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Sitting on his couch with a bag of kettle popcorn, his lesson plan homework, and Gilmore Girls on the TV in front of him, Louis realizes he’s kind of pathetic for spending his Friday night alone.
After all, he’s a college student. He likes hanging out with his friends. He likes getting drunk. He likes listening to music.
That being said, if you asked him to spend his night in a stuffy frat basement, filled with the scent of body odor and weed, Louis would gladly pass.
Louis’ two closest friends, Niall and Zayn, are polar opposites when it comes to opinions on his homebody tendencies. Niall thrives on the party scene and social events. Zayn, on the other hand, cherishes quiet nights in more than anything. Louis likes to think he falls somewhere in the middle, but, if he’s being honest, he’s much more aligned with Zayn’s love for staying in. It’s his third year of college now, and he can probably count on both hands the number of times he’s gone out.
His Friday nights are mostly spent with Zayn—or Niall, when he makes the rare decision to stay in—curled up in their shared apartment living room, eating snacks and watching movies. But now, for the first time since his freshman year, Louis is alone.
Niall, like usual, decided to go out, and Zayn is MIA. Where he is, Louis does not know. He tried to text Zayn, but he didn’t answer. Traitor.
He’s halfway through an episode when a thud echoes outside his apartment door. Louis pauses the show, heart jumping, bracing for an intruder—even though he knows he looks absolutely pathetic in his red Snoopy pajama pants and ratty old t-shirt.
The door creaks open, and instead of a burglar, it’s Zayn, up against some brunette guy, pressing kisses into his mouth. Louis leans over the arm of the couch, craning for a better look, but Zayn’s head covers the guy’s face. All he can make out is broad shoulders and a mess of brown hair.
“Okay, okay, I’ve got to go now,” Zayn whispers between kisses.
“That’s alright,” the mystery guy replies. Louis distorts his body in hopes of catching a glimpse, but Zayn is blocking the view. “I really had a good time. I’ll… I’ll text you? Plan something else?”
Zayn laughs quietly. “I’ll hold you to it.”
Louis tries not to let annoyance settle too much in him—how the fuck did Zayn find a guy to go out with? He goes out even less than Louis does. And why didn’t Zayn tell him, his best friend and roommate?
The anger dissolves pretty quickly, though, when Zayn closes the door and leans back against the wood with a soft sigh.
There’s a weird expression on his face—eyes closed, a small smile tugging at his lips. With a jolt, Louis realizes Zayn looks soft. Fond, even. Louis knows Zayn Malik almost better than anyone, and he knows he never looks like that. Ever.
“So, are you gonna bring him inside?” Louis says, crossing his arms like a stern parent.
Zayn’s eyes fly open, and he flinches when he sees Louis staring smugly at him from the living room. He jumps, knocking his head against the door.
“Jesus Christ!” he yelps, clutching a hand over his heart. He takes a deep breath, glaring at Louis for the scare. “It’s a Friday night—you’re not going out tonight?”
Louis snorts. “When have I ever gone out on a Friday night willingly? Especially without you.”
Zayn just shrugs, already knowing he’s right.
“Yeah, but what if I wanted to pull?” Zayn says, flopping onto the sofa. He’s still got that dumb, sappy look on his face, which makes it a little hard for Louis to stay completely annoyed.
“Then you should’ve told me you had a date,” Louis says accusingly.
Zayn flushes, raising his hands in protest. “It was super last minute.”
“So last minute you forgot I exist?”
“Are you gonna hold that against me forever?”
“I mean, until you make it up to me,” Louis says, shoving a pile of stencils and construction paper his way. “You can help me with my homework.”
Zayn groans. This is not the first—and will not the last—time Louis makes him help with his tedious school work. “Your homework is literally tracing and cutting out shapes.”
If it were anyone else making fun of his major, Louis would boil over and launch into a long tangent about the importance of early childhood education, about how unfair it was for people to judge others for their dreams.
But it’s Zayn—the same Zayn who openly cried freshman year because Excel wouldn’t download, only to find out he wasn’t connected to the WiFi, and who still lets Louis tease him about it to this day.
If anyone gets a free pass, it’s him.
“It’s a lesson plan, thank you very much,” Louis says, packing paper strips into plastic bags.
Zayn rolls his eyes fondly but grabs some construction paper and starts tracing stencils anyway. “Okay, early ed major.”
“Okay, art major,” Louis retorts, watching as Zayn immediately messes up tracing a small circle. “You’re hopeless. I bet my future students could do better.”
“I am helping,” Zayn insists, though his voice loses all conviction as he tosses the failed circle aside and starts over. But Louis notices it—the dazed look in Zayn's eyes, the way his lips keep twitching upward like he’s replaying some fond memory in his head.
“What, did the mystery guy drain your brains while he was sucking your face?” Louis asks, leaning against the couch with a playful tilt of his head.
Zayn scowls, his cheeks flushing a little. “Are you even going to help me? This is your homework.”
“I don’t know; you owe me, remember?”
Zayn groans, a sound somewhere between exasperation and affection. He throws the stencil and paper onto the coffee table with a huff, then slumps back onto the couch, mirroring Louis’ relaxed position.
“Come on, tell me,” Louis pleads, grabbing Zayn’s knee and giving it a playful shake. “Who’s the guy?”
Zayn sighs, but there’s a soft, dopey grin creeping onto his face. “His name’s Liam,” he says. “Political science major, history minor, on the swim team, from Chicago. He has the cutest dog named Loki. Like, from Marvel.” Louis raises his eyebrow. “I know, right? He looks like a total athlete douche, but he’s the sweetest guy. He’s just as obsessed with superheroes as me.”
Louis watches him, stunned.
It’s not that he’s against Zayn finding someone—it’s just that it came out of nowhere. Zayn has always been… Zayn. A little aloof, a little cool, like he didn’t need anyone besides Louis and his art. He wasn’t the type to chase after romance or even really talk about it. Yet here he is, practically melting into the cushions over a guy who sounds like he walked straight out of a rom-com, comic book references and all.
“How did you even meet the guy?” Louis asks.
Zayn blushes. “D’you know who Harry Styles is?”
Louis scoffs at the question. Who doesn’t know Harry Styles?
Harry Styles is practically a legend on campus. UVA is known for swimming, and Harry Styles is the crown jewel of it—ridiculously talented, stupidly charming, and somehow even more famous because of it. He’s in the same year as Louis, but they’ve never really crossed paths. Louis hates going out, and Harry seems to live for it.
Their only real connection is that Harry’s in his Shakespeare class—required for Louis’ English minor. Or at least, he thinks it’s Harry—the curly-haired boy sits slumped over in the back, hair still wet from practice, reeking of chlorine.
“No, I don’t know the guy who’s probably going to be an Olympian at the next Games,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. “Obviously I’ve heard of Harry Styles. Pretty sure he sleeps through my Shakespeare class. What about him?”
“He set us up.”
“Harry Styles knows you exist?”
Zayn shrugs. “Harry Styles knows most people on campus. We both volunteered for freshman orientation a couple weeks ago. He’s a nice guy. I mentioned I was trying to, y’know, put myself out there this semester—”
Louis frowns. “You are? You didn’t tell me that.”
“Because I knew how you’d react,” Zayn says, shooting him a flat look.
“It’s not like I’m against you finding a boyfriend!” Louis protests. “I’m just… surprised. Anyway, go on.”
Zayn rolls his eyes. “Harry told me he’s been matchmaking people lately. Nothing too formal—he just got my number, and a few days later, he texted me his teammate Liam’s name. Said he had a good feeling about it. So we went on a date today.”
Louis blinks. “Harry Styles is playing matchmaker.”
“He’s pretty good at it. He’s made, like, twelve matches this year alone. All of them are still together. First try, no disasters.”
“What is he, some sort of Cupid?”
Zayn shrugs. “Guess he’s just good at reading people.”
“Huh.” Louis crosses his arms and leans back into the couch, still trying to catch up. “Crazy how I never heard of that.”
It sticks with him more than it probably should. Matchmaking. Like it’s that easy—just mention you’re looking for love and someone like Harry Styles snaps his fingers and hands you your perfect person.
Meanwhile, Louis has never even had a boyfriend. Never even gotten close. His love life’s always been a slow, awkward thing—half-starts and dead ends, bad timing and worse luck.
He wants one, though. He wants to fall in love. He wants the ridiculous, giddy, can't-stop-smiling kind of feeling Zayn’s wearing all over his face right now. He just… never really had the chance. Or maybe he just didn’t know how to make it happen for himself.
Louis huffs out a breath, nudging Zayn’s thigh with his socked foot. “You better not completely ditch me, you know.”
Zayn turns his head, raising an eyebrow. “Why would I ditch you?”
Louis shrugs, trying to play it off. “I dunno. You’re all smitten now. Harry Styles found you your hot dream guy with a dog and a superhero obsession. What do you even need me for?”
Zayn snorts. He grabs Louis’ ankle, squeezing it just enough to make Louis squirm.
“You’re an idiot,” Zayn says, smiling crookedly. “You’re stuck with me, Lou. Liam’s just gonna have to deal with that. We’ll always be there for each other, boyfriend or not.”
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Louis is happy for Zayn—he really is—but he misses his friend.
And his apartment.
Zayn and Liam are great together. Louis can’t deny it. Liam’s cool—down-to-earth, easy to talk to, and an absolute riot to hang out with. He fits Zayn perfectly. Louis sees it in the way they interact—comfortable and natural, like they’ve always been together. Still, it’s weird. Zayn’s always been his person—his best friend, his roommate, his guy. And now, Louis finds himself increasingly alone in what used to be their shared space.
Or kicked out of it.
It’s been going on for two weeks. Zayn and Liam are practically glued together, and Louis keeps getting the boot. At first, he told himself it was fine—honeymoon phase and all. But now? It’s starting to get old.
Which is why, on a chilly early-autumn evening, Louis finds himself bothering Niall.
They became friends freshman year—same floor, same classes. Niall started out in early childhood education, switched to music ed, and somehow stayed friends with both Louis and Zayn through it all. These days, he’s juggling being a student, an athlete, and working at the campus ice cream shop. They don’t hang out as much now, especially with Niall living over at Track House with the rest of the team.
The ice cream job, though, is a good gig in the colder months—Niall basically gets paid to sit around and do nothing.
And that’s how Louis ends up here, minutes before closing, waiting for Niall to look up from his homework.
Louis sighs dramatically, resting his chin on his hand as he leans against the counter.
Niall doesn’t seem to notice him right away, too absorbed in his laptop, headphones blaring. Louis lets out another exaggerated sigh.
Nothing.
He sighs even louder, this time practically breathing into Niall’s face. The blond pulls a face, his expression deadpan as he looks up at Louis.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
“Oh, thank you. So nice to see that employees truly appreciate their customers’ needs.”
“And do you plan on buying anything, or should I focus on my real customers, not the leeches who come to me for free therapy?”
Louis looks around the empty store, gesturing to the vacant tables and the complete lack of a crowd. “What customers?”
“Someone could walk in this very second.”
“It’s five minutes till closing,” Louis points out. “And who in their right mind would want ice cream at ten on a school night?”
“You’re laughing, but I get paid to sit here and do my homework,” Niall says, gathering his laptop and books and tossing them into his bag. “And you’re right; closing is in five minutes. I should kick you out now.”
“But I have nowhere to go,” he pouts.
“You have a place. Use it.”
Louis groans and drops his head to the counter with a dramatic thud.
Niall clicks his tongue. “Ah. Kicked out by the lovebirds again?”
Louis lets out a muffled groan. “You have no idea. They’re always together, and I’m stuck hanging out by myself. It’s just… it’s weird. I’m happy for them, I really am, but—”
“I think you’re lonely.”
“I’m not lonely. I have you.”
“As great as your ass is, Lou, I am tragically straight.” Niall laughs, dropping his bag onto the counter. “I think you’re jealous, then.”
Louis furrows his brow. “I’m not jealous of Zayn and Liam.”
“Not of them specifically,” Niall agrees. “Just of what they’ve got.”
Louis falters at that. Of course, he can’t help but wish he had a boyfriend—someone who gets him, someone who’s there for him. But they’re in college, for god’s sake—finding a single, decent guy feels like searching for a needle in a haystack.
Besides, he’s never dated. He doesn’t know what it’s like—he’s always been too busy with school, volunteering, his own hobbies. It just never fit into the picture.
“I’m telling you, Lou,” Niall presses, leaning forward, his eyes gleaming. “You need a boyfriend. Someone to hang out with who isn’t your best friend’s new boyfriend. You’re wasting away here.”
“That’s easier said than done,” Louis sighs, resting his chin on his hands. “I already hate going out. How the hell am I supposed to find a guy?”
Niall’s blue eyes light up with a glint of mischief. “Harry Styles.”
Louis blinks, taking a moment to process. Niall’s almost as social as Harry—he’s bound to know the guy, even if they do complete different sports. But was everyone aware of Harry Styles' secret matchmaking side hustle but him?
“The guy who set up Zayn and Liam?”
Niall nods enthusiastically, his grin almost child-like with glee.
“I don’t know,” Louis says. “He’s in my Shakespeare class, but I barely know the guy. We’ve never even talked.”
“Come on, Lou,” Niall presses, nudging him lightly. “He’s good at it. Like, really good. He’s set up so many couples, and they’re all still going strong. Perfect track record! If anyone can find you a match, it’s Harry.”
Louis opens his mouth to protest, but the thought lingers in his mind, uncomfortably intriguing. Harry Styles, the guy who seems to know everyone and everything, the perfect guy to help him. He could make it work, right? It’s not like he’s asking Harry out. Just… asking for a little help.
“Perfect track record, you say?” Louis asks, and Niall’s grin widens.
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Louis always enjoys his Studies in Shakespeare class. It’s late in the afternoon, an easy end to the day. By the time class ends, Louis is usually one of the first to leave, but today, he has something else in mind.
As the other students filter out, Louis spots Harry Styles lingering near the door. His books are half-hidden under his arm, and his focus is clearly elsewhere. Louis has noticed that Harry tends to zone out during class, his eyes often drifting into space. Harry’s always been like that—slightly absent-minded, but in a way that makes him kind of endearing.
“Hey, Harry, right?” Louis asks, his tone casual despite the nervousness creeping in his stomach.
Harry’s head jerks up, startled for a moment. “Um—yeah, that’s me,” he says, dropping his book with a loud thud. Louis stifles a laugh as Harry scrambles to pick it up. Who would’ve guessed that Harry Styles—the star swimmer, the guy everyone talks about—could be a bit of a clutz?
“I’m Louis,” he says, offering his hand.
Harry blinks, looking a little flustered, but shakes his hand. “Yeah, I know,” he blurts out. Louis raises an eyebrow, surprised. Harry quickly backpedals. “I mean—you’re always participating in class, and I hear your name a lot. I kind of… zone out in the back.”
Louis giggles. “Yeah, I kind of noticed.”
Harry’s cheeks go pink, and Louis can’t help but think it’s kind of cute. Harry’s nervous energy makes him more real, less like the untouchable athlete he’s known as.
“So, uh, are you busy?” Louis asks. “I was thinking about asking you something, but I’m actually heading to South campus…”
Harry’s face lights up. He slings his bag over his shoulder, his eyes bright. “We could walk together! I’m actually headed to South campus too.”
As they walk, Louis enjoys the cool fall air and the sight of the leaves rustling underfoot. He glances over at Harry, noticing how fidgety he is. Harry seems to be unsure of what Louis wants from him. Louis is about to ask about the matchmaking process when Harry speaks up.
“What class are you headed to?” Harry asks.
“Not a class. I’m a TA for first-year English, so I have office hours right now,” Louis says with a deep sigh. Harry scrunches his nose and pulls a face, making him giggle. “It’s not that bad! I get paid a bit and the freshmen are tolerable.”
“Good on you for being able to deal with freshmen,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “The ones that I have to deal with every day are little shits.”
“Ah, so I’m assuming the first year swimmers are not the most mature bunch?” Louis asks, his voice light.
Harry blinks, his mouth practically agape. “You—you know that I swim?”
Louis laughs, shaking his head while sending him an amused look. But Harry stares back at him with wide, green eyes, and it suddenly dawns on Louis that Harry actually is surprised that Louis knows who he is.
“It would be hard to not hear about you on campus, Harry,” he says. “We all know about those broken school records and Olympic trials cuts and all. And besides, you’re teammates with Liam Payne. He’s dating my roommate.”
“You’re roommates with Zayn?” Harry asks, his brows knitted. “Liam never told me that.”
“Well, Zayn and Liam have only been dating for, like, two weeks,” Louis says. “It’d be a little strange if he shared every little detail about Zayn’s life already.”
“No, it’s not that—” Harry starts, then abruptly cuts himself off, his cheeks turning a soft shade of red. “It’s just… something between Liam and me.”
Louis raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press the issue. They continue walking in comfortable silence for a moment, exchanging casual remarks about their shared classes and friends. Harry, usually so effortlessly social, seems a little more reserved than Louis expected. It surprises him, especially since Harry’s reputation on campus is practically legendary.
But Harry is sweet. He makes easy conversation, able to counter Louis’ dry comments with effortless ease. And it’s obvious he’s making an effort to get to know Louis, which is rare with new friends. He finds himself feeling a bit disappointed—how had they shared so many mutual friends and yet never become close?
“Speaking of Liam and Zayn…” Louis begins, glancing sideways at Harry. “I actually wanted to ask you something.”
Harry looks at him curiously. Louis hesitates for a moment, but he knows he has to ask.
“I heard you’re the one who sets up matches around here,” Louis says quietly, almost sheepishly. “And, uh, I was wondering if you could, you know… help me out? Set me up with someone?”
Harry’s face falls, his eyes flickering away from Louis. “I, um, I don’t know,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not really something I do often. I don’t know if I can really help you out with something like that.”
Louis’ heart sinks a little, his shoulders slumping as he processes Harry's response. He was hoping for a more enthusiastic reaction, maybe even an offer to help right away. After all, he’s heard nothing but good things about the guy.
“Oh, okay,” Louis says, trying to hide the slight frustration creeping into his voice. “I mean, if it’s too much trouble, forget it.”
He keeps his gaze straight ahead, staring at the path underfoot. The silence between them grows heavy, and Harry shifts uncomfortably, clearly sensing Louis’ disappointment.
“Wait, I didn’t mean it like that,” Harry suddenly says, his voice more rushed now. “It’s just… it’s not easy, you know? It takes time, and I—I don’t know if I can promise anything, but I… I can try to help. If you really want me to.”
Harry doesn’t look that pleased at the situation, but Louis takes it, not wanting to extend the awkward moment.
Louis nods slowly, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, sure. If you really want to, I guess… I’ll take what I can get.”
The conversation wasn’t going exactly where he expected, but he’s deep enough now, so he has to continue it. Given Harry’s track record, he’s bound to get a boyfriend out of this after all.
Harry looks at him for a moment, his expression softening, like he’s trying to figure out how to make things better. Then, after a brief pause, he fidgets with his bag again and adds, “Maybe… we could talk about it more over coffee sometime? You know, for the matchmaking stuff, of course.”
Louis pauses, his mind racing. He looks over at Harry, whose face is redder than before, and feels a sudden warmth spread through his chest. He can’t tell if it’s awkwardness or something else, but it’s kind of endearing, in a way.
“Yeah, alright,” Louis says, trying to keep his tone light. “Coffee sounds good. Are you free Saturday at nine? We could meet at the coffee shop on Main?” Harry nods frantically. “Sounds good. We’ll talk it out then.”
Harry lets out a breath, clearly relieved. “Alright, then. It's a plan.”
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“You look nice,” Zayn says as Louis scours the floor for his other shoe.
Louis finds it half-kicked under the couch and slips it on. He spins around in front of Zayn, giving an exaggerated little twirl to show off his outfit. It’s nothing too fancy—just clean jeans, a plaid hoodie, and a decent shirt layered underneath.
“Gotta make a good impression,” he says, brushing a hand through his hair.
Zayn nods approvingly, arms crossed as he leans against the doorway. “Well, you’re pulling it off. Got a match already?”
“Nah, not yet. Just meeting up with Harry to talk about it.”
Zayn’s brows draw together. “Wait. What do you mean, talk about it?”
“We’re grabbing coffee before he pairs me up.”
Zayn pushes off the wall, confusion written all over his face. “That’s weird. I didn’t talk to Harry before he matched me with Liam. He just said it was vibes.”
Louis shrugs. “Maybe he’s changing it up this time around.”
Zayn’s brow stays furrowed, but Louis glances at his phone and swears. “Shit, I’m gonna be late. I’ll see you later!”
The coffee shop is on Main Street, cozy and sun-drenched, with ivy curling around its window frames. It’s adjoined with a little bookstore and the smell of fresh croissants drifting from the connected bakery. It’s a popular spot on campus, but it being early, there’s not many there.
Louis spots Harry waiting in line, chatting easily with the barista. He’s relieved to see Harry put effort into his look too—denim jacket, flannel underneath, curls poking out from a navy UVA beanie. They match, kind of. Like they coordinated without meaning to.
“Hey!” Harry calls, waving him over with a bright smile. His eyes flick down to Louis’ outfit for a second—quick, unreadable—before his grin widens. “I’m just about to order. What do you want?”
Louis rattles off his usual, then hesitates when Harry pulls out his card.
“You don’t have to pay for me,” he says, reaching for his own.
But Harry’s already swiping. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, flashing a dimpled smile. “My treat.”
Louis insists on covering pastries, if only to even the playing field a little.
They settle at a corner table beneath a nest of hanging plants, golden light filtering through the windows. Harry opens a blank notebook on the table, his pencil tapping anxiously against the page. Louis tries not to smile at the fidgeting.
“So, where are you from?” Harry asks.
Louis raises a brow, half-teasing. “What is this, practice for a first date?”
Harry blushes. “Hey, I need to know a bit about you to make sure I find the right guy!”
Louis thinks back to what Zayn said earlier—that Harry mostly works on intuition after talking to someone for a bit. But he pushes the thought away. Maybe Harry’s just changing up his approach a little.
“I’m from Boston,” Louis says.
Harry nods, jotting it down. “I could tell that based on your accent.”
Louis laughs. His accent’s thicker than most—his friends love to tease him about how he drops his r’s and exaggerates his vowels. “How about you?”
Harry tilts his head, lips curling into a small, amused smile. “Now this really feels like a first date.”
“Well, it was feeling like an interrogation!”
Harry relents, grinning. “I’m from Virginia. Not too far, closer to the coast.”
“Was that why you chose to go here?”
“That, and the swim program. A lot of greats train here. My mom wanted me close by, me being the baby of the family and all.”
“Aww,” Louis says, warmth spreading in his chest. “That’s sweet. I’m the oldest, so there’s a whole flock after me. I love them to pieces, but I’m glad to be away.”
Harry scribbles something down on his notepad. “How many siblings do you have?”
“Six younger siblings. Five girls and one boy.”
“Wow. And I thought my older sister was a pain. Anyway, what’s your major?”
“Early childhood education,” Louis says. Harry’s eyebrows shoot up.
Louis braces himself. It’s a common reaction—people often judge when he mentions it. It’s not the typical major for guys, especially. But it’s always been his dream. He’s gotten used to the comments, the people who tell him he’s smarter than that, that he could make more money doing something else. But he’d rather be happy.
But Harry doesn’t judge. “That’s so cool,” he says, his grin genuine. “I bet it’s because of your siblings?”
Louis feels a wave of relief. “Yeah, but also because I just love the cycle of helping new kids every year. It was always my dream job, ever since I was a kid.”
“That’s really nice,” Harry says thoughtfully. “I used to make gifts for my elementary school teachers when I was little. But then again, I always liked the attention. What grade?”
“Probably second,” Louis responds, smiling. “I also have an English minor—that’s why I’m in the Shakespeare class.”
Harry chuckles. “I only took it because of the dumb university requirements.” Louis’ brow draws together. The Shakespeare class they’re in is the second course—they had to take Shakespeare 101 in order to get into the class. But Harry continues on. “I’m a psych major.”
Louis raises an eyebrow. “How do you manage that on top of swimming? What do you want to do with it?”
Harry shrugs. “Over the past few years, I’ve been told if I keep up my work ethic, I’ll be able to make a living off of swimming alone. You know, with sponsorships, medals, and all that. But when I was younger, I always wanted to be a counselor. My plan is to keep training, get my education, maybe a master’s, and then, once I start giving back through philanthropy—whether it’s social work or just teaching kids how to swim—I can make a difference for kids in less fortunate communities.”
Louis’ heart swells. “That’s a really sweet dream.”
Harry smiles, his eyes bright. “Yeah, it’s always been important to me. But enough about me,” he says with a teasing glint in his eye. “This is supposed to be about you! What about rules for first dates? Any preferences—before, after, or during? Little things you expect?”
Louis hesitates. He’s not entirely sure what Harry means, but one thing pops into his head. It feels important—something a future boyfriend should know.
“I don’t put out on the first date,” Louis mutters, cheeks heating as soon as the words leave his mouth.
He’s not exactly sure what’s expected after dates—he’s never been on one—but judging by all the stories Niall’s told, hook-up culture at UVA is alive and well. Admitting this to Harry is embarrassing, but since he’s the one finding Louis a match, he’d rather deal with this awkwardness now than with someone new later.
“Yeah, that’s totally fair,” Harry replies.
Louis looks up, surprised. “You don’t think it’s weird?” he asks, voice small.
Harry gives a sheepish smile and waves a hand. “I mean, I’d be lying if I said I’ve never hooked up on a first date—” Something twists in Louis’ stomach—jealousy, probably. He pushes it down. Of course Harry isn’t a virgin. He’s hot, charming, and the star swimmer of the school. Louis, by comparison, feels like some strange anomaly. “—but it’s completely valid.”
“Yeah, but I mean… for a while,” Louis says, fingers tracing the rim of his mug. “I’ve never…”
Harry’s green eyes widen, brows jumping. “Had sex?”
Louis’ jaw drops. “What? I—I meant had a boyfriend!” he blurts, hiding his face in his hands, completely mortified. “But… that too,” he adds under his breath.
He’s not totally innocent—he’s messed around on his own, sure—but it’s never been with anyone else. He always thought he’d lose his virginity in college. Now he’s twenty, and the fact that he hasn’t still clings to him like something shameful. And somehow, he’s talking about all this with Harry Styles of all people.
“Shit—sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that!” Harry says, flustered, his cheeks going pink. But then he glances over, curiosity getting the better of him. “But… seriously? Like, ever?”
“Do you mean the no boyfriend or the no sex part?” Louis asks, glancing around nervously, praying no one’s eavesdropping on this wildly personal conversation.
“Both?”
“I’m just… a romantic, I guess. I’ve never found someone I clicked with.”
“Really?”
Louis scowls. “If you’re going to sit there and gape and judge me, Styles, then maybe I don’t need your—”
“No! I’m not judging,” Harry cuts in quickly, reaching across to gently tug Louis back down. “I’m just surprised. You’ve never had a boyfriend?”
Color rushes up Louis’ neck. “Not everyone has a fan club like you, Harry Styles.”
Harry chuckles, eyes softening. “I just can’t believe no one’s snatched you up. You’re smart, funny, nice… and really pretty, too. You’re a catch.”
“Oh, um, thanks,” Louis says quietly. He’s almost certain his face is completely red now.
Harry looks a little embarrassed too, clearing his throat and shifting gears. “So… what do you expect from a boyfriend?”
Louis hesitates. It’s something he’s thought about a lot, though it’s always felt more like a dream than something real. But if Harry’s serious about setting him up, it’s probably worth sharing.
“Someone I can be friends with,” he says carefully. “Call me old-fashioned, but I really believe the best way to fall in love is through friendship. I want that moment of, like… ‘Oh. You’ve been here all along.’” He pauses, noticing Harry’s staring at him, eyebrows raised. “Not that I’m knocking your matchmaking skills or anything! I know it works for a lot of people. I just… for me, I want the friendship first.”
Harry’s smile is soft. Not teasing or amused—just genuine. For a moment, he looks dazed, like he’s trying to memorize Louis’ words. Then he blinks, shakes his head, and clears his throat.
“No, that sounds… really nice, Lou,” he says. The nickname makes Louis’ heart skip. He usually hates when people use them too soon, but it fits coming from Harry. “But are you sure you want a match? That slow-burn thing doesn’t really happen through setups. Still, I’d be happy to—”
“I kind of just want to get over it,” Louis says.
Harry blinks. “Get over it?”
Louis gives a half-hearted shrug, eyes fixed on his mug.
Harry looks like he wants to say something—his mouth opens, then closes again. After a moment, he just nods and asks, “So… do you have a big workload this semester?”
From there, the conversation picks up easily. There’s no awkwardness, no weird lulls. Louis tells stories, shares random facts about himself, and in return, learns about Harry—his love for swimming, his favorite study spots, his oddly specific pet peeves.
Two hours fly by. Their coffees sit mostly untouched, gone cold from all the talking. When Harry glances at the time, he groans.
“Ugh, I have swim practice. But—” He turns to Louis, hesitating a bit. “Can I get your number?” Louis raises an eyebrow. “For the match!” he blurts out. His ears flush pink.
Louis laughs, reaching for Harry’s phone. “For the match,” he echoes, typing in his number.
Apparently Harry works fast, because later that night, just as Louis is getting ready for bed, his phone lights up with a string of texts.
Louis snorts. Well, obviously.
Louis goes on Instagram and uses Harry's following list to track down the guy. It’s easy enough to find him—Harry seems to follow nearly everyone at the University. Jack is attractive in a way; tall with short brown hair, brown eyes, and a lean frame. Louis wrinkles his nose as he notices Jack's most recent post: him in a suit surrounded by a bunch of similarly dressed guys. His eyes narrow when he spots the Greek letters in Jack's bio.
Louis laughs at his response and shakes his head, finding it hard not to get endeared by his excitement. He’s sure he can trust him on this one.
ᥫ᭡ •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅
The date with Jack starts out fine enough.
They meet at a bistro tucked off campus, a cozy spot Harry suggested, with outdoor seating and strings of fairy lights overhead. Jack is easy to spot—tall, confident, wearing a hoodie with his fraternity’s letters stitched proudly across the chest.
Louis tries. He really does.
Jack talks easily—about his classes, his fraternity brothers, his five dogs back home, his plans to study abroad. Louis listens politely, nodding along, waiting for a natural moment to jump in, to say something about himself. But somehow, the opening never comes.
Every time Louis leans forward, ready to share a piece of his own story, Jack steamrolls right over him with another anecdote—the latest prank at the frat house, the group project where he did all the work, his friends, his family, just him.
By the time they’re halfway through their coffee, Louis knows Jack’s entire life story—and Jack, in return, doesn’t even know where Louis is from.
When they finally finish their drinks, Louis is almost relieved. He’s surprised that Jack hasn’t lost his voice from all his talking. Harry was right about one thing, though—it’s a nice place. Shame it was wasted on a date like this.
As they step outside, Jack turns to him, a little abruptly. “Can I kiss you?”
Louis freezes.
There’s no real spark. No tension pulling them closer. Just a vague discomfort sitting heavy in his stomach.
He shakes his head, offering a small, apologetic smile. Jack looks surprised—maybe a little hurt—but he covers it with a casual shrug. “No worries,” he says, tossing out an awkward, “We should do it again sometime.”
They both know they won’t.
They part ways with stiff waves and mumbled goodbyes. Louis pockets his hands and starts walking aimlessly down Main Street, the cool night air biting at his cheeks.
He lets himself wander for a while, feeling more than a little deflated. After all, that was technically his first real date. And honestly? It sucked. A waste of a perfectly good Friday night—the weather is perfect, crisp but not cold, the kind of night that begs for a long walk, hand-in-hand with someone who makes you laugh.
Niall has an away meet for track. Zayn’s on a date with Liam. For once, all three of them had plans—but now, Louis is left with nothing but his own sour mood for company.
A buzz from his phone breaks through his thoughts. He checks it—it's from Zayn.
He pockets his phone again, trying to shake the feeling that maybe he was asking for too much. He walks without any real destination, the slow shuffle of his shoes against the sidewalk filling the silence. His hands are stuffed deep into his jacket pockets, his head ducked low against the cool breeze.
It’s stupid, he thinks. It’s just one date.
But still—it stings more than he wants to admit. Especially since it was Harry who set it up. Harry Styles, the so-called perfect campus matchmaker. If even Harry couldn’t find him a good match, then… maybe the problem is him.
His phone buzzes, and he pulls it out, expecting another text—but it’s a call. Harry’s name flashes across the screen.
Louis hesitates for a second, then answers. “Hey.”
“Hey, Lou,” Harry says, voice light and easy. “Just checking in. How’d it go?”
Louis hesitates. He’s the one to ruin Harry’s perfect record—maybe he should lie, not hurt his feelings. But Harry would want to know. He lets out a sigh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Terribly,” he confesses. “I didn’t even get a chance to talk about myself. It was like… I could’ve been a cardboard cutout sitting across from him and he wouldn’t have noticed.”
There’s a beat of quiet on the line, just Harry breathing. “That’s not on you, you know.”
Louis shrugs, even though Harry can’t see it. “Still feels like a waste. It’s a perfect night and I’m just… walking around Main Street like some brooding main character.”
Harry laughs. “Okay, first of all, dramatic. Second of all—you’re not sad movie material. You’re, like…” He pauses, like he’s actually thinking about it. “You’re the guy everybody roots for. The one people actually stay through the credits to watch.”
Louis huffs out a laugh, shaking his head even as something settles in his chest. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but he has a warm feeling in his chest.
“Hey, I’ll make you feel better,” Harry says, voice brightening. “Look to your right.”
Furrowing his brows, Louis turns his head. Across the street, leaning lazily against the pharmacy window, is Harry, wearing a green flannel and a beanie tugged low over his curls, his phone still pressed to his ear. He lifts his free hand in a cheeky wave, grinning wide.
“What are you doing here?” Louis asks, shaking his head slightly as he jogs across the street.
Harry pockets his phone by the time Louis reaches him, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“You should’ve seen your face,” Harry says. “I half expected your jaw to hit the ground.”
Louis bumps him lightly with his shoulder. “You’re a menace. And a weirdo. Who stalks someone after setting them up on a date?”
Harry’s cheeks flush pink, but he just shrugs, all casual. “Stalk? Harsh. I was being… a responsible matchmaker. Providing emotional support. Customer service, if you will.”
Louis snorts. “Terrible service, then. My date sucked, and now I’m being harassed on Main Street.”
Harry rolls his eyes, knocking their shoulders together again, easy and familiar, despite them not being that close. They start walking down the street together, falling into an easy rhythm. Louis kicks a pebble along the pavement, hands deep in his pockets.
“Thanks for checking on me,” Louis says after a beat. “I know it’s a Friday night and all. You probably had better things to do than babysit my sorry ass.”
Harry flashes him a genuine smile that makes something twist in Louis’ chest. “I’m happy to spend my Friday night with you,” he says simply. “Besides, I’m the one who made you go. Least I can do is make sure you’re still alive.”
Louis laughs under his breath. “Is that a service you offer to all your clients?”
“If you need me, just call me whenever,” Harry says, firm like it’s a promise. He glances sideways, more serious now. “You okay, though?”
Louis shrugs, his shoulders tight. “Yeah. Just… disappointed, I guess. I thought—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “Whatever. It’s dumb.”
“It’s not dumb,” Harry says. “You deserve a good date. Someone who actually asks about you, listens to you. Not some frat guy who can’t shut up about himself.”
Louis laughs, nudging him with his elbow. “You’re the one who sent me up with Jack in the first place.”
Harry gasps, mock-hurt. “I gave you my best effort! I thought Jack was cool! He’s got a lot going on for him—interests, hobbies, some charm—”
“And zero conversation skills,” Louis fires back.
“Minor setback,” Harry says breezily, waving a hand.
Louis laughs, real and bright, the sound pulling a wide grin from Harry.
“Sorry for breaking your perfect track record,” Louis says after a second, trying for casual, even as his cheeks heat up.
Harry just shrugs, all lazy affection, dimples peeking out. “Don’t worry,” he says, bumping Louis’ arm with his elbow. “I’ll make sure you get a match eventually.”
Louis rolls his eyes, but he can’t fight the smile pulling at his mouth. “Yeah? Gonna personally screen them next time, Cupid?”
Harry grins and slings an arm around Louis’ shoulders, tugging him close for just a second before letting go—like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Louis feels a shiver run down his arm, but he tells himself it’s probably just the breeze.
“‘Course I will,” Harry says easily. “You’re not just anyone, you know.”
The words are light, almost teasing—but there’s something in the way Harry says it that makes Louis’ chest feel stupidly tight.
He ducks his head, hoping Harry doesn’t notice the way his face is burning.
ᥫ᭡ •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅
“Do you think I’m unlovable?”
“Louis.”
“I’m serious. When you went on your first date with Liam, was it awkward?”
“Is this really the time and place?” Zayn mutters, glancing at the elderly couple sitting across from them on the bus.
Louis shrugs. “We’ve had worse conversations in public. Don’t forget I got the full, unedited story of you losing your virginity in the middle of the courtyard—while a campus tour was going on.”
Zayn’s eyes go wide with horror. The elderly couple gives them a dirty look, heads shaking in disapproval.
“You’re so embarrassing,” Zayn hisses, but he’s silently shaking with laughter.
“Come on,” Louis pleads, latching onto Zayn’s arm. “You can either tell me now or tell me when we get there.”
They’re on the bus headed toward the Boys and Girls Club, an after-school youth facility for kids. Neither of them has a car, since their hometown is far. They volunteer outside of school, mostly to earn hours, but Louis genuinely loves working with kids. Zayn claims he’s only there for the hours, but Louis has seen the way his face softens around the younger ones. He has a soft spot, even if he pretends not to.
“Fine, fine,” Zayn relents. “Yeah, I guess it was awkward. All first dates are, right?”
“Not that I would know.”
“Shut up,” Zayn says, but he’s smiling. “It’s like—you’re meeting a stranger and trying to decide if you could maybe like them. But with Liam, it wasn’t awful. There was a click. We had this natural banter, and even though I was nervous, it felt like something we could build on. The awkward part wasn’t silence—it was being kind of giddy and weird around someone you actually like. You usually know by the end of the first date.”
Louis makes a face, though something tight coils in his chest. “That’s so sappy.”
“You asked.”
Louis pulls the cord to signal their stop. The bus gives a loud hiss as it brakes in front of the Boys and Girls Club, the familiar gray building rising behind the chain-link fence. He and Zayn stand, slinging their backpacks over their shoulders.
“I thought you didn’t like Jack,” Zayn says as they head toward the entrance.
“I don’t. He was a self-absorbed dick.”
“Then why do you care?”
Louis pauses, dragging his feet for a moment. “I don’t know. Do you think it’s weird that I’m Harry’s first failure?”
“You’re not a failure, Lou. It takes two people to make a bad date.”
“Wow, thanks.”
Zayn rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. Jack was clearly an asshole. It’s not your fault there wasn’t a spark. That just happens.”
“Yeah, well… maybe Cupid needs to recalibrate,” Louis mutters.
Zayn snorts. “You practically begged the guy for a match, and now you’re all skeptical?”
Louis opens his mouth to argue but closes it just as fast. He is being pessimistic—and maybe a little dramatic. “Okay, maybe I’m just bitter.”
On the outside, the Boys and Girls Club doesn’t look like much—just a plain, gray building with minimal windows and fluorescent lighting—but Louis loves this place. He loves working with the kids. Many of them don’t come from easy backgrounds, and the center gives them space to grow, to be creative, to just be kids.
They’re nearly at the doors when Louis suddenly stops in his tracks, making Zayn bump into him.
Standing at the reception desk, signing in, are two very familiar figures. One with a mop of curls mostly hidden under a beanie, the other with a short cut and a wide, easy smile.
Louis’ heart skips. “Tell me that isn’t Harry Styles checking in right now.”
Zayn winces. “And Liam.”
Louis spins around. “Did you invite them?”
Zayn throws up his hands in surrender. “Okay, yes! But in my defense, you're always saying we need more volunteers. Liam needed service hours, and apparently Harry loves working with kids. I didn’t think it’d be a big deal—you two get along, right?”
“Yeah, but after that disaster with Jack, I basically unloaded all my disappointment on him. He had to talk me down. What if he thinks I’m a mess?”
“Harry’s not like that,” Zayn says, pushing Louis through the doors.
Inside, the club buzzes with life—kids sprint through the halls, laughter echoing between the walls, and volunteers rush to prep for the afternoon. At the front desk, Harry glances over just as they walk in, and his whole face lights up like it’s instinct.
“Hey!” he calls, beaming. Liam throws a casual arm around Zayn’s shoulders. “It was getting late—thought you two weren’t coming.”
Louis sighs. “Blame public transportation.”
Liam frowns at Zayn. “You didn’t drive?”
“You think I magically brought a car from California or bought one here?” Zayn says dryly. “Louis doesn’t have one either. We’ve been champions of the bus system since freshman year.”
“You should’ve told us,” Liam says. “Harry has a car. We could’ve picked you up.”
Louis shrugs. “It builds character.”
A staff member walks over to assign activity stations. Zayn gets paired with Liam in the art room—no surprise there—while Louis and Harry are sent outside to help kids with photography. Louis hides his disappointment; he’s used to having Zayn as his default partner, but he already knew Liam would win that battle.
Outside, the weather feels like the first real day of fall—the soft sunlight, the slight breeze that carries through. Louis barely notices the chill—he’s from Boston, after all. But Harry tugs his flannel tighter and pulls his beanie down lower, crossing his arms like he’s bracing for a snowstorm.
Louis laughs. “You’d never survive a New England fall.”
Harry blushes. “Good thing I don’t plan on leaving. I’ll take humid Virginia over snow any day.”
“I miss it sometimes,” Louis says. “The snow, I mean.”
Harry watches a kid try to photograph a squirrel, not looking at him. “D’you plan on going back up to Boston after graduation?”
“Actually… no,” Louis says. Harry turns to him with a surprised look. “I want to stay here. I’m student teaching at an elementary school near UVA. The current teacher’s sweet, but she’s getting ready to retire. They’ve hinted the position might be mine after graduation. And there’s this place…” He gestures around them, at the kids darting between trees and the laughter echoing through the yard. “I always figured I’d keep helping out.”
Harry’s face softens, a smile tugging at his lips. “That’s cool. I’m planning to stay in Charlottesville too. For swimming, yeah, but mostly because it feels like…”
“Home?” Louis finishes.
Harry nods. “Yeah. Exactly.”
Just then, a little girl bounds over, eyes shining as she clutches her disposable camera.
“Louis! Harry! Look!” she says, waving the photo she just took.
Harry crouches beside her, his voice bright. “Whoa, Callie, that’s amazing! It looks like a squirrel took the picture himself.”
“I tried to get closer, but they kept running away,” she says, frustrated.
“You wanna know something fun?” Harry leans in, voice full of excitement. “Louis and I go to UVA, and the squirrels there are so used to people, they don’t even flinch when you walk by. One of them ran across my shoe once.”
Callie gasps. “Did you pet it?”
Harry laughs. “Nah, I think they like their space. But they’re fun to watch, right?”
Callie nods, already scanning the trees for her next subject.
Louis watches them with a smile tugging at his lips. Harry’s natural with kids—gentle, patient, warm. Harry’s words from earlier come back to him.
“I can see why you want to do this when you’re older. You’re good with them,” Louis says quietly once the kids are distracted.
Harry glances over. “Yeah?”
“I mean it,” Louis says. “A lot of these kids don’t get access to shiny instruments or club sports. This place gives them a chance to just be kids. To have fun, to connect.”
Harry nods slowly. “That’s exactly what I want to do after graduation. If swimming works out, people are gonna expect me to chase medals or records, but honestly? I’d rather do something like this with the attention and money that I get. Help kids who can’t afford swim lessons, give them access to the water.”
“There’s actually a pool,” Louis says, nodding toward the gray building next to the gym. “It’s in decent shape—some of the local high school teams practice there. But our kids don’t use it. No funding, no lifeguards, no instructors.”
Harry’s eyes light up. “That’s something I’ll keep in mind. Or maybe your next project once you graduate. I have a feeling they’re not gonna let you leave.”
Louis grins. “We can do it together. It can be our project.”
They stay until the session wraps up—helping the kids finish art projects, hand out snacks, sweep the floors. The afternoon slips by in a blur of paint-streaked hands and laughter echoing down the hall.
As they pack up, Zayn bounds over, Liam right behind him. “We’re heading to the Swim House. You in?”
Louis raises a skeptical brow. “You mean the frat house?”
“It’s a sports house,” Liam corrects, mock-offended. “Big difference.”
Harry grins. “Come on, it’ll be chill. We’re in-season anyway. No beer pong, I swear.”
Louis sighs, resigned. “Fine. But only because I don’t trust Zayn to tell me what happened later.”
They all pile into Harry’s sleek black car. Zayn and Liam immediately claim the back seat—clearly wanting to sit together—leaving Louis to ride shotgun.
The car hums quietly as Harry pulls out of the Boys and Girls Club parking lot. In the backseat, Zayn and Liam are mid-whispered conversation—Zayn pretending not to smile, Liam definitely not bothering to hide his grin.
Louis catches their reflection in the rearview mirror and raises an eyebrow. “You two are gross.”
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” Zayn fires back, though he blushes when Liam nudges his knee.
Harry chuckles, one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually out the window. “Hey, I’ll take credit for that one. I knew you’d get along.”
“Good to know your skills sometimes work, Cupid,” Louis says, voice light.
Harry makes a noise of protest. “Hey!”
Liam pipes up from the back. “Harry’s usually good at this. This is just one miss.”
Harry groans, cheeks flushed. “It’s not about the number of matches, it’s about the quality. You and Zayn are a great example.”
Liam grins. “I guess you really nailed that one.”
Louis feels something pang in his chest—quiet, unwanted. It’s not like he wants to trade places. He’s happy for Zayn. Really. But sitting next to Harry in the fading light, with warmth buzzing in the air and Zayn’s easy laughter in the background, he can’t help but feel a little left out.
There’s a beat of silence, then Louis asks, almost too casually, “Why do you do it anyway?”
Harry glances over. “Do what?”
“Play matchmaker.”
There’s a pause. Harry drums his fingers against the wheel once before answering. “I dunno. I guess I’m just a bit of a romantic.”
Liam snorts from the back, but Harry continues, unfazed. “It’s not about love at first sight or whatever. I just… I can tell when people click. Even if they don’t see it yet. Sometimes it’s about timing. Sometimes it’s about helping them notice what’s already there.” He shrugs, eyes still on the road, but there’s something tender in his voice. “I like giving people that nudge.”
Louis nods slowly, turns his face toward the window like the skyline holds the answer. But his thoughts are spiraling. He wonders if anyone will ever notice something in him like that.
Maybe his person’s still out there. Some boy who understands the way Louis laughs too loudly at his own jokes or taps his fingers when he’s anxious. Someone who won’t mind when Louis needs time to talk about how he feels—or doesn’t talk at all.
Someone who gets him, the way Harry seems to get everyone else.
He doesn’t know when that person will show up. But he hopes he’ll know it when it happens. Maybe not instantly. Maybe it’ll sneak up slowly—like a good song he didn’t realize he’d been humming until someone else sings along.
He looks over at Harry, who’s smiling faintly at something Liam just said. Maybe Harry’s right. Maybe some people just need a nudge.
They get to the Swim House in no time, and Louis has to admit—it’s a way faster ride than any of the crowded, jerky bus trips he and Zayn are used to.
The house itself is surprisingly quiet when they step inside. Louis blinks, taking in the spotless floors and vaguely citrusy air freshener scent wafting through the entryway—though there is most definitely an undertone of chlorine. “This is… cleaner than I expected,” he mutters, toeing off his shoes.
Harry laughs. “We’re athletes, not animals.”
They all head into the living room, which is cozy in a hand-me-down sort of way—oversized couch, mismatched blankets, and a flat-screen mounted slightly crooked on the wall.
“We’re picking the movie,” Zayn declares, already tugging Liam upstairs with him.
“Which means it’s going to be the Avengers again?” Louis calls after them.
Zayn doesn’t even turn around—just throws a middle finger over his shoulder as he disappears upstairs.
“I don’t think they went upstairs to look for movies,” Louis says.
Harry laughs. “Oh, definitely not. Come on—we’ll get snacks.”
The kitchen is surprisingly spacious, but it makes sense; most of the male UVA swim team lives here, and athletes, as Louis knows, eat like it’s their job. The cabinets are overflowing with protein bars, half-eaten bags of chips, and what looks like a lifetime supply of peanut butter.
“Seriously?” Louis says, pulling out a jar. “Are you guys sponsored or something?”
Harry shrugs. “Protein’s protein.”
They fall into an easy rhythm—tossing popcorn into a bowl, passing each other pretzels and teasing over what qualifies as a ‘movie snack.’ Louis insists on Twizzlers. Harry insists on hummus.
“Twizzlers are non-negotiable,” Louis insists.
Harry eyes it skeptically. “You’re putting that in popcorn? That’s criminal.”
“It’s innovation,” Louis says with a grin.
Harry opens his mouth to retort, but before he can, a tall guy walks into the kitchen, scrolling on his phone, not noticing them at first. He’s clearly another swimmer—broad-shouldered, sharp-jawed, with tousled dark hair and comfortable clothes.
“Hey,” Harry says with a casual nod.
The guy waves back, distracted—until he sees Louis. His brows lift and a smirk slides across his face.
“Who’s this?” he asks, gaze raking unapologetically over Louis’ figure.
Louis flushes under the attention, offering a small wave. “Louis.”
“I’m Carson,” he says, flashing a bright, toothy grin. “One of Harry’s teammates.”
“Nice to meet you,” Louis replies, polite.
Carson leans in a little, voice sliding into something smoother. “So, Louis, what brings you here?” His gaze lingers—predatory, almost—and Louis feels Harry stiffen behind him. Carson clocks it, blinking. “Wait—Harry, you and he aren’t—?”
Louis catches the implication and stammers quickly, eyes flicking to Harry before looking away. “Oh—no. No! He’s just in my Shakespeare class. I’m roommates with Zayn.”
Carson nods, visibly relieved. “Oh, Liam’s boyfriend? You paired them up, right, Harry?”
Harry clears his throat, but when he speaks, his voice sounds a little strained. “Yeah.”
“That’s the funny thing,” Louis jumps in, forcing a casual tone. “Harry’s actually trying to matchmake me now.”
Carson perks up. “Really?” He glances at Harry, then back at Louis with a smirk. “You know, Harry, I’ve been meaning to ask if you could find someone for me.”
Harry shifts uncomfortably. “I mean, my matchmaking process is more of a—”
“I’ll give you a hint,” Carson cuts in smoothly, eyes locking on Louis. “Shorter than me. Sharp cheekbones. Gorgeous blue eyes. Brown hair. Tan skin that flushes real pretty when flustered—” Louis feels his face burn. Carson grins. “Ah, there it is.”
Louis covers his face with a hand, half-laughing, half-mortified. There’s a weird tug in his stomach—part flattered, part unsettled—but the attention is kind of… nice. Still, something else tugs at him, low and quiet.
“Carson,” Harry says, voice tight. “Ease up.”
Carson lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave it to the professional.” He backs off, tossing Louis a cheeky wink before slipping out of the room.
Louis exhales hard, chuckling under his breath.
“I’m really sorry,” Harry says, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s not usually that—well, okay, he is, but that was out of line.”
“I’m fine with it.”
Harry blinks. “Wait—really? You’re okay with that match?”
Louis just shrugs, dragging a hand down his face. It’s nice to have a little attention, in all honesty. “I’ll take what I can get. Come on, Cupid, give me the pitch.”
Harry hesitates, still visibly uneasy, but gives in. “Carson Keeler. Neuroscience major, pre-med. Freestyler on the swim team. From Florida—big into surfing. Life of the party, total hype man. Lots of energy.”
Louis is just about to speak, when Carson strolls back into the dining room, a casual grin on his face. “So, what do we say?” he asks, leaning in the doorway. “Sounds like a match?”
Louis raises his eyebrows at Harry—this is his call, after all. But Harry hesitates, something unreadable passing over his face before his shoulders sag.
“Yeah,” Harry says. “Sounds like a match.”
ᥫ᭡ •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅
Turns out it is not a match, because Louis is really struggling through this date with Carson.
The date starts decently enough. Carson compliments Louis’ outfit, and they make small talk about their days. It’s awkward, but Louis assumes all first dates are. At least, that’s his experience. Louis forces a smile as he stirs his drink, trying to keep the conversation going, even though it feels like a struggle.
“So, what’s your plan after graduation? How much longer do you have in school?” he asks, trying to sound casual.
Carson leans back in his chair with a grin. “Oh, I’m pre-med, so undergrad, med school, residency, all that. Probably another decade of school. But, you know, that’s what it takes if you want to be at the top,” he says, casually flipping a hand like it’s no big deal.
Louis nods, trying to sound impressed, though part of him feels a little put off by the arrogance. “That’s a lot of school.”
“Yeah, it’s worth it, you know? But enough about me. What about you? What’s your major?”
“I’m early childhood education,” Louis says.
Louis notices Carson’s expression falter for a moment. His stomach sinks almost instantly. A smirk begins to tug at the corner of his lips as he gives Louis a once-over, the judgment unmistakable in his gaze.
“Oh,” Carson says, voice flat. “That’s… nice.”
Louis feels his stomach twist at the way Carson says it. It’s a comment that’s barely an acknowledgment—more of a dismissal.
“Yeah,” Louis says, his voice tightening as he forces a smile. “There’s a lot more to teaching than what you may think. It’s about building a foundation for kids, making sure they’re ready for the future.”
Carson laughs, but it’s not genuine. It’s the kind of laugh that makes Louis feel small. “Right,” he says with a casual wave of his hand. “I mean, you’re gonna spend all that time doing what? Teaching them to color inside the lines?”
Louis’ face heats up. “There’s a lot more to it than that,” he says, his patience running thin. “We teach them to think, to solve problems, to work together. It’s not just babysitting.”
Carson raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Sure, Louis. They’re just kids. Christ, most adults deal with them every day.”
“Teaching is different than raising,” Louis says shortly. “In fact, most teachers do both.”
Carson chuckles, clearly unfazed. “Still can’t imagine being babysitting a bunch of sticky-fingered terrors. Sounds like a nightmare.”
He takes a long sip of his drink, then leans forward slightly, his voice dropping. “Although… with a face like yours, I’m sure they don’t mind having you around.”
Louis stares at him. What?
He’s not naïve—he knows people sometimes reduce him to his appearance. But to hear it used as some twisted compliment about his career? It punches something hot and cold into his gut.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, voice low and sharp.
Carson just waves a hand like it’s nothing. “Relax. I’m just saying you’re the type. You’ve got the sweet, harmless thing going on. Pretty face, gentle voice, good with kids. Seems like a natural fit.”
Louis stiffens. He feels himself flush—not with embarrassment, but fury.
“I’m studying early childhood education because I actually give a shit,” he snaps. “It’s not just finger-painting and snack time. Kids need stability, attention, and people who believe in them. It’s real work. And I don’t need to be reduced to a pretty face while I’m doing it.”
Carson laughs, like Louis just told a joke. “God, lighten up. I said it was cute. You’re cute. Don’t take everything so seriously.”
Before Louis can retort, their food arrives, momentarily halting the conversation. Louis takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but his mind is racing with frustration.
“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” Carson says, standing up. He sends Louis a wink that is probably meant to be charming, but it just looks gross to Louis. “Just keep your pretty face here.”
Louis forces a smile. As soon as Carson disappears around the corner, he lets out a heavy sigh. He stares at the untouched plate in front of him and tries not to scream into it.
This date is actually worse than the last one.
Speaking of… Harry’s words echo in his mind: If you need me, just call me whenever. He knows it’s time to take Harry up on his offer.
Louis doesn’t bother replying. He knows Harry will come through without a second thought. So, he shoves most of his meal into his mouth—just enough to fill his stomach before his escape. He waves the waitress over, paying for his meal and tip so his getaway will be quick and easy.
When Carson walks back from the bathroom, Louis shoves his phone into his pocket and forces a strained smile. He settles back into his seat, his eyes immediately scanning Louis’ plate, now nearly empty from Louis’ hurried eating.
“I do hope you know that eating quickly does terrible things to your body,” Carson says, nose wrinkling slightly.
Louis’ blood boils. He fights the urge to lash out, but the words tumble out of his mouth anyway. “And I do hope you know that your ego does terrible things to your social skills.”
Before Carson can respond, Louis’ phone buzzes in his pocket. He grabs it instantly, sees Harry’s name lighting up, and answers the call with as much nonchalance as he can muster.
“Hello?” Louis says, feigning being little weary. Louis prides himself on being a good actor; after all, he was a theatre kid throughout all of high school.
“Hello, Lou,” Harry’s low, amused drawl comes through the phone, and Louis can hear the background noise of traffic, the hum of the engine. “What’s going on?”
Louis takes a deep breath, making his voice sound panicked. “What do you mean Niall fell down the stairs? Did he hit his head?”
Louis sends Carson his best wide-eyed, panicked look. Carson looks stricken and pale. Louis feels a burst of pride and smugness. At least he knows that his acting skills are still top-notch.
The phone crackles with Harry’s laughter. “Oh, this is low, even for you!”
“What do you mean his arm is at a weird angle?” Louis continues, his voice becoming slightly more shrill. “You should know better than to let him be drunk at the top of the stairs. Why did you call me and not bring him to urgent care?”
Harry scoffs on the other end of the line. “You’re so full of shit. This date better be the worst experience of your life.”
“I can’t believe this,” Louis says, his voice laced with feigned panic. "He could be in shock! You need to get him to the hospital, like, right now!” He pauses for a bit, listening to Harry’s snickers. “Okay, you’re on your way, good.”
“I’m three minutes away.”
Louis rubs his temple. “You said you need me there?”
“You’re lucky you’re a good actor,” Harry says. “Because based on your lying alone, I am extremely impressed he believes this.”
“Okay, okay, it’s a good thing I know his medical info,” Louis continues. “You’ll be here soon? Good, just make sure he remains calm; I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“You’re a mischievous little shit, Louis Tomlinson.”
It takes a considerable amount of effort not to let his mouth twitch or a chuckle escape his mouth, but Louis manages. He clicks off the phone, slides it back into his pocket with one swift motion, and stands up from the table.
“Well,” Louis says with a forced smile, addressing Carson like he’s nothing more than an afterthought now. “I’m afraid duty calls.” He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “By the way, I paid for my meal already. You know, being considerate of others, unlike some people.”
Carson opens his mouth, clearly about to protest, but Louis is already halfway out of the chair, grabbing his coat.
“I’d say I’d like to see you around, but I don’t want to lie.”
Without another word, Louis strides toward the door, the cool night air rushing to meet him. He inhales deeply, a wave of relief washing over him. Harry will be here in seconds, and he’ll finally escape this miserable date.
He steps out into the parking lot, positioning himself where Harry can pull up quickly. A moment later, he sees a black car coast to a stop by the curb, Harry’s head visible through the driver's side, fondly shaking his head.
Louis slides into the passenger seat, slamming the door a little harder than necessary, and immediately ignores Harry’s slow, sarcastic claps.
“I hate you so much,” Louis says, shooting him a piercing glare. “Drive.”
Harry scoffs and shifts into gear, nose wrinkling in amusement. “After I graciously saved you from your awful date? That’s the thanks I get?”
“You’re the one who set me up on said awful date!”
“Semantics,” Harry says, his voice teasing.
Louis tries to keep up the glare, but it cracks beneath the warm glow of Harry’s smile. The soft hum of the car, the passing blur of streetlights—it’s quiet in a way Louis doesn’t mind. Familiar. Safe.
“Didn’t go well, then?” Harry asks, already knowing the answer.
Louis huffs a bitter laugh. “He basically said I chose Early Childhood Ed so I could color and babysit for a living.”
“Yikes. What a dick.”
“And then he implied most of us do it to train for being housewives. And that my ‘pretty face’ would fit the part.”
Harry actually flinches. “Double yikes. I’m about to turn the car around and run him over.”
Louis slumps against the passenger door. “I thought you were supposed to be good at this.”
“In my defense, Carson basically asked you out through me. I didn’t handpick him.”
“But you didn’t say no either.”
“Okay, okay,” Harry says, holding up a hand. “He’s officially blacklisted. Do Not Recommend.”
Louis snorts despite himself. The tension in his shoulders eases, little by little, the further they get from the restaurant and the closer they get to their friends. He glances sideways at Harry, who’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the radio, his brow furrowed in quiet thought.
“I’ll find someone better,” Harry says quietly, like a promise. “Just because it didn’t work tonight doesn’t mean it won’t ever. We’ll figure it out.”
“‘We?’” Louis asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Of course,” Harry says, lips curving up again. “You think I’m giving up on you after a little failed date? You wound me.”
“Two failed dates.”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Harry says, his gaze returning towards the road.
Louis huffs out a laugh. He leans his head back against the seat, watching the street lamps flicker across the dashboard. Maybe Harry’s right, he thinks. Maybe it’s not just about finding someone—it’s about finding the right someone. Someone who doesn’t laugh at his degree, or treat him like a joke. Someone who sees him.
And maybe—just maybe—Harry’s the person who’ll help him find that. The thought settles in his chest, a little too comfortably. But before he can chase it down or name it for what it is, the car slows, and the familiar facade of his apartment building pulls into view.
When they walk into Zayn and Louis’ shared apartment, it’s already buzzing with noise. Zayn is curled up with Liam on the loveseat, their legs tangled together like always, while Niall is in the kitchen, munching from a bowl of dry cereal.
“There he is,” Niall says, grinning. “So how was this one? Love at first sight?”
Louis groans. “Don’t even,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.
Liam raises an eyebrow at Harry, who shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Wow. Has Cupid missed yet again?”
Louis slumps dramatically into the couch beside Zayn. “Seems like love just isn’t cut out for me,” he sighs.
Zayn flicks him lightly in the arm. “That’s what you get,” he says. “You judged me when I was matched with Liam. And look where you are now.”
Louis rolls his eyes and flops back into the cushions. “I was desperate.”
“And this is what desperation gets you,” Niall says.
Harry drops into the armchair with a heavy sigh, mirroring Louis’ earlier groan. “Okay, I get it. I fumbled.”
“You fumbled hard,” Liam says.
Louis’ chest tightens as his mind drifts back to the date. The memory feels raw, like the sting of judgment is still fresh. “He thought my degree was a joke,” Louis says, his voice quieter now, tinged with frustration.
The room falls silent for a moment, the laughter dying down. Zayn’s frown deepens. “Seriously?”
Harry looks guilty, looking like he might just curl into the couch cushions and disappear. “I’m sorry, Lou. I wouldn’t have sent you if I’d known—”
“I know,” Louis cuts in, softer now. “It’s not your fault he was a jackass.”
He says it lightly, but the words hang in the air, heavier than he intends.
“So how long did you spend at the date before you punched Carson in the face for being an asshole?” Niall asks, his voice breaking the tension in the room.
Harry bursts into snickers, but Louis shoots him a wide-eyed don’t-you-dare look.
“Oh, I didn’t exactly confront him,” Louis says quickly, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. “Just made a… little fib,” he adds, shrugging. “Nothing too bad. I told him it wasn’t working out for both of us, and I dipped. With Harry’s help, of course.”
“Yep, definitely,” Harry agrees, his grin far too wide to be convincing. “Just a little bit of help from me.”
Niall narrows his eyes suspiciously, but before he can say anything more, his phone buzzes. He pulls it out, scanning the screen with a raised eyebrow.
“You know what’s funny?” Niall says, frowning at his phone. “I just got a text from Carson. He’s asking if my arm’s okay. Apparently Louis left the date early because I broke it and he needed to go to the hospital to help me.”
Liam and Zayn dissolve into silent laughter, leaning against each other for support. Louis and Harry exchange a look, both trying to stifle their grins.
“Hey, Harry?” Louis says, turning to him with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “If you really want to make it up to me for setting me up on that disaster of a date, you could make my excuse come true.”
Harry cracks his knuckles dramatically, a grin spreading across his face. He stalks toward Niall like a predator on the hunt. Niall yelps, scrambling off the couch in an attempt to escape, but he’s quickly tackled to the rug. The two wrestle playfully on the floor, Harry relentlessly attacking Niall with tickles. Louis laughs so hard his sides ache, gasping for air between fits of giggles.
In the end, he can’t even remember the horrid date.
ᥫ᭡ •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅
October bleeds into November with the changing of the leaves’ colors, and Louis finds himself enduring a string of disastrous dates. Each one is somehow worse than the last—like Harry’s actively competing with himself to find the worst possible match. Louis knows he should be annoyed, but if anything, he’s kind of impressed. Mostly amused.
“Six dates,” he says, staring at the ceiling of Harry’s car. “Six actual train wrecks. Are you trying to ruin my love life?”
They’ve been parked outside Louis’ apartment building for hours, the sky dimming from dusky blue to deep navy. His date had been at noon, but somehow it’s nearly nine and he’s still here—curled up in the passenger seat, smiling fondly.
Harry grins, shrugging. “I said I would find the match—I never said they would go well.”
Each date is a disaster in its own way. There’s the guy who spends the whole date talking about his ex, a guy that tries to convince Louis to invest in Crypto, and the CrossFit addict who won’t eat without logging his macros. It should be discouraging, but Harry is always there afterward—no judgment, no hesitation. Just comfort, dumb jokes, and that smile that makes everything feel a little less awful.
What starts as post-date debriefs becomes a ritual: food, a quiet drive, a soft conversation in Harry’s car. They talk about nothing and everything. They laugh until their cheeks ache. Somehow, Louis always leaves feeling lighter than he did before.
Even with Louis juggling student teaching and Harry having two practices a day, they still find each other. They trade lines from Much Ado during class, share knowing glances when someone’s monologue gets too dramatic, and laugh about it later over late-night snacks.
And tonight is no different.
“I forgot!” he bursts out, cracking up again. “The data I went on today—there’s something even worse. He’s literally from fucking Vermont but he’s convinced he’s Southern or something.”
“Like Texas Southern or Georgia Southern?” Harry asks, licking the water ice around his spoon.
Louis tries not to focus on the way Harry's tongue swirls around the spoon, gathering the pina colada flavor. He closes his eyes, forcing his mind elsewhere—like dialects, of course.
“Does it matter?” Louis asks. “That’s not even the worst part! He didn’t call me by my name once the entire date. He called me sugar.”
Harry snickers, doubling over. “On the first date?”
“Yes!” Louis shouts. He leans back against his seat, swirling the half-melted water ice in his cup. He’s been talking so much he’s barely made a dent in it. “I have no idea where you’re finding these freaks, Harry, but I applaud you.”
Harry flushes, looking a bit sheepish. “They’re not all that bad! You’re just nitpicking.”
Louis pauses, letting Harry’s words sink in. Maybe he is being a little picky, but in all honesty, dating has always felt strange to him. How is he supposed to find the right person after just two awkward hours together? It’s never come naturally to him, even though Harry’s matchmaking seems to work for everyone else. Louis still dreams of the whirlwind friendship-turned-romance, but for now, he has to settle.
“Nah, you just found the worst guys possible for me,” he says, playing with his melting ice. “Weird preferences, egotistical freaks, bad nicknames…”
“Alright, maybe sugar is a little cringy. But there’s some cute pet names!”
“No, there’s not. You won’t catch me using pet names.”
“You call me Cupid.”
“Ah, ah, but pet names are terms of endearment,” Louis corrects. “When I call you Cupid, it’s not me being endeared by you; it’s me making fun of your terrible matchmaking skills.”
Harry gasps dramatically. “Rude.”
“True. There’s no good pet names.”
“Come on,” Harry protests. “Honey is cute!”
“What are you, a bear?” Louis retorts, kicking his foot out to nudge Harry’s arm. It’s a tight squeeze over the console, but he manages to land a soft kick. Harry rolls his eyes and easily knocks Louis’ foot aside.
“Sweetheart.”
“Sounds condescending.”
“Darling.”
“What are we, British?”
Harry pouts, leaning across the central console, resting his chin in his hand. “I’m starting to think you’re just not a romantic, dear.”
In truth, the endearments roll off Harry’s tongue in a way that seeps deep into Louis’ bones.
“It’s not that I’m not a romantic; I’m just not cringy,” Louis says. “Or maybe it’s worse coming from you. Your stupid slow drawl makes everything sound ten times more awful.”
“Aw, come on, baby, don’t be like that,” Harry says, drawing out the words.
The nickname shoots straight to Louis’ stomach, twisting his insides and making his heart flutter. He feels the heat rush to his cheeks and silently prays the dark outside is enough to hide how flustered he is.
But Harry notices. The overhead car lights catch Louis’ blush, painting his cheeks pink. Harry gasps, triumphant.
“Holy shit, you like being called baby,” Harry says, leaning in with a wide grin. He reaches out and tips Louis’ chin up, trying to force their eyes to meet, only making Louis’ face burn hotter.
“No, I don’t,” Louis mutters, half-heartedly pushing at Harry’s hand. Harry’s grip is firm, though still gentle, keeping Louis’ gaze locked to his.
Blue meets green, and Louis softens at the sight. Harry’s stupidly attractive—sharp jawline, dimples, bright green eyes. His wide smile and the way they’re pressed close in the car draw Louis’ gaze down to his plush, pink lips.
Harry looks caught, too, his eyes a little dazed as he takes Louis in. Louis makes a small, desperate noise, trying to shatter the moment.
“Then why are you blushing?” Harry teases after a beat, blinking back into focus.
“Because you’re embarrassing and I’m getting secondhand embarrassment from your stupid pet names,” Louis says, praying his voice doesn’t waver.
Harry raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? So this doesn’t affect you at all, baby.”
Another flip of Louis’ stomach. “Nope. Nothing at all.”
“Whatever you say, baby boy.”
“Okay, now you’re pushing it,” Louis scowls, finally wrenching himself free. His water ice has melted into sugary slush, so he downs the rest of it, hoping the cold will shock him out of whatever weird thing he’s feeling right now. “It’s getting late anyway. You’ve got practice tomorrow. I’m not keeping you up.”
Harry glances at the time and blinks, like he’s just now realizing how late it is. Louis hadn’t noticed either.
“I’ll walk you in,” Harry says, hopping out of the car.
Louis stretches to grab the take-out bag of garlic knots he brought home for Zayn—because he’s a good friend—and is about to open his door when Harry beats him to it. He swings it open with an overly dramatic bow, offering his hand like a royal footman.
“How gentlemanly of you,” Louis snarks, but there’s another odd tug in his chest. Harry flushes and winks in reply.
Despite Louis’ protests, Harry insists on walking him to his front door. Louis rolls his eyes fondly and gives Harry a lazy wave as he walks off down the hall. With the take-out bag tucked under his arm, Louis pushes open his door.
“Honey, I’m home!” he sing-songs, shedding his jacket and toeing off his shoes.
He turns the corner and spots Zayn at the dining table, a canvas propped in front of him. Zayn doesn’t even look up.
“You’re late,” Zayn says.
Louis rolls his eyes. “Sorry, mom. You have my location.”
Zayn scoffs. “So, who was the lucky guy?”
Louis blinks. “Oh… his name was Baxter, or Gavin—something like that,” he says dismissively, waving his hand in the air.
Zayn’s brows draw together. “Those names are nothing alike.”
“They were in the same frat or had the same major, I think,” Louis mutters, giving a half-hearted shrug. Zayn’s gaze sharpens on him. “I’m pretty sure I went on dates with both of them. I just can’t remember which one.”
“You don’t remember which one they were,” Zayn says slowly.
“Are you calling me a whore?”
“A whore shouldn’t be a virgin,” Zayn retorts. “More like a serial dater.”
“Wow, okay, so you hate me,” Louis says. He throws the take-out bag on the coffee table and slides it over to Zayn. “I got you garlic knots from that Italian place on Main, by the way. Since I am a good friend and I know they’re your favorite.”
Zayn arches a brow. “I thought this match was a coffee date.”
“Yeah, it was,” Louis says, nonchalantly. “But Harry and I grabbed dinner after.”
“Wait—hold up,” Zayn says, holding his hand up. “Your coffee date was at noon.”
Louis nods slowly.
“It’s nine thirty.”
Louis looks at the clock, confirming the time, and then outside at the dark night sky. He nods.
Zayn stares at him, dumbfounded. “You’re telling me you went on a first date with some guy, and then had dinner with Harry?”
It was actually a movie, followed by dinner, and then water ice, but Louis figures it’s better to keep that to himself.
“Perhaps,” he replies, looking away.
Zayn fishmouths at him, seemingly lost for words. “You—Har—” He lets out a long groan, standing up from his seat. “Liam was right. You’re impossible.”
Louis frowns, brow furrowing. “What do you mean, ‘Liam was right?’” he calls after him.
Zayn just shakes his head, waving him off with a dismissive gesture. Louis watches him retreat, confusion creeping in. With a sigh, he shrugs it off, reaching for the garlic knots Zayn had left behind. Zayn and Liam have been acting weird around him lately anyway.
ᥫ᭡ •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅
“I have had a dream—past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Man is but an ass if he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was—there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had—but man is but a patched fool if he will offer to say what methought—Louis, I swear, this is complete gibberish.”
Louis hums, distracted, his fingers drifting lazily through Harry’s curls. They’re stretched out on the grass in the courtyard, even though autumn’s definitely settled in by now. Harry’s head is tucked into Louis’ lap, the copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream balanced on his chest.
“You have no future in theatre,” Louis says lightly. “Your delivery is painful.”
Harry snorts. “Then you read it.”
“You’re the one who insisted on this position. Keep going, drama queen.”
Harry groans but obeys, eyes flicking down the page. “The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream. It shall be called ‘Bottom’s—’”
He breaks off midline, dissolving into laughter.
Louis swats Harry on the shoulder, but it only makes the other boy double over in his lap, pressing his face into Louis’ jeans. “Stop laughing every time you see the word bottom!” he exclaims, but Harry’s laughter is infectious, and he finds himself giggling as well.
“Fine, fine,” Harry says between breaths, adjusting the book and resettling his head. “It shall be called ‘Bottom’s Dream’ because it hath no bottom.” He chokes out the line, barely holding back another fit.
Louis rolls his eyes. “Deeply profound.”
“What do you think it means?” Harry asks.
“That sometimes I think that you major in swimming instead of psychology.”
Harry lets out an indignant squawk, but it only sparks another round of contagious laughter. They fall into an easy rhythm—arguing, teasing, the kind of playful back-and-forth that feels like second nature.
Eventually, the chatter fades, and they settle into a comfortable silence, the kind that bends time, making everything around them feel distant. The sun dips below the buildings, casting long shadows across the courtyard as it empties out. A chill breeze stirs the air, and Louis shivers before he can stop it.
Harry notices. He always does.
“Hey,” he murmurs, nudging Louis’ leg. “You’re freezing. Come to Swim House. Just for a bit.”
Louis hesitates. “I’ve got grading.”
Harry gives him a look. “Grading you’ll ignore until midnight anyway. You can finish mocking me from the comfort of my bed.”
Louis huffs. “Your bed’s dangerous. I’ll fall asleep in ten minutes.”
“But it’s warmer than your bony lap.”
Another gust of wind curls around them, and Louis instinctively hugs his arms around himself.
“Fine,” he mutters, letting Harry get up from his lap. He shivers again—from the loss of the warmth, definitely not the loss of Harry’s touch. He takes Harry’s hand, letting himself get pulled up. “But I’m leaving before midnight.”
Harry grins. “Deal.”
They walk side by side, the Swim House closer than Louis’ place. Campus is thinning out, but Louis barely registers the other students. His world shrinks to the space between him and Harry—filled with laughter and half-finished thoughts and the sound of sneakers on pavement.
“Almost forgot!” Harry snaps his fingers. “I found your next match.”
Louis raises a brow. “Already? It’s been, what, five days? Do you have a master list of every gay guy at UVA?”
Harry rolls his eyes, unfazed. “I’m just doing my job here.”
“Fine, fine. Give me the pitch.”
“His name’s Matt Porter—he’s a wildlife and ecology major, working part-time at the zoo. Super nice guy. We lived on the same floor freshman year, and now he’s an RA.”
Immediately, Louis starts brainstorming excuses for why this date will crash and burn. Being an RA means Matt’s probably busy all the time, always surrounded by eighteen-year-olds. Sounds like an easy bust—an excuse to ditch the date and go back to hanging out with Harry, laughing about Matt’s weird habits.
He mentally slaps himself. He doesn’t even know the guy yet. No need to sabotage it before it starts.
“He saw your picture. He’s down to meet up,” Harry continues, too chipper, like he’s practiced it. “Said you two could grab brunch this Saturday.”
Louis frowns. “Isn’t that during your meet?”
Harry glances over, surprised. “You know when my meet is?”
Louis flushes, suddenly self-conscious. He’s memorized Harry’s swim schedule without meaning to, but meets don’t come up often in their conversations. Harry knows Louis doesn’t do sporting events. No parties either. They’ve always just hung out around it, and it’s worked.
But swimming is Harry’s future. So, he looked it up.
“Well, yeah,” Louis says. “North Carolina’s a rival. I wanna support you in any way… if you want me there.”
When he finally looks up, Harry is beaming, his green eyes practically glowing.
“Of course I want you there! Zayn’s coming too, so you can sit with him.” He’s already rambling, excitement bubbling over. “God, I should’ve prepped you. Swimming’s not that hard to get though. Honestly, you’ll be fine.”
Louis laughs at how fast he’s talking, shaking his head.
“Oh!” Harry exclaims, a smile creeping on his face. “You’re coming to the mixer after, too.”
Louis groans, dragging his feet. “I never agreed to that.”
“Ah, but you said you’d support me in any way,” Harry says smugly, his dimples deepening. “Too late, baby. You’re coming.”
That’s another new thing—Harry calling him baby. It started as a joke, a way to make Louis blush and squirm, but lately it’s slipped into their conversations naturally. Louis complains every time, but if he’s honest, he secretly loves it.
By the time they get to the Swim House, the sun’s already set. A month ago, Louis would’ve sworn he’d never step foot inside a frat house, much less a sports house. Now, he actually likes coming here. The team is friendly, the whole place smells like chlorine but feels lived-in, warm—and Harry’s here. That makes all the difference.
They wave to Harry’s teammates when they walk in. Most barely glance up—Louis isn’t new anymore. He’s just… part of it now. A few of them nudge each other, grinning like idiots, but Louis ignores it. They’re probably just teasing Harry for always dragging a guy upstairs.
Harry’s room is at the very top of the house, which means three brutal flights of stairs, but it’s worth it. He has the biggest room, with windows overlooking the street and the other sports houses. Medals and swim gear are scattered everywhere, fairy lights strung across the walls, pictures of his family and teammates clipped to the wires.
His bed is huge, soft, and practically swallows anyone who lies on it. Louis knows. He’s spent enough nights stretched out across it, Harry laughing at how he starfishes across the entire thing.
Harry tosses Louis a change of clothes—plaid pajama pants in UVA orange and navy, and one of his old high school t-shirts. He’s a stickler about outside clothes on the bed, but Louis doesn’t mind. In fact, he kind of likes it—slipping into something that smells like Harry, curling up in a space that always feels a little like home.
Louis wraps himself in Harry’s throw blanket, shivering when a breeze sneaks through the cracked window.
“Haz, I’m still cold,” he whines, his voice muffled.
“That’s why you need to wear more layers,” Harry says, rummaging through his closet. After a couple more moments of digging, he turns around, triumphant, and tosses a hoodie over to Louis. “Here, wear this.”
It’s a navy blue sweatshirt, the UVA logo stamped wide across the chest, the words SWIMMING AND DIVING printed beneath it. Louis flips it around and sees STYLES spelled out in bold orange across the back.
Something tightens in his chest, a feeling that tugs and twists at his ribs. He pulls the sweatshirt over his head, the fabric warm and soft, the scent unmistakably Harry. Wearing Harry’s name feels almost like a claim—but Louis doesn’t really mind.
“I’m practically swimming in this,” Louis says, fighting with the sleeves until his hands finally poke through.
“Ha. Swimming.”
Louis sends him an unamused look. “I look like a little kid.”
“I think you look great,” Harry says easily, his grin widening. “You should keep it—you need something to wear to support me on Saturday.”
Louis’ brow furrows. “Don’t you need it to rep the team?”
Harry waves him off. “Nah, we have to wear the quarter-zips for home meets anyway. Besides…” His smile softens. “It looks better on you.”
Louis’ cheeks burn at the idea of showing up at the swim meet, sitting with UVA’s fans, wearing Harry’s hoodie like some proud, supportive boyfriend. That’s not what they are. They’re just friends. Still, the image lingers, warm and fluttering in his chest.
He’s about to protest, but the words die when Harry starts unbuttoning his flannel. Louis’ gaze betrays him, helplessly tracing the ink down Harry’s toned arms, the way his muscles flex as he switches into a plain t-shirt. His face burns. He looks away, cursing himself.
It’s normal to notice Harry’s good looks. Totally normal—he’s an athlete, young, and attractive. But the odd ache in Louis’ stomach doesn’t feel normal at all.
“Why don’t you have a boyfriend? Or girlfriend?” Louis blurts, the question escaping before he can reel it back. “You’d be a great boyfriend.”
Harry stills. For a split second, something unreadable flickers across his face. Then it's gone as quickly as it appeared—his expression sliding back into neutral.
“Not really in the mood to date anyone else right now,” he says quietly, his eyes focused on the floor.
Louis wants to ask more—to pry, to understand—but his gut twists. Maybe he doesn’t want the answer. So instead, he just nods, curling deeper into Harry’s hoodie, the fabric swallowing him up.
Harry offers a small smile and breaks the silence. “Anyway, I’ve got the matchmaking thing. I like helping other people find love. Don’t worry—your turn’s coming soon.”
Louis groans dramatically. “I’m unlovable, Haz.” He buries his face into the hoodie’s collar. “You had a perfect track record before I showed up. Ten dates! And not one match. Face it—I’m hopeless.”
Harry chuckles, tugging the hoodie down to reveal Louis’ sulking face. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Lou.”
“Then why haven’t you given up on me? I’m ruining your stats. Killing your matchmaking credibility.”
“You’re my favorite lost cause,” Harry says with a grin, flicking Louis on the nose.
Louis scrunches his face and bats Harry’s hand away. Harry climbs onto the bed, nudging Louis aside to make room. Even though the mattress is plenty big, they still end up close—shoulders brushing, knees bumping.
“Are we still reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream?” Louis asks, yawning into the hoodie sleeve, his voice soft with sleep.
Harry groans. “Please don’t make me butcher more Shakespeare tonight.”
“Oh, come on. You stumbling through the lines is half the fun,” Louis teases. He leans down, half off the bed, to grab the book from the floor. “I’ll read it. I’m way better at Hermia, anyway.”
“You sure you’ll stay awake?” Harry asks, one brow raised.
Louis lifts his head just enough to glare with half-lidded eyes. “Only sleepy because your bed’s unfairly comfy.”
Harry takes the book and tosses it onto the nightstand, scooting closer until their sides are pressed together. Though Harry radiates warmth like a human heater, Louis still shivers slightly at the contact.
“We can still go over it,” he says, scrolling through the streaming services on his TV. “The 1999 movie is pretty good!”
Louis frowns, yawning. “We gotta read the full play first. We’re barely through Act Four.”
“Lou, you’re gonna pass out before we even get to where we left off,” Harry laughs.
Louis scowls. “Just for that, I’m gonna watch the entire movie,” he huffs, tilting his head until it rests against Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s broader frame makes for a perfect pillow.
Harry rolls his eyes fondly and shifts to get them both more comfortable. As the movie plays, Louis feels his eyelids grow heavier, sleep tugging insistently at his mind. Somewhere along the way, they both slide down the bed until they’re lying side by side, Louis half on top of Harry, his cheek pressed against the taller boy’s chest.
He tries to fight it, tries to stay awake just to prove Harry wrong, but the combination of the soft bed, Harry’s warmth, and the steady rhythm of his breathing lulls him closer to sleep.
Louis yawns again, blinking slowly. On screen, the four lovers chase each other through the woods, their Shakespearean dialogue turning to mush in his ears.
“You can sleep now, Lou,” Harry murmurs, rubbing gentle circles through Louis’ sweatshirt-covered shoulder. “You don’t have class till noon. I’ve gotta be up early for practice, but you’re welcome to stay.”
“No,” Louis whines, shaking his head against Harry’s chest. “Gotta finish. Just ‘cause you said I couldn’t.”
Harry chuckles. “Okay, baby. How about you close your eyes for a bit first? Just a little break.”
“Hmm… fine. But m’gonna prove you wrong,” Louis mumbles, pressing his face deeper into Harry’s sweatshirt, breathing in the comforting mix of sandalwood and chlorine. As Harry slings an arm over his back, holding him securely, Louis snuggles closer. “In a second though,” he adds faintly. “Just gonna rest m’eyes.”
“Go ahead, you do that,” Harry says, his voice teasing, his fingers threading through Louis’ hair in slow, soothing strokes. Louis really does mean to stay awake, but the gentle touches and Harry’s steady heartbeat lull him into sleep within minutes.
The movie becomes background noise, distant and fuzzy compared to the warmth wrapped around him.
“You are so gone,” a voice drifts from the doorway. Liam, Louis thinks distantly. That’s odd. Why is Liam in his dream when Zayn isn’t?
“Mmm,” Louis murmurs, burrowing deeper into Harry’s sweatshirt. Sleep tugs at him again, soft and insistent, pulling him under.
Harry makes a quiet shushing noise. The bed shifts slightly, but Louis feels a hand return to his hair, calming him. “He’s exhausted,” he says in a hushed voice. “Don’t wake him.”
Louis barely stirs. Wrapped around Harry like a koala, his head using Harry’s chest as a pillow, he lets the slow, rhythmic strokes through his hair pull him back to sleep.
ᥫ᭡ •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅
Friday comes faster than Louis expects, and before he knows it, he’s sitting across from Matt at a cozy restaurant off-campus, trying to summon his usual mental checklist of red flags. Normally, he’d be waiting out the awkward small talk, counting the minutes until he could text Harry after—except he can’t today, because Harry’s currently wrapped up in pre-meet prep with his team.
That fact alone leaves Louis feeling a little off. These dates are easier to stomach when he knows he’ll get to laugh about them with Harry afterward—replaying every weird moment, every awkward pause, until they both end up in stitches. That post-date ritual has always made the worst dates bearable.
But Matt… isn’t bad.
In fact, he’s the opposite.
He’s warm and easy to talk to, a cute guy who genuinely lights up when he talks about animals. He asks thoughtful questions and listens in a way that feels rare. They discover shared interests—films, music, random fun facts about penguins. It’s almost too easy. Louis keeps waiting for the catch, keeps pushing to find something that’ll make this feel like all the other doomed setups.
Except, it never comes.
Matt asks him at the end of the night if he’d want to go out again sometime. And for a moment, Louis hesitates. Because everything about the evening has gone well. Matt is kind, funny, genuinely interested in him. There’s no awkward silences, no forced laughter. On paper, it’s perfect.
But Louis’ mind keeps drifting.
To Harry.
To how he’d normally be rushing to meet up with him right now, half-laughing, half-complaining about how bad the date was. To how he’s spent the whole night missing that part more than anything else.
So he turns Matt down.
Matt is gracious about it—kind and understanding, even as Louis fumbles through the “it’s not you” speech—and Louis hates how he can’t quite explain why he said no.
Later that night, lying in bed and staring at his ceiling, he finally texts Harry.
The typing bubbles appear. Disappear. Reappear. Then vanish completely.
Louis stares at the screen, frustrated by how the silence feels heavier than it should.
Louis bites his lip, eyes scanning the message like it’s a puzzle with a hidden meaning. He wishes he could see Harry’s face, hear his voice—anything to help him decode what he’s really thinking.
With a sigh, he gives up on overanalyzing and relents.
ᥫ᭡ •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅
In Louis’ three years at UVA, he hasn’t been to a single sports event. He’s never been one for athletics, and though UVA is known for its teams—the Hoos and all that—he’s never felt too bad about skipping out.
But today is different.
He practically bounces on his feet as he walks into the Fitness Center for the swim meet, peppering Zayn with questions about swimming while Niall tries not to laugh at Zayn’s increasing annoyance.
“Never thought I’d see the day you guys go to a sporting event,” Niall says, shaking his head. “Let alone be excited about it!”
“More like he’s excited about it,” Zayn grumbles, elbowing Louis in the ribs.
“But you’ve been to meets before,” Louis whines, clinging to Zayn’s arm. “I don’t want to look clueless! I want to impress Harry—to look like I know what I’m talking about.”
“It’s not hard,” Zayn says. “Four ways to swim across the pool, different distances, and if you mess up the stroke, you get disqualified. Fastest swimmer wins.”
“That can’t be all,” Louis says, glancing at Niall for backup. “Right?”
Niall laughs. “Track and swimming are pretty straightforward. You’d know that if you bothered to show up to my track meets.”
“That’s nice,” Louis says. “I would’ve shown up if I knew it was that easy.”
Niall snorts as they step into the bleachers area. The humid heat of the indoor pool hits them immediately, the air thick with chlorine and the sharp echoes of talking and splashing. They weave past a mix of students and proud parents, eventually finding seats in the middle section—close enough to have a good view but far enough from the chaos of the front row.
“Maybe you, Louis, but we all know Zayn’s only here for his boyfriend,” Niall says, grinning as he pokes Zayn in the chest—right over the stitched PAYNE.
Zayn rolls his eyes, tugging the UVA Swim & Dive hoodie tighter, though he doesn’t bother to hide the name. “Why are you teasing me when Louis is wearing Harry’s gear too?”
Louis flushes. He’s wearing the UVA sweatshirt Harry gave him a few days ago, complete with STYLES printed boldly across the back. Harry had texted him multiple times to make sure he wore it. Louis had played it off like it was annoying, but secretly, he loves the way it smells faintly of chlorine and how the sleeves hang over his hands.
“Harry told me to,” Louis says.
Niall groans. “Of course he did.”
“Absolutely hopeless,” Zayn mutters under his breath.
Louis ignores them, scanning the pool deck for Harry. Thankfully, Harry’s tattoos make him easy to spot, even in the sea of swimmers dressed identically in navy suits and caps. From up in the stands, he’s just a blur, but Louis still recognizes the way his muscles ripple as he leans down to stretch before his event.
The meet begins, and to Louis’ surprise, it’s actually… fun. He enjoys watching the swimmers, the energy of the crowd, the tension before each race. Eventually, the scoreboard lights up: Men’s 200 Breaststroke – Lane 5 – Styles, H. Louis leans forward.
Right before the race starts, Harry looks up—directly at Louis—as if he’s known where he was the entire time. They haven’t made eye contact once all meet, but somehow, Harry finds him effortlessly. Louis grins and gives him a thumbs-up. Harry’s expression is unreadable behind his goggles, but he nods, focused and steady as he climbs onto the block.
The starting beep echoes, and Harry dives in cleanly. Every stroke is powerful, his muscles slicing through the water with smooth precision. Breaststroke looks inefficient compared to the other strokes—like a frog—but Harry makes it look easy. He stays ahead the entire time, a full body length in front, never letting up. The energy in the stands shifts; people start cheering louder, more intensely.
When Harry touches the wall first, the crowd erupts.
Louis is on his feet in an instant, clapping wildly—not because he knows anything about swimming, but because he’s proud.
“You know how good that is?” Niall yells into his ear, barely audible over the noise.
Louis blinks. “He won?”
Niall laughs. “He qualified for Olympic Trials. That’s the fourth event he qualified in!”
Louis’ eyes widen. “Really?”
He looks down again, heart fluttering. Harry’s already staring back at him, chest heaving, eyes locked on Louis despite the distance. Louis gives him another thumbs-up, grinning wide.
Harry beams back, returning the gesture.
Warmth blooms in Louis’ chest. Something soft, something giddy. He watches as Harry turns to his coach, the moment stretching like something just theirs.
The rest of the meet flies by. Louis doesn’t know how UNC is even considered a rival—UVA destroys them in nearly every event. Harry doesn’t get more best times, but he wins nearly everything he swims, and every time he looks up at the stands, Louis is ready with a grin.
They don’t need words. Not now. Every look says it all.
Louis is proud. And Harry knows it.
The meet ends in a flurry of damp hugs, cheers, and team cooldowns. The swimmers filter off toward the locker rooms and post-meet obligations, and Louis gives Harry one last smile before slipping out with Zayn and Niall.
They’ve got hours before the party. The mixer isn’t until later that night, and Louis knows Harry will be tied up with team stuff until then anyway. So they head back to the apartment, the adrenaline from the meet fading into something looser, sleepier. Zayn crashes on the couch with his phone, mumbling about how he’ll get ready eventually, and Louis disappears into his room, where he opens his closet to get ready.
He changes twice. Spends way too long deciding between two shirts that are basically the same. Fixes his hair, messes it up, then fixes it again. He pregames with Zayn and Niall, taking shot after shot, trying to drown the nerves buzzing in his stomach. It’s stupid, he tells himself. Just a party. Just the Swim House.
But still—he wants to look good. He wants to feel good.
Even though Louis has been to the Swim House more times than he can count, tonight feels different. He’s never been to a proper swim mixer—not like this. Not when Harry just qualified for the Olympic Trials. Not when everything feels a little more electric.
The house is already pulsing when they get there. Music shakes the walls. Laughter spills out through the windows. People are everywhere—spilling through the halls, yelling over the music, pressing close just to pass.
“Gonna get drinks,” Niall shouts over the noise, already disappearing toward the kitchen.
“I’m gonna find Liam,” Zayn adds, and vanishes a second later.
Normally, Louis would be pissed at being ditched this fast. But he doesn’t mind—not tonight. Because Harry’s here somewhere.
He asks a swimmer where he is—carefully steering clear of Carson, who, as far as Louis could tell, barely swam today—and is pointed toward the basement.
Louis descends into the basement, and the change hits like a wave. The air is hot and sticky, thick with the sour-sweet tang of spilled drinks and sweat. Music throbs through the floorboards, basslines vibrating underneath his feet. Colored lights strobe in the dark room. People press in from all sides—dancing, shouting, swaying like the whole world is tilting off its axis.
It’s chaos. It’s a lot.
And then he sees Harry.
He’s standing across the room, radiant in a way that has nothing to do with the lights. His curls are damp, curling wild around his forehead, and his t-shirt clings to him like a second skin. There’s a flush across his cheeks, a shine to his eyes that’s half-drunk, half-electric. He’s practically glowing, a Solo cup dangling from one hand as he laughs, lips parted, dimples flashing.
People orbit him—boys, girls, everyone drawn into his gravity. They lean in close, hanging on his every word, and for a second, Louis just watches.
A flicker of something sour coils in his gut. Jealousy.
It’s sharp and immediate, biting in a way that makes him grit his teeth. Of course people want to be near Harry tonight. He just qualified for the Olympic Trials. He deserves this—this light, this joy, this attention.
Louis is proud of him. Genuinely. But still, some selfish, aching part of him wants to bottle this version of Harry—the flushed cheeks, the wide grin, the bright eyes—and keep him for himself. Let the world cheer for the athlete, but let Louis keep the boy.
He exhales, forces the tightness from his chest like pushing down a rising tide. He needs to stop being ridiculous.
But then—Harry sees him.
The second their eyes meet, Harry lights up. His whole body shifts, smile blooming so fast and wide it’s almost startling. His gaze locks on Louis like he’s the only person in the room.
“Louis!” Harry’s voice is loud over the music, and he pries himself away from whoever was trying to have a conversation with him. He’s drenched in sweat from the heat of the basement, eyes hazy with alcohol—but he’s glowing. So genuinely, stupidly happy that every ounce of Louis’ earlier jealousy and irritation dissolves in an instant.
Harry bounces over, red solo cup in hand, sloshing liquid as he nearly tackles Louis in a hug. His arms squeeze tight, knocking the breath right out of Louis’ lungs.
“You’re excited,” Louis laughs, tugging gently at Harry’s damp curls, knowing exactly how he likes it. Harry melts into the touch, sighing with drunken contentment, breath warm and sharp with liquor. He buries his face in Louis’ neck, lips nearly brushing his jugular, and Louis tries to ignore the way his stomach twists.
“Good job today, Haz,” he says. For some reason, his throat feels unbearably dry.
“Thanks, Lou.” Harry pulls back, his grin wide and sloppy, dimples carved deep into flushed cheeks. “All thanks to you.”
Louis shakes his head. “You were the one swimming.”
“But you were there,” Harry insists, voice slurred but oddly firm. “You were there.”
He leans in and plants a sloppy kiss on Louis’ cheek, making him freeze. Louis’ stomach flips, heat rushing up his spine and blooming across his chest. He tells himself it’s just the alcohol, just the heat—once, then again—but it doesn’t help.
Harry grabs his hand, dragging him toward the speakers. “Wanna dance, Louis! Wanna dance with my Louis!”
There’s no way Louis can say no to that.
The bass thrums through the floor, the air thick with heat and sweat, but all Louis can feel is Harry. People stare—boys, girls, everyone watching Harry like they wish it were them—but Harry doesn’t look at anyone else. His focus is singular, locked entirely on Louis like he’s the only person in the room. He dances close, wild and clingy, disappearing for drinks but always coming back, grabbing Louis’ hand like he might float away.
Like letting go isn’t an option.
For what feels like hours or maybe minutes, Harry doesn’t leave his side, yelling lyrics, spinning them in sloppy circles. It’s not until he spots Liam across the room, arms wrapped around Zayn, that Harry lights up again.
“Lee!” Harry exclaims, briefly letting go of Louis to plant a wet kiss on Liam’s cheek. It seems like Harry does that to everyone, because Liam doesn’t seem that fazed. “You know how great you are? You’re so great, Lee. You too, Zayn.”
Liam wipes his cheek with a grimace. “Thanks, man.”
“You know who else is great?” Harry says, stumbling back to Louis and flinging an arm over his shoulders. Louis staggers under the weight. “Louis is great! Did I tell you how great Louis is?”
Zayn presses his lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.
“You tell us that a lot,” Liam says, making Louis’ brow furrow.
Harry pouts, his cheeks puffing out. “I don’t think I tell Louis enough.” He turns to Louis, swaying. “Louis, you’re really great.”
“Thanks, Haz.” Louis’ heart stutters in his chest. He laughs, shaky.
“Sorry,” Liam says. “He’s like this when he’s drunk.”
Harry plants another kiss on Louis’ cheek. Louis doesn’t stop him—but he does yank his cup out of reach when Harry reaches for it. “I think you’ve had enough.”
Harry doesn’t argue. He just snuggles into Louis’ neck with a sigh, soft and content. Across from them, Liam and Zayn exchange a look that Louis pretends not to notice.
“I should get him to bed,” Louis says to break the moment.
“Good luck with that,” Liam chuckles.
Turns out Harry’s an extremely affectionate drunk. It takes them thirty full minutes to make it to the stairs because Harry insists on giving a cheek kiss to every teammate in sight. Each time, Louis bristles. He’s not sure what it is, but something tight in his chest coils every time someone laughs and leans into Harry’s touch. But Louis can’t stay annoyed. Not when, after every kiss, Harry stumbles back to him like he’s tethered there, looping his arms around Louis’ waist and whispering, “You’re still my favorite.”
Eventually, Louis gets him up the stairs—mostly by hauling him like dead weight. Harry’s not helping. He’s more focused on kissing Louis’ jawline and giggling into his neck.
“You’re so great, Lou.”
“You’ve said that a hundred times.”
“But not enough.”
Once inside of Harry’s room, Louis helps Harry sit on the edge of his bed, his hands steady as he tugs Harry's shoes off, but Harry is having none of it. Every time Louis tries to take off a piece of clothing, Harry tries to interlock their fingers. It’s adorable, really, but it makes the task quite difficult. Finally, Harry stops to cradle Louis’ face in his hands, blinking up at him in an almost dazed admiration.
“Your blues,” Harry slurs, his voice slow and heavy. He brings his hands up to stroke Louis’ cheekbones. “They’re so blue.”
Louis blinks. “My what?”
Harry gestures with his fingers again, nearly jabbing Louis in the eye.
It takes a moment for Louis to figure out what he means. “Do you mean my eyes?”
Harry pouts. “No,” he says, “your blues. Like the ocean.”
Louis shakes his head, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “Oh, right,” he says, trying but failing to suppress his smile. “You’re saying my eyes are like the ocean?”
“Yeah.” Harry nods. “They're, like… deep. I could drown in ’em, Lou. Like… the ocean. So blue.” He sighs dreamily, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment, and then opens them again to gaze up at Louis as if he’s seeing him for the first time. “So perfect.”
The words make Louis’ heart stutter, his breath caught in his throat. It’s a feeling he has been getting a lot around Harry lately, but now, with Harry in front of him looking at him like he’s the best thing that has ever happened, it feels exemplified. He gently pulls Harry’s hands off of his face and helps him out of his jeans.
He tries not to let his mind stray too far as he helps Harry lie down and pulls the covers over his body, brushing the sweaty curls off of his forehead. Harry melts into the touch, his eyes fluttering as Louis’ fingers stroke his hair.
“You're a mess,” Louis mutters, though there's a softness to his tone.
Harry giggles, his fingers reaching out to play with the sleeve of Louis’ shirt, clearly unaware of how much he's affecting him. “You’re so nice, Lou,” Harry says, looking up at him with affectionate, half-lidded eyes. “You always help people. You’re always there, even when you don't have to be. I don't know anyone like you. You’re… too good to be real.”
Louis swallows, his heart pounding. “You’ve had a bit too much to drink,” he says gently, brushing a lock of hair from Harry’s forehead.
But Harry just shakes his head, his lips curling up into a soft, sleepy smile. “No, I’m just… just being honest. You’re perfect. You’re so cute, so nice, I can’t even… I don’t even know how you exist in the same world as me.”
“You’re great too, Haz,” Louis says, a fond smile curling at his lips.
Harry leans forward, wrapping his arms loosely around Louis’ waist. “Love you, Lou. You’re the best. I don’t tell you enough, but you’re the best.”
The words hit Louis harder than anything. His breath catches in his throat, and for a moment, he’s frozen, unsure how to respond. He watches as Harry slips into sleep, a soft smile on his lips, still clutching Louis’ hand, their fingers interlocked.
Louis stays there for a moment, frozen, as Harry’s steady breathing fills the silence. His fingers are still intertwined with Harry’s, the warmth of his hand the only thing grounding him. He watches the rise and fall of Harry’s chest, his lips curved in that soft, peaceful smile. Even in sleep, Harry looks so playful and at peace, and it makes something in Louis’ chest tighten—a feeling he hasn’t been able to shake all night.
Carefully, Louis untangles his fingers, making sure not to wake him, then pulls the covers up, tucking Harry in more snugly. He’s about to leave when he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.
For a moment, he just watches Harry. He always knew Harry was attractive, but now, there’s something else. His lips are plush and slightly parted, and Louis gets the odd urge to want to kiss them. A warm feeling settles in Louis’ stomach, tugging at his heart and taking his breath away.
He’s been falling for Harry the whole time.
Despite all the dates, the matches, and the people he tried to connect with, none of them ever felt like this. None of them made him feel this alive.
How could Louis be so blind?
Louis steps into the hallway, gently closing the door behind him. He leans back against the wood, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
All this time, he’d gone on date after date, waiting for that click. Now, he feels it—the overwhelming sense of home that always comes when Harry’s around. It’s been there all along.
ᥫ᭡ •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅
Everything feels lighter now after Louis’ realization.
It’s been a week since the swim mixer—a week of quietly watching Harry, taking in all the little things that make him Harry. Louis is pretty sure Harry’s too drunk to remember the events of that night, but that’s fine. It’s almost like nothing changed.
Except everything has.
Now Louis notices things.
The brush of their fingers when Harry hands him coffee before class. The way his comebacks are quick and clever, but never mean—always helpful. His kindness, not just to Louis but to everyone. The way he listens, really listens, when Louis rambles about nonsense. The faint scent of chlorine that clings to him. The crease between his brows when he’s frustrated. And that smile—the one with the dimples, the one everyone calls the Louis smile. Louis gets it now. It is different. It’s his.
And suddenly, he sees it for what it is. This isn’t new. He’s been falling for Harry Styles for a while. He just didn’t realize it—until now.
And he needs Zayn’s help.
“Zayn, I need your advice—oh, sorry,” Louis says, stepping into his apartment without knocking. He freezes when he takes in the sight in front of him.
Liam is on top of Zayn, both of them breathless, tangled up in each other on the couch. It's been a while since Louis walked in on them—he’s usually with Harry. That realization makes something twist uncomfortably in his stomach.
At the sound of Louis’ voice, the two scramble apart, both of them trying to regain their composure. Liam looks more flustered than Zayn, whose face is unreadable but not surprised.
“Well, you haven’t barged in on us in a while,” Zayn says, his voice dry, as he watches Liam rush to fix his hair, his cheeks flushed.
“Sorry,” Louis says, but in all honesty, he doesn’t really care. He plops down on the couch, brushing a hand through his hair. “I need to talk to you about something.”
Zayn and Liam exchange a knowing glance.
Liam gestures awkwardly over his shoulder toward the door. “Should I leave?”
Louis hesitates, his chest tight. Liam is Harry’s closest friend. What if his crush is one-sided? What if Liam laughs at him? But then again, Liam isn’t like that. Maybe a second opinion will help.
“No, it’s fine,” Louis finally says, though his voice is shaky.
Zayn notices, giving him a concerned look. He leans forward, placing a hand gently on Louis’ arm. “What’s going on, Lou?”
Louis runs a hand through his hair again, his emotions crashing over him. The words spill out before he can even stop them.
“I think I’m in love with Harry,” he blurts.
He opens his eyes slowly, expecting a mix of surprise and disbelief from Zayn and Liam. But instead, Zayn and Liam exchange looks—silent communication passing between them. Zayn presses his lips together, like he’s holding back a smile or a laugh. Liam looks downright giddy, his grin wide.
“Yes, finally, thank God,” Liam says, clutching at his chest like he won gold. He jumps to his feet, pacing the room in excitement. “We’re free!”
Louis’ brow furrows. Free?
“Li, calm down,” Zayn says, but he’s laughing.
“Calm down? This is great! We’re finally free, Zayn!”
“Wait, what do you mean by free?” Louis asks, suddenly getting a bit defensive. Was he really obvious this whole time, even when he wasn’t sure of his feelings? “Harry told me he wasn’t interested in dating! How is that good news?”
“No, this is great news!” Liam says, practically bouncing on his feet. He gives Zayn a quick kiss on the temple before grabbing his jacket. He turns to Louis. “Also, Harry’s an idiot. I gotta go. Important stuff.”
Before Louis can even process what’s happening, Liam heads for the door, shooting them an enthusiastic thumbs-up, before he leaves. Zayn just shakes his head fondly, still chuckling. Louis stares at him, his mouth agape.
“Why are you not surprised?” Louis hisses.
“We’ve known since September, Lou.”
“Since September? I just figured this out last week! How have you known since September?”
Zayn shrugs nonchalantly, as if it’s no big deal. “You were so obvious. You’ve been in love with Harry for months. Even Liam knew before you did.”
Louis feels his chest tighten. Had he really been so blind? All those dates—dates Harry had set up for him—and not once did he feel anything for those guys. But Harry had always been there. Why didn’t anyone tell him sooner?
Zayn gestures for him to relax. “You’re in love with Harry. It’s not that complicated.”
“But he’s been setting me up with other people for months,” Louis mutters, sinking into the couch cushions. “He’s been so focused on finding me a match—how am I supposed to tell him I’ve fallen for him? It’s gonna be so awkward.”
Zayn snorts. “You two are already so close, most people think you’re dating. You said you wanted a boyfriend. Harry’s perfect—he makes you laugh, brings you food, listens to your rants. He’s your best friend, yeah?”
Louis hesitates, replaying the last several months in his mind. It’s crazy to think they’ve only known each other for a few months when it feels like an eternity. The first time they officially met, it felt like something clicked, like they’d known each other forever. Now, he knows—what he felt was deeper than just friendship.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “He’s my best friend.”
“Then what’s the problem? Tell him, Lou.”
“I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” Louis murmurs, barely audible. “What if he doesn’t feel the same?”
Zayn scoffs. “Trust me, he does.”
“How would you even know?”
Zayn waves it off. “That’s not the point. Even if he doesn’t, he’s the one who’s been telling you to chase love. If you really care about him, you owe it to both of you to be honest.”
Louis takes in Zayn’s words, nodding slowly. The weight on his chest feels a little lighter, but the nerves still churn inside him.
“Just trust me,” Zayn says, squeezing his hand. “One step at a time. First, you tell Harry you’re done with the matches. Then we’ll figure out how to tell him how you feel. Sounds good?”
Louis exhales, a mix of anticipation and nerves swarming inside him. But he nods.
It takes Louis a little while to find the courage to text Harry. After dinner with Zayn and letting his thoughts settle, he’s finally come to terms with his feelings. He’s been falling for Harry this entire time—falling for the matchmaker who set him up with everyone else.
He’s not sure how he’s going to confess his feelings to Harry, but Zayn’s right: one step at a time. And the first step is telling Harry he’s done with the matches.
Louis bites his lip. He really should say no. He should tell Harry the truth—that this whole matchmaking ordeal has only made him realize how much he wishes it was Harry sitting across from him on all those dates.
Maybe it’s easier to go along with it. One more date. Then he’ll tell Harry everything.
ᥫ᭡ •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅
The next day, Louis drags himself through the motions of getting ready. He’s long since run out of “good first-date outfits,” but he settles on a white cable-knit sweater, light-wash jeans, and his beat-up Vans. It’s simple, comfortable—good enough. Not that it matters. He still doesn’t know who he’s meeting or where they’re going. Harry’s refused to give him even a single clue.
He runs a hand through his hair, sighing as he styles it half-heartedly. He should be relieved—he wanted to get this matchmaking business over with. But now, all he feels is frustration. He was so ready to tell Harry everything. Instead, he’s playing along with yet another setup.
He tries not to spiral, but his mind won’t quit. Why is Harry pushing this match so hard? Why won’t he just let it go? Maybe he really doesn’t feel the same. Maybe Louis has been misreading everything from the start.
A knock at the door pulls him out of his thoughts. He frowns. Zayn’s with Liam, and Niall’s at work. It can’t be Harry—he would text him in advance.
Did Harry really give a total stranger his address?
No, that couldn’t be. You need an access code just to get into the building. Louis heads over, trying to steady his racing heart, and opens the door.
He’s not too surprised to see Harry standing there, a smile already on his face, dimples out, nervously bouncing on the balls of his feet. His smile only widens when he sees Louis, green eyes lighting up like they always do.
But what does surprise Louis is the way Harry’s dressed. It’s… nice. Nicer than usual, at least—no hoodie, no sweats, no ratty old band tee. Instead, he’s wearing a red flannel, a dark brown shacket layered over top. His curls are still messy, but there’s an effort there, like he actually tried to make them look good. He’s holding a bouquet of pink and white flowers, wrapped in brown parchment paper, hands twitching just slightly as he waits.
And then it clicks.
The secrecy, the outfit, the shit-eating smile, the flowers. Harry being right there in front of him, just when he wanted him the most.
“I thought you said it was gonna be a blind date,” Louis says dumbly.
Harry grins, sheepish. “It is—for one of us.”
Louis can’t help the dopey grin that takes over his face, the knot in his stomach turning nicer. It’s like a huge weight has been lifted off his shoulder, and he feels giddy in front of him. “You’re such an idiot.”
“But a charming one,” Harry says, stepping forward. “Ready for the pitch?”
Louis shakes his head. “Hit me with it, Cupid.”
Harry clears his throat dramatically. “Harry Styles. Psych major, UVA swim star, Shakespeare aficionado—though I tend to fumble the monologues. Enjoys long walks on the beach, tolerates winter, and believes in the power of a good conversation to change everything.” He pauses, gaze locking with Louis’. “And absolutely, hopelessly, completely in love with his best friend.”
Louis exhales, a soft smile blooming on his face. “You forgot matchmaker.”
Harry laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “A whole pitch, and that’s the part you focus on?”
“It’s a pretty important part,” Louis says, accepting the flowers Harry offers. He places them gently on the side table, already making a mental note to press a few petals later.
Harry just grins and nods toward the hallway. “Come on. We’ve got places to be.”
Louis grabs his keys and jacket, still caught somewhere between disbelief and delight as he follows Harry out. The elevator ride is quiet but charged, their shoulders brushing once, then twice, until Louis lets his hand rest against Harry’s. Harry doesn’t move away.
Outside, the sky is overcast in that soft, cinematic way that makes the autumn leaves glow brighter—rich gold and burnt orange crunching beneath their steps. Before Louis can ask where they’re headed, Harry leads him to the car and opens the passenger door with a grand, exaggerated bow.
“Chivalry’s alive and well, I see,” Louis says, rolling his eyes, but smiling anyway.
Harry shrugs, cheeks faintly pink. “Only for you.”
They don’t go far—maybe twenty minutes out of town, where pavement gives way to rolling hills and quiet woods. Harry pulls into a gravel lot overlooking a small valley, trees ablaze in orange and amber.
“We better not be hiking,” Louis says, eyeing his shoes warily.
Harry laughs. “I know you better than that.”
From the trunk, Harry pulls out a picnic basket and a folded blanket. He drops the backseats, spreads the blanket in the cargo space, and crawls in, holding a hand out. Louis climbs in beside him, the car’s heater humming gently as they settle into the warmth.
Harry opens the basket: pasta in still-warm containers, garlic bread wrapped in parchment, and a tiny chocolate tart tucked in foil.
Louis sits cross-legged, stunned. “Did you make all this?”
Harry shrugs, smiling. “I can follow a recipe. And you told me once—quiet dates in nature over overpriced dinners. I was paying attention.”
Louis blinks, momentarily speechless. “You remembered that?”
“Of course,” Harry says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Perks of being the matchmaker. I know how to plan a perfect date.”
“Oh yeah?” Louis teases. “And what does the perfect date include?”
Harry gestures around them with a flourish. “Golden trees, a secluded view, your favorite meal, and,” he gives a self-satisfied grin, “an absolutely charming, devastatingly handsome companion. Nailed it?”
Louis laughs, shaking his head, but his heart feels like it’s been split open in the best way. This—this is everything he’s ever wanted: not a sweeping romance painted in fireworks and fanfare, but something simple and true. Someone who remembers the little things. Someone who chooses him, quietly, over and over again.
He leans back, gazing at the trees. “Nailed it,” he says softly.
The meal is perfect—not just the food, but the way they talk. It feels effortless, like slipping into something familiar and warm. Their jokes come easily, as if they’ve been having these conversations for years—and in a way, they have. The way their hands brush as they pass the garlic bread, the comfortable silence when they each take a bite, the knowing glances exchanged over a shared memory. A crumb brushed off a cheek. A hand resting on a knee, just because it feels natural. Their fingers find each other halfway through the meal, no hesitation, no need to ask. They’ve always been this close, and now it’s just a little more.
Louis keeps catching himself staring—at the soft curls framing Harry’s face, the way his smile curves a little more on the left, the constellation of freckles across his nose. He wants to press kisses there, one by one.
But even through the warmth, a question still simmers.
“Why now?” he asks, setting down his fork.
Harry swallows, then meets his gaze. “Do you remember Shakespeare 101?”
Louis nods slowly. That class had been the reason he picked up an English minor in the first place. He loved the discussions, sure—but something about that room, that energy, had always lit him up inside.
“I was in that class, too.”
Louis’ brows knit. He tries to recall him—then the memory clicks into place. A boy with damp curls, always slipping in late and slouching in the back row. He’d assumed that face belonged to this semester, but now he realizes—Harry had been there all along.
“I first noticed you in that class,” Harry continues. “You said something during a discussion—about fate, about stars aligning—and I couldn’t stop thinking about you after that. You were funny, sharp, thoughtful. God, I was already obsessed. It was like all of my social skills flew out the window when it came to you.”
A long pause settles between them. Louis lets that sink in.
“All those terrible dates,” he says eventually, voice soft. “I thought you just had awful taste or that I was the problem.”
Harry winces. “I didn’t mean for them to be that bad. I was just… hoping none of them would work. That maybe you’d come back to me each time and realize—” He breaks off, cheeks flushed. “I know it wasn’t the most honest way to go about it.”
Louis tilts his head, squinting at him. “So instead of just telling me you liked me, you set me up on a bunch of doomed dates just so I’d keep coming back?”
Harry’s face goes pale. “You asked to be set up!”
“Do you know how much money I spent on food?” Louis says, crossing his arms. Not much, in all honesty, since Louis gets take-out way too often than he should. But watching Harry squirm, wide-eyed and panicked, is too entertaining.
“I—I can pay you back!” Harry blurts, face turning red. “I just thought you’d tell me when it was too much, and then we’d laugh about it someday—”
Unable to conceal his laughter, he lets a small sound escape his lips. He shakes his head, grinning. “I’m kidding,” he says. “I just wanted to see you squirm for a bit.”
Harry lets out a slow breath, a relieved little laugh slipping out. “You’re evil,” he says, nudging Louis gently with his elbow.
“And you’re an idiot,” Louis counters, bumping him back. “You didn’t need to orchestrate a dating circus to keep me around.”
Harry looks up, eyes wide and searching.
“I’ve been falling for you this whole time,” Louis says. “Even when I was annoyed, even when the dates went horribly wrong. Somewhere in the middle of all that, I started hoping they’d fail too.”
Harry blinks like he’s not sure he heard right.
Louis smiles, bumping their knees together. “It’s a terrible story. But hilarious, actually. I can’t lie, Cupid—you really outdid yourself on this one.”
Harry lets out a quiet laugh, the kind that curls at the corners of his mouth like he’s trying to suppress something softer underneath. Louis watches him for a second too long, cheeks warm.
On the drive back, the car is filled with a comfortable, glowing silence. Harry reaches over the console, laces their fingers together without saying a word, and Louis squeezes his hand in return. They stop by a little water ice stand—just like they did weeks ago—and Harry insists on buying Louis one again, claiming it’s tradition now.
They make it to Louis’ apartment, the steps up to his door feeling different than usual. The quiet between them isn’t awkward, it’s loaded with something more. Louis fumbles with his keys at first, hands unsteady, then lets them fall to his side.
He turns around. Harry is right there, close enough that Louis can see the way his pulse jumps in his neck, the way his eyes search Louis’ face like he’s memorizing it.
Louis reaches out and pulls him in by his flannel. There’s no hesitation from either part as their lips capture each others’, certain and sure, like they’ve been aching for it. He kisses him like he’s claiming something, not because he has to but because he wants to. Because he can now.
Harry’s hands find Louis’ waist and hold, not tight, but steady—like he knew Louis might fall if he didn’t. And Louis does feel like he’s falling. Especially when Harry presses in, bites at his bottom lip just enough to make him gasp, then slides his tongue past his lips with deliberate, unhurried pressure. Louis whimpers against him, one hand fisting Harry’s shirt tight, the other curled at the nape of his neck.
It’s a kiss that makes his whole body ache.
When they part, just barely, their lips are still close enough to brush.
“We could’ve done this a lot sooner,” Louis whispers, resting his forehead against Harry’s. “I feel like we’ve been dating since that first stupid coffee date where you pretended it was for matchmaking.”
“I should be offended, then,” Harry murmurs, dotting kisses along Louis’ jaw. “My boyfriend’s been seeing other guys for three months.”
Louis laughs, not because it’s funny, but because his chest feels like it might split open. “Boyfriend?” he asks, like he’s tasting the word for the first time.
Harry pulls back just enough to smile at him, the softest kind of smile. “Honestly, Lou, I’ve been in love with you since last year.”
Louis doesn’t even think before answering. “I love you too,” he says, voice breathless. “I think I was already falling for you after that second god-awful date. And by the sixth, I didn’t even care who you matched me with—I just wanted another reason to see you.”
Harry looks so happy it’s like his heart might burst, and Louis can’t stop staring. It’s one of his favorite looks on him—unguarded, glowing, like he’s standing in the middle of something he’s wanted for a long time and still can’t quite believe he gets to have.
Louis leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth, then just under his jaw. He stays there, breathing him in—chlorine, sandalwood, and that warm, unmistakable thing underneath that’s always just been him.
Harry lets him linger, one hand sliding up Louis’ back, the other cupping his chin with quiet certainty. “So,” he says softly, “does this count as a success?”
Louis pulls back just enough to meet his eyes, a grin curling at his lips.
“I say,” he replies, “you found the perfect match this time, Cupid.”
ᥫ᭡ •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅
Louis still can’t quite believe he gets to call Harry Styles his boyfriend.
It’s been four months since their first official date, and somehow, even in the thick of a busy semester, they’re stronger than ever. Being with Harry reminds Louis exactly why he always dreamed of falling for his best friend. Harry isn’t just a boyfriend—he’s a constant, a calm, a home. He understands Louis in a way no one else ever has, knows what makes him tick and what makes him laugh. And Louis knows Harry just as well. He can tell when the pressure of swimming and future plans starts to close in, and he’s learned how to pull Harry out of it.
It’s not completely effortless, but it’s real. And Louis has never been happier.
Now it’s spring break, early March. Both Louis and Harry stayed at UVA—Harry for NCAAs training, and Louis for student teaching. A week and a half isn’t long enough to make the trip up to Boston worth it, and besides, Louis doesn’t mind. He likes his students, and he likes seeing Harry at the end of a long day.
When Harry gets a rare weekend off from his grueling schedule, they take a quick getaway—just the two of them—to Harry’s hometown.
Harry’s mom, Anne, and his stepdad, Robin, live in Great Neck, not far from the shore. Robin owns a small beach house just steps from the water, and Harry’s determined to take Louis there—especially since Louis has never experienced a proper Virginia beach day. But before they can go, Anne insists on meeting Louis first.
Louis has never met a boyfriend’s parents before and is admittedly nervous, but Harry reassures him every step of the way.
“Listen, I tell my mom practically everything, and I know she’s just excited to meet you,” Harry says as they drive with the windows down, warm wind rushing past them. One hand is on the wheel, the other laced with Louis’. “Just be yourself. They’re going to love you as much as I do.”
And Harry’s right.
Just like he promised, Anne is everything Louis could have hoped for. She pulls him into a hug the moment they step inside and gushes over how “utterly adorable” he is, while Harry lingers in the background, grinning like he’s been waiting for this moment forever.
Within minutes, he feels like part of the family. Over lunch, he understands exactly why Harry stays close to home. He sees how much love fills the space—and how very much Harry is the baby of the family, given the way they brag about his classes and his swim meets. It’s sweet, really, and Louis is completely charmed.
“You know,” Anne says mid-meal, “I think it was about a year ago when I first heard the name Louis Tomlinson. Harry came home over spring break just going on and on about this boy in his Intro to Shakespeare class. Was so taken with you he signed up for the second one just to see you again!”
“Ma…” Harry groans, hiding his face.
Louis just grins, already knowing the story. “I think it’s sweet.”
“I kept telling him—Harry, just tell the boy how you feel. But no, he was too nervous! Love makes fools of us all sometimes. I’m just glad he finally said something.”
“Yeah. It only took eleven dates.”
Anne’s brows draw together. “It took eleven dates for Harry to make it official?”
Louis bursts out laughing. “Oh, no, the dates weren’t with him! Harry set me up on eleven different dates with eleven different guys before he finally confessed his feelings.”
Harry goes pale, and Anne’s eyes practically pop out of her head. The lecture that follows is swift and merciless, but worth it—especially because the whole family ends up laughing hysterically at the ridiculousness of their love story. And honestly, the months of pining kind of feel worth it, too.
Eventually, Harry brings Louis to the beach house. It’s small and cozy, tucked right against the sand with an endless view of the ocean. Louis has always been a city boy—Boston streets, noise, rush hour—but here, something settles in his chest. Harry looks so at home: sun-drenched and barefoot, curls tousled by the breeze, toes dipped into the surf.
Harry tells Louis all the time how beautiful he is, but Louis thinks Harry’s the gorgeous one. That sharp jaw, those full lips, the slight quirk of his bottom lip when he smiles. His green eyes, deep and wild, like a forest Louis wouldn’t mind getting lost in. And against the beachy skyline, salt in the air and sunlight kissing his skin, Harry Styles is the most beautiful thing Louis has ever seen.
“What are you staring at?” Harry grins, catching him in the act.
“Am I not allowed to admire my boyfriend?” Louis asks, feet planted firmly in the sand, refusing to go near the cold water.
Harry laughs and holds out a hand. “Come here.”
Louis takes a step backward. “No shot.”
Harry pouts. “You’re the one staring.”
“And I’m very happy doing it from here, thanks.”
With a dramatic sigh, Harry charges toward him, water splashing around his legs. Louis shrieks, trying to scramble away, but Harry’s faster—he grabs him around the waist and hoists him up, despite Louis kicking and squirming. Then he drops him straight into the cold ocean. Louis yells, but not before dragging Harry in with him. They both fall, soaked and breathless, laughing as the surf crashes around them. Louis retaliates with a splash, triumphant—until Harry shuts him up with a kiss, sudden and searing.
Louis melts into it, fingers tangling in Harry’s damp curls. He’s glad no one else is nearby, because if anyone were watching, they’d definitely get a show.
Yeah, he really loves having Harry as a boyfriend.
Eventually, the chill gets to them, and they rush back into the beach house, dripping wet as they peel off soaked clothes. They tumble into the shower, warm water streaming over their flushed skin. Harry kisses him like he’s starving—fingers tangling in Louis’ hair, mouths crashing together, never breaking the contact. He presses Louis into the cool tile, claiming every sigh, every tremble, every quiet moan like it belongs to him.
It feels intimate. Domestic. Like a moment borrowed from a future Louis wants to live in forever.
That’s how they end up here—tangled on Harry’s bed, towels barely holding on, their skin still damp and slick. Harry hovers above Louis, eyes dark and hungry, his hands trailing fire wherever they touch. He drags them down Louis’ throat, over his chest, his hips. His mouth follows—open, wet kisses against sensitive skin, lips parting to taste as much as he can.
Louis gasps, his head tipping back. “God, Harry.”
Harry bites lightly at his collarbone, then soothes it with his tongue. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes.
Louis feels like he’s coming apart at the seams. His fingers dig into Harry’s shoulders, drawing him closer. Their kisses grow desperate—Harry’s lips press firmly against his, tongue exploring deeply, tasting, teasing. Harry kisses Louis like he’s trying to commit every part of him to memory, and Louis surrenders completely, his breath hitching with every press of their bodies.
They’ve taken their time when it comes to sex. They’ve fooled around, sure—handjobs, blowjobs, slow touches in quiet corners. And Harry’s fingered him, but Louis has always held back, waiting for the right moment.
Louis opens his eyes, breath catching. “Harry,” he whispers.
Harry’s too caught up in the moment to notice Louis’ soft sigh, his mouth still working over Louis’ bottom lip before sliding his tongue back in with unrelenting fervor. Louis moans, mind blurring with pleasure as Harry grinds down against him, pulling rough groans from both of them.
Louis breaks the kiss, barely able to catch his breath. “Harry.”
Harry stills slightly, lifting his head. “Yeah?”
Louis swallows, his voice low and certain as he leans up, brushing his lips against the shell of Harry’s ear. “I want you inside me.”
Harry freezes, pupils blown wide, breath hitching. His forehead drops to Louis’ chest, and for a second he just breathes, like he’s anchoring himself. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Give me a second.”
Louis bursts into laughter. “I think I’m the one who should be nervous here, Haz.”
Harry looks up, a grin tugging at his lips before he kisses him again—harder this time, almost bruising. “I’ve been wanting to fuck you for a year,” he growls, voice low and reverent. “So yeah, I might be a little excited.”
“I can tell you’re excited,” Louis says, trailing his hand down Harry’s chest to the hard length pressing against his thigh. Harry moans at the contact, his breath hot against Louis’ neck.
Harry gets up from the bed to grab a bottle of lube from one of their bags, the towel slipping from his waist. While Harry is distracted, Louis quickly sheds his own towel. He slowly strokes himself to full hardness as he watches shuffle around the room.
Louis has seen Harry naked before—and besides, being a swimmer, he knows a lot of people have seen Harry’s toned, tattooed body. But having Harry above him, with no barriers between them, is intimate in a way that’s uniquely theirs. His heart swells with that knowledge.
Turning around, Harry’s eyes seem to widen even more when he notices Louis lounging on the bed, a smirk on his lips. Harry is back on top of Louis in seconds, tilting his head back for better access to his mouth. Louis sighs in content, letting Harry take. Over the breathless pants and the whines drawn from each other’s mouths, Louis can faintly hear the slight sound of the lube bottle being opened and squeezed onto Harry’s fingers.
Louis curls a leg around Harry’s hip, pulling him closer. The slide of skin against skin tickles him, especially since Harry’s legs are clean-shaven. He laughs against Harry’s lips at that, shoulders shaking with his giggles.
Harry makes a small noise of protest, a pout on his lips. “What?” he asks, but there’s no annoyance in his tone, only amusement.
“Your legs are smooth,” Louis giggles.
Harry rolls his eyes. “I go best times with shaved legs, thank you very much,” Harry replies, rubbing his lube-coated fingers together to spread them.
“I’m pretty sure it’s a myth that leg hairs cause drag—oh,” Louis gasps out, his back arching as Harry’s finger slides into him.
“Shut you up pretty quick, didn’t I?” Harry says, crooking his finger in a way that makes Louis whimper.
Harry opens Louis up quickly, which Louis is grateful for. Harry usually takes his time, teasing Louis’ prostate with gentle strokes, but tonight every touch only intensifies Louis’ need to feel Harry fully inside him—and Harry seems equally eager.
Once Harry’s confident Louis is well prepared, he withdraws his fingers. Louis whines at the sudden loss, craving release. Harry coats his cock with lube, skipping a condom—they’d agreed long ago that Louis’ virginity and Harry’s clean status made protection unnecessary, especially since they only ever intend to be with each other.
“Ready?” Harry asks, pressing a gentle kiss to Louis’ lips.
Louis nods, heart pounding. “I’m ready.”
Harry leans back, guiding the head of his cock to Louis’ entrance, one hand clasping Louis’ to steady them both. “Tell me if it hurts or if you want to stop.”
Louis shuts his eyes, exhales, and squeezes Harry’s hand as Harry begins to push in. The first stretch is sharp and burning, and Louis gasps, his hips jolting. But Harry is patient, inching forward bit by bit, peppering Louis’ face with soft kisses.
“You’re so perfect,” Harry murmurs.
Louis nods again, breath catching. The burn under that initial pressure gives way, faintly, to warmth and pleasure. He trusts Harry completely. When Harry finally bottoms out, his balls resting against Louis’ ass, Louis releases a shaky exhale, his lower body tingling with numbness.
“How does it feel?” Harry asks, brushing his thumb across Louis’ cheekbone.
“Like you’re lodged in my stomach,” Louis responds, his voice high and breathless.
Harry laughs softly, the vibration sending Harry’s cock a fraction deeper. Louis whimpers, breath catching in his throat.
“Sorry, baby.”
“It’s alright,” Louis whispers, eyes screwed shut. “Just… give me a second.”
Harry stays still, planting gentle kisses on Louis’ cheeks, jaw, eyelids, the tip of his nose—each a sweet distraction from the burn. After a minute, Louis feels his muscles unclench, tension leaving his shoulders.
“You can move,” Louis says.
Harry nods, drawing his hips back before pushing forward again. Louis jerks, feeling his breath getting pushed out of his throat. Harry pauses for a moment, making sure Louis is alright, and Louis gives him a slight nod, motioning for him to continue.
Harry carves out a rhythm—steady, deliberate—driving in and out so that Louis feels like he’s getting split open over and over again. Louis drags his fingernails down Harry’s biceps, his chest, his shoulders—needing to be grounded. But Harry is there through every second, his big hands steady on his hips, his lips pressed against his ear.
“You’re doing so well,” Harry murmurs. “Taking me so well, baby, like you’re made for me.”
Louis doesn’t respond—he feels like he can’t even think as Harry goes deeper and harder into him. After a few more thrusts at different angles, a shock of pleasure jolts through Louis’ body, making him squirm and writhe on the bed. He gasps out a strangled noise, fingernails drawing red streaks down Harry’s shoulders.
“There, there, Harry,” he cries out, tangling his hand in Harry’s curls.
Harry begins to aim for that spot with vigor, and he hits it more often than not, based on the blinding pleasure Louis feels behind his eyes. His mouth is partly open as loud pants and moans escape his mouth. He knows the noises he makes are loud and unabashed, but Harry doesn’t seem to care—in fact, he seems to be spurred on by the noises, capturing each breathless sound with his lips and hips moving faster in hopes of breaking apart Louis even more.
“Close,” he gasps, pulling at Harry’s hair.
“I know,” Harry breathes, sliding one hand down to curl around Louis’ still-hard cock. “Come for me, baby.”
Feeling the tension curl up in his stomach at the duel sensations—of Harry’s hand around his cock and Harry’s length hitting his prostate, Louis’ body seizes and he comes with a cry, shuddering through his release.
Harry chases his own orgasm, and Louis whimpers at the overstimulation, his body falling lax. It only takes a couple more thrusts before Harry is spilling inside of him, a warm gush of his come coating his insides.
Used and spent, Harry collapses on top of Louis, careful not to crush him. Louis pokes his nose into Harry’s neck, the smell of sex and sweat taking over his senses. Louis can almost feel Harry’s heartbeat inside of him. It’s so intimate, the way they are still connected and intertwined, and Louis’ heart warms with the feeling.
Carefully, Harry pulls out of Louis’ used hole. Louis winces at the sensation of being empty, feeling Harry’s come drip out of him. He lets himself melt back into the pillows as Harry lays down next to him, equally as breathless.
“You didn’t put that in your match pitch,” Louis murmurs, a soft smile playing on his lips.
Harry rolls onto his side, grinning. “What—that I’m amazing in bed?”
“Yeah. Maybe if you mentioned that before all the dates, we could’ve done this a lot sooner,” Louis jokes.
Harry laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Tempting. But I kind of liked the wait.” He pulls Louis in closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. “I think it was worth it.”
Louis lifts his head, studying him. Harry’s cheeks are flushed, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, lips kiss-bitten—but somehow, still unfairly gorgeous. Louis twines their fingers together and gazes at him with quiet awe. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Harry whispers, kissing the back of Louis’ hand. A grin erupts on Harry’s face. “Seems like this match worked out pretty well, huh?”
Louis groans and buries his face in Harry’s chest. The gesture is familiar—affectionate and exasperated all at once—but this time, it lands different. He can feel the quiet thrum of Harry’s heartbeat, the way it matches the flutter in his own chest.
Maybe all those failed matches weren’t just detours. Maybe they were the way here. And now, with Harry’s arms wrapped around him, Louis knows it was all worth it.
ᥫ᭡ •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅