d already decided. He was going to ask for Ben’s number.
Stepping off the train together, they walked toward the station exit. The cool bite of early evening air hit them as they emerged, and Louis scanned the area for Harry. He didn’t see him yet, which gave him time for a proper goodbye.
Louis turned to Ben, shifting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “Thanks for keeping me company,” he said, sincere.
Ben smiled warmly, adjusting his own bag. “Anytime. Made the trip a lot less boring.”
Louis hesitated, then pushed himself. “Listen, uh… I don’t usually do this, but can I grab your number? You seem like someone I’d actually like to stay in touch with.”
Ben looked pleasantly surprised, his smile widening. “Yeah, sure.” He pulled out his phone and handed it over. “Here. Put your number in.”
Ben was just about to pass it to him when someone called Louis’s name.
It was Harry.
Louis turned toward the voice, watching Harry stride toward them. He was dressed impeccably, as usual. Coat buttoned neatly against the chill, hair styled back despite a few rebellious curls slipping loose. And his jawline—Louis noticed, begrudgingly—was sharp enough to rival a damn chisel.
Louis felt Ben freeze beside him as Harry approached, his gaze flicking between them. A broad smile spread across Harry’s face, effortless and self-assured.
“Louis,” Harry said, voice warm, amused, his eyes landing on Ben.
Louis didn’t answer straight away, caught between an introduction and… well, the truth. He glanced at Ben, who was already tucking his phone back into his pocket, his expression polite but confused.
“Nice to meet you, Louis,” Ben said after a beat, smiling uncertainly. He glanced at Harry. “You’ve got a great catch there.”
Heat crept up Louis’s neck. What was he supposed to say to that?
His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Harry, however, didn’t hesitate.
“I’m the lucky one, really,” Harry said smoothly, his hand brushing Louis’s shoulder as he stepped closer. “It’s a pleasure to meet you…?”
“Ben,” Ben supplied.
“Ben,” Harry repeated, nodding graciously. “Thank you for keeping my boyfriend company on the journey. I appreciate it.”
Louis wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Instead, he managed a tight smile, heart hammering.
“Yeah, of course,” Ben said, clearly taking the hint. “Take care, Louis.”
“You too,” Louis replied, voice almost a croak.
As Ben walked away, Louis rounded on Harry, voice low and sharp. “Did you have to do that?”
Harry raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Do what? I was just being polite.”
“Polite?” Louis echoed. “You scared him off.”
Harry smirked, turning toward his car. “Not my fault if he can’t handle a little competition.”
Louis groaned, following him. “Unbelievable.”
Harry just shrugged, unlocking the car. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s not keep my parents waiting.”
Louis didn’t dignify that with a response as he climbed into the passenger seat.
As Louis fastens his seatbelt, he turns to Harry with a pointed glare. “You’d better make it up to me somehow,” he says, crossing his arms. “Do you know how hard it is to find a nice, normal, and attractive guy when you’re in your thirties?”
Harry chuckles as he starts the engine, the smirk on his face far too smug for Louis’s liking. “No, I wouldn’t know. I’m still in my twenties,” he says, his tone mockingly light.
Louis rolls his eyes so hard he’s surprised they don’t get stuck. “Congratulations,” he mutters.
Harry grins, glancing at Louis briefly as he manoeuvres the car out of the station parking lot. “Anyway,” he continues, “we wouldn’t want any distractions this weekend, would we? Can’t have my parents wondering if your attention is… elsewhere.”
Louis snorts, giving him a sidelong look. “My attention? Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, I wasn’t,” Harry says with a smirk, faux innocence dripping from his tone. “Just looking out for the illusion, darling.”
Louis shakes his head, half-exasperated, half-amused. “You’re kind of weird.”
Harry’s smirk only deepens. “I try.”
They drive in relative silence, the soft hum of the engine broken only by the occasional click of the indicators. Louis glances around the car, taking in the sleek, all-black interior. It’s a Mercedes, sporty and spotless, with a subtle new-car smell lingering in the air. He traces his fingers absently over the armrest and thinks that this is probably the nicest car he’s ever been in.
His hand brushes the control panel and he switches on the heated seat. A gentle warmth spreads through him, and he sinks deeper into the chair with a quiet sigh. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Harry glance at him but say nothing. Louis smirks to himself, satisfied.
“How long until we get to your parents’ house?” he asks, breaking the quiet.
“About an hour,” Harry replies, casual, eyes fixed on the road.
Louis shifts, eyelids already growing heavy. “Do you mind if I have a nap? It’s been a long day of travel.”
Harry nods, expression unreadable. “Go ahead.”
Without another word, Louis crosses his arms over his chest and settles into the warmth of the seat. His head tips slightly to the side, eyes fluttering shut as the steady rhythm of the car pulls him under. Harry glances over briefly, something unreadable flickering across his face, before turning his attention back to the road.
Louis wakes with a soft jolt as the car dips over uneven gravel. He blinks, disoriented, then sits up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. Gravel crunches beneath the tyres as a gated driveway comes into view. He peers through the windscreen, eyebrows lifting as an impressive, sprawling house looms ahead.
The sky is a deep navy now, the last light fading beyond the horizon. The house is grand and unmistakably expensive, its large windows glowing warmly. As they draw closer, Louis spots a line of cars already parked in the drive—an Aston Martin, a Porsche, and what he’s fairly sure is a Bentley. His stomach twists, and he stifles a laugh at the absurdity.
What if Harry’s family really is a mafia dynasty? The thought flits through his mind before he dismisses it.
Harry pulls smoothly into a parking space and cuts the engine. The silence that follows feels heavier, as if the weight of the weekend is finally settling in. He turns to Louis, calm but focused.
“Alright,” Harry says, leaning back slightly. “Quick rundown of who’s here, so you’re not caught off guard.”
Louis nods, suddenly alert.
“My mum and dad, obviously,” Harry says briskly. “My sister and her husband—they’ve been married about eighteen months. She’ll probably tell you all about the wedding whether you ask or not. My aunt and uncle on my mum’s side are here too.”
“Okay,” Louis says, committing it to memory.
“And then there’s my grandma and grandad,” Harry continues. “They’re divorced, they hate each other, and they’re not subtle about it. Just… steer clear if you can. More people arrive tomorrow for dinner.”
Louis blinks. “Right. Got it. Sounds… intense.”
Harry shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “It’s fine. They’re not as bad as they sound. Mostly.”
Louis lets out a quiet laugh, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Reassuring.”
Harry opens his door and steps out. Louis takes a moment to collect himself before following, glancing up at the house again. It somehow looks even more intimidating up close. He takes a breath and heads toward the boot to grab his bags, only to notice Harry already halfway up the steps. Louis pauses as Harry glances back.
“Don’t worry about the bags,” Harry says casually. “Someone will bring them in for you.”
Louis raises an eyebrow. Someone will bring them in for me? He bites back the sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue, shrugs instead, and mutters, “Alright, fancy pants,” before following him inside.
The front door opens onto an entranceway that nearly steals Louis’s breath. The space is enormous, with twin staircases curving up to the second floor, framing a crystal chandelier that glitters overhead. Polished marble floors stretch beneath his feet—the kind he’s certain he’d slip on if he wasn’t careful—and a massive floral arrangement dominates a table at the centre of the room.
Louis glances down at his outfit, one of his carefully chosen, expensive new ones, and suddenly it feels… not quite expensive enough. He shifts on his feet, taking in the sheer opulence.
Before he can say anything, a woman he recognises as Harry’s mum breezes into the room. She looks as elegant as before, dark hair swept into a low chignon, smile warm and welcoming.
“Harry, darling,” she says, leaning in to kiss his cheek. Harry returns it easily.
Her attention turns to Louis, softening as she steps closer and gives his arm a gentle squeeze. “Hello, dear,” she says kindly. “Lovely to see you again, sweetheart. How was the journey down? I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”
Louis opens his mouth to answer, but she cuts him off, gaze flicking to Harry. “I can’t believe you made him take the train, Harry. Honestly, you should’ve at least arranged a taxi.”
Louis laughs lightly, waving it off. “Oh, it’s alright. Really. It wasn’t too bad. The train wasn’t half as chaotic as I expected.”
Anne gives him a doubtful look, but his easy tone seems to placate her. “Still, you’re far too kind, Louis,” she says, casting a mock-disapproving glance at Harry.
Harry shifts, uncomfortable, but stays quiet.
Anne turns toward the door, clearly about to summon someone for Louis’s bags, then pauses. She looks back at them, tone casual but warm. “Oh, and by the way,” she adds, “you two are set up in Cedar.”
Harry freezes beside Louis, jaw tightening. Louis blinks, confused, glancing at Harry for clarification.
Anne notices and smiles reassuringly. “All the bedrooms are named after trees,” she explains. “Cedar’s one of the nicest. Harry knows where it is, of course.”
Harry clears his throat. “I thought…” he starts, his voice tight, “I thought we’d be having separate rooms.”
Anne waves a hand dismissively, her laugh light and unbothered. “Separate rooms? Don’t be ridiculous. You’re adults. I’m sure you can be trusted to share a bed.” She glances between them with a knowing smile. “I assume you do when you’re on your own anyway. We’ve got more family coming to stay than we first thought. Uncle Bernard and Aunt Caroline are coming down tomorrow. They said they couldn’t make it, but here they are.” She lets out a small laugh. “We’ve put them in Pine, which… well, was going to be yours, Louis.”
Louis can feel his face heating up, and he fights the urge to gape at her. His brain scrambles for something to say—anything—but nothing comes out.
Harry, meanwhile, looks caught between protesting and simply disappearing into the polished marble floor. “Mum, that’s not really—”
Anne cuts him off with a gentle pat to his arm. “It’s all settled, darling. Dinner’s in an hour, so don’t be late.” With a breezy smile, she turns and exits the room, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.
Louis finally finds his voice, glancing at Harry with barely concealed amusement. “Well. That wasn’t in the brief.”
Harry groans, dragging a hand over his face. “I’ll sort it, okay? We won’t have to share.”
Louis’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Cedar, huh? One of the nicest, she said? You can sort it, as long as I still end up in Cedar.”
Harry mutters something unintelligible under his breath, jaw tightening as he turns toward the staircase.
Louis follows, the grin now fully formed. “What? It’s only fair, isn’t it? I mean, Pine was nice, but Cedar—”
“Don’t push it,” Harry shoots back over his shoulder, though there’s no real bite to his tone.
Louis trails after him, curiosity about Cedar—and whatever else the weekend might bring—growing with every step.