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Assistant: Title: Flat 302
        Author: crissyfleur crissyfleur 
        Chapter: 17/62 
        Summary: On the third floor, in Flat 302, life was anything but ordinary. It was the kind of place where the door was always open, smelled like takeaway and you could always hear laughter echoing through the halls. And living there was f@ck@ng great, until Harry Styles moved in.OrThe one where sharing a room with Harry is the worst thing that’s ever happened to Louis. And then the best.
        Contents: Chapter 17: Flat 17
    

    

        
          
          
            The one where someone new shows up
          
        

  

  
  
    
    
  The end of the year felt like a long, deep sigh to Louis, as if someone had finally taken their foot off his neck. He’d dragged himself through every single day—lectures, shifts, hangovers, awkward silences with Harry—and somehow survived. Now, everything was building toward something new, something way more exciting, and yet, something terrifying. Something he was 
  
    definitely
  
   not ready for. But he was working on it. Kind of.

  Back in Doncaster, he melted into his family like butter. Days blurred together, filled with cuddles on the couch, movie marathons, and late-night gossip sessions with his sisters that made his mum yell 
  
    “Some of us have jobs in the morning!”
  
   at least four times a week.

  Mornings started with a baby crying and Louis stumbling out of bed, hair all over the place, to help out. One twin for him, one for his dad. Then downstairs, there was always Jay. Cooking, folding laundry, or watching telly with the little ones climbing over her. It made his chest feel full, in a nice way. Just love, familiarity.

  After dinner, Fizzy and Lottie would sneak into his room like it was some secret club. They’d plop onto his bed, steal his blankets, and launch into full-blown life updates. 

  “So,” Lottie began one night, legs thrown up the wall, “how’s Harry?”

  Louis, midway through lazily folding his new Adidas hoodie, squinted at her. “What do you even know about Harry? Why are you 
  
    talking
  
   about Harry?”

  “We 
  
    all
  
   know about Harry,” Fizzy chimed in with suspicious confidence.

  “Yeah,” Lottie added, “we know he sleeps naked. And that he texts a 
  
    loooot
  
  .” Louis let out a long, exhausted sigh, but a smirk tugged at his lips. “Can we see a picture of him?” Lottie asked sweetly, like this was a completely normal and not invasive question.

  “No.”

  “We could just find one on Niall’s Instagram,” Fizzy pointed out, as if she hadn’t clearly already 
  
    done that
  
  .

  Louis’ hands froze mid-fold. “Why the 
  
    hell
  
   do you follow Niall, Fizzy?”

  “You barely post,” she shrugged. “It’s the only way to see pictures of you.”

  “I don’t post 
  
    because
  
   you two are like this,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Proper stalkers.”

  Fizzy smirked like she was proud of it. “So… who’s your girlfriend then?”

  “Focus, Fizzy,” Lottie snapped, nudging her sister. “We’re on Harry.”

  Louis stared at them both, then flopped back onto his bed. “This is harassment. She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “
  
    Picture.
  
  ” They said in unison, grinning like the evil twins from 
  
    The Shining
  
  .

  He groaned loudly. “If I show you one, will you stop talking about him?”

  “No promises,” Fizzy said cheerfully.

  Rolling his eyes, Louis pulled his phone from his pocket, only to see that Harry had replied to his last message.

  
    Louis
  
  
    : packing!!!!!
  

  
    H
  
  
    : Perfect! 
  

  
    H
  
  
    : Few days alone and I’m already losing my sh@t. 
  

  
    H
  
  
    : Thank God you’re coming home earlier. 
  

  
    Louis
  
  
    : you talk like it’s not only a day earlier 
  

  
    Louis
  
  
    : don’t forget you wanted to spend the f@ck@ng entire holidays there by yourself
  

  “Here,” Louis said, holding up his phone to the girls, “this is Harry.”

  It was a tragically bad photo, snapped on their last day in Manchester. Harry was eating his salad, giving a sarcastic thumbs up like some grumpy celebrity being papped. Louis had taken it to prove to Jay that yes, the boy was alive and yes, he was eating greens.

  “That’s terrible,” Fizzy groaned. “We can barely see his face.”

  “Oh, he’s got long hair?” Lottie tilted her head like she was inspecting him.

  “Not 
  
    long
  
  , just longer,” Louis explained, already thumbing through Harry’s Instagram. “Doesn’t touch the shoulders. Yet.”

  He’d only started following him a few days ago, and honestly, Harry’s profile was extremely silly. Photos of clouds. A traffic cone. Sunsets. One specifically from their balcony, of his plants, before they died. His face was rarely there.

  “Here, this one’s decent,” Louis said, showing them a picture from before they’d met. Harry had shorter, curlier hair, and was standing in front of the Hollywood sign, grinning like an idiot.

  “He’s cute!” Lottie squealed, immediately scooting closer. “Why did you keep this man hidden from us?!”

  “You think?” Louis said, playing it cool even though his ears were burning.

  “
  
    Cute!
  
  ” Fizzy echoed, nodding sagely. “Cute curls. He looks like the kind of boy who’d cry at Pixar movies.”

  “He 
  
    has
  
   cried at Pixar movies,” Louis muttered.

  “Even better!” Lottie beamed. “Can I follow him? Can I be introduced?”

  Louis burst out laughing. “He’s 
  
    gay
  
  , Lots.” Lottie’s entire face fell. He glanced back at the Hollywood sign photo before he quickly shut it down. “Alright, that’s enough drooling over my flatmate. Toss me that shirt, will you? Make yourselves useful.”

  Lottie tossed the shirt directly at his face. “Tell him if he ever changes teams, tell him to call me.”

  “He’d rather call the Pope,” Louis snorted.

  Classes were set to start again on the 15th, on a Monday, but Louis only had one left to complete, and it fell on Thursdays. Because of Mr. Taylor’s incredibly demanding schedule, their meetings had to be planned a whole week in advance. And somehow, like a curse, they always ended up on a Friday. Which meant, technically, he didn’t need to be back until the last days of the following week.

  Still, something in him itched for Manchester earlier than that.

  It was funny, really. Thinking of Manchester as 
  
    home
  
  , when for years it had been more like a pit stop on the way to adulthood. A rite of passage. 

  He realised he’d grown up without noticing. One day he was sneaking biscuits from the kitchen, and the next he was standing in his childhood bedroom wondering where they kept blankets and why the noise was giving him a headache. The walls were the same, the voices familiar, the love still overflowing, but something had shifted.

  He adored every single one of them, but he missed the silence of the flat. He missed his desk and the comfort of writing without someone yelling about using all the hot water. He missed smoking by the balcony. He missed his bed that actually knew the shape of his back, the campus walks, Zayn passed out on the sofa, Liam’s unsolicited life advice, Niall coming home at 3AM with takeaway and beer. And Harry, the loud, annoying, overly dramatic flatmate.

  So, he made the call. He’d leave Friday instead, a week earlier than he actually needed.

  The others would be back on Sunday, except for Zayn, who was flying in from Pakistan on the 20th. Harry had already returned to Manchester on the 2nd, texting Louis about how weird things felt at Holmes Chapel, which, honestly, only made Louis want to go back sooner.

  At the door, his mum squeezed him like she thought he might slip through her arms and disappear. “You’re sure you got everything?” she asked for the third time.

  “Pretty sure, Mum.” He smiled, though his suitcase did look suspiciously light.

  “Visit more, love,” she said softly, kissing the top of his head. “Now that you’ve got a bit more money, you’ve got no excuse.”

  “I will,” he promised, hugging her again. “Tell the monsters I’ll call later.”

  “Send kisses to the boys,” she added as he pulled away.

  Louis drove back to Manchester with the windows half-down and Harry’s playlist blasting through the car speakers. Not that he’d ever admit that to a living soul. He’d rather be caught dead than caught listening to “Hot Boys Have Sad Days Too” curated by Harry Styles himself. But the thing was… Harry had good taste. He’d just never hear that from Louis’ lips.

  It was strange how quickly Harry had found space in his mind. Different from the rest of the boys. Louis loved them all to death, they were his family. But with Harry… Well, somehow, even after the weeks he’d spent fantasising about smothering him in his sleep with a pillow, conversation just flowed.

  They could talk about anything. And they 
  
    did
  
  . Exes. Aliens. Louis’ very questionable attempts at cooking. The philosophical implications of life. By the time Louis looked at the clock, it’d be 3AM and he’d be laughing alone in bed at a text that just read: 
  
    “I’m not even drunk, I’m just British.”
  

  It felt like finding a kindred spirit. Not that he’d say that out loud. Obviously. At least, not again.

  He was pretty sure Harry knew, anyway. That was the good thing about them. They didn’t 
  
    need
  
   to say it. It was in the way they texted, and the way they made eye contact just a little too long at the restaurant, and the fact that Louis drooled on his shoulder.

  Somehow, he knew they could just stay in silence now, and it wouldn’t feel weird. They could, but they would always prefer to talk endlessly.

  He knew the boys would pick up on it eventually. They’d probably tease him for weeks. Especially after everything he’d said about how 
  
    utterly unbearable
  
   Harry was. How annoying he was. How he was 
  
    always
  
   walking around half-naked and singing aloud.

  But well… Harry was kind. And funny. And a really good listener. And actually very smart under all that flair. But since everybody already 
  
    knew
  
   those things, Louis figured he didn’t have to say them aloud. Not even to Harry. Still, he was certain Harry knew exactly how he felt.

  His first stop in Manchester wasn’t the flat. It was a bakery down the road. He bought two warm croissants, one for himself and one for Harry. But as he waited in line, head buried in his phone, a familiar voice pulled him out of it like a slap of cold water. “Lou? You’re back already?”

  He turned and there she was, Danielle. Smiling, approaching, and hugging him like always.

  Louis stood frozen for a second, caught in the act. He awkwardly returned the hug. “Sorry I didn’t text,” he mumbled as they pulled apart.

  “It’s alright,” she said with a shrug. “I got back yesterday.”

  She placed a hand lightly on his arm. He liked her. He did. But now, everything about the thought of her felt weirdly… tangled. Complicated. Mostly because the last time he saw her, she’d been on Harry’s bed. And also because, during the holidays, she’d texted him a few times, friendly stuff, sweet even, and he’d either forgotten to reply or taken so long that replying would’ve just made it worse.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Good,” she said with a smile. “And you?”

  “Good. Just got in, actually,” he replied. “Haven’t even gone home yet.”

  She nodded, still looking at him like she was seeing through him a bit. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Uh… not sure yet. Why?”

  “There’s a little welcome-back get-together at the pub. You should come,” she said, fingers still brushing his sleeve. “It’ll be nice.”

  “I’ll probably just sleep, love,” Louis replied, scratching the back of his neck. “But yeah, I’ll text you.”

  He wouldn’t. The only thing on his schedule that night was lying horizontal on the sofa with Harry, eating crisps and shouting at Love Island contestants.

  He arrived home with a paper bag swinging at his side, filled with two croissants and a box of absurdly overpriced tea that Harry would definitely mock but secretly love. His last texts hadn’t gotten any replies, so he figured Harry was probably napping.

  “Honey, I’m home,” Louis called out, all mockery and sitcomy.

  Harry didn’t answer him so Louis dropped the bag on the kitchen table and headed towards their shared bedroom. When he pushed open the door, he was met with the sight of an unfamiliar man sitting on the floor, back against Harry’s bed, legs stretched out like he lived there.

  “You’re not Harry,” Louis said, blinking.

  “Oh, no. I’m not. Sorry about that.” He got to his feet and walked over, offering his hand. The guy was tall, possibly taller than Harry, which was annoying enough. He had great hair, a beard, tattoos wrapped around muscles, and a smile so open that it made Louis grit his teeth. “I’m Bradley. Harry’s in the shower.”

  Louis shook his hand slowly. “Hi. I’m—”

  “Louis. Yeah, I know.” Bradley smiled like they were old pals already. He glanced down at his hoodie and gym shorts. “Sorry, I’m kind of disgusting. We went for a run.”

  Louis blinked again. “In 
  
    winter
  
  ?”

  Bradley chuckled. “Now that the snow’s melted, I finally convinced him! We run every morning. You should come with us sometime.”

  As if. Louis forced a polite smile. “Not much of a sports lad.”

  That came out a little too fast, so he turned and made a strategic walk to the balcony. He lit a cigarette mostly out of spite, ignoring the way Bradley scrunched his nose at the first curl of smoke. Just as Louis took his first long drag, the door to the loo opened and Harry padded out, curls wet, towel slung low around his hips.

  “Close the door, Lou! It’s freezing!” he whined, arms wrapping around his own bare torso.

  “I’m 
  
    smoking
  
  ,” Louis replied, smoke curling lazily from his lips, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked at Harry for a moment longer, taking him in after so many days apart. He wanted to pull him into a hug—God, he did—but not if Bradley was anywhere nearby.

  Harry pouted, then walked over to their wardrobe and, of course, let the towel drop. Louis turned instinctively to look at Bradley, expecting at least a flicker of shock or awkwardness. But Bradley didn’t so much as blink. Just carried on scrolling through something on his phone. Which, of course, meant he was used to Naked Harry.

  Once Harry pulled on some warm clothes, he shuffled over and wrapped his arms around Louis. “Oops,” he murmured. 

  Louis hugged him back automatically. “Hi,” he muttered.

  “Should’ve said Brad was here. My bad.” Harry pulled away with a grin, and Louis nodded toward the kitchen. 

  “I brought croissants. From that bakery you sent me last week. They’re on the table.”

  Harry’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning. “
  
    Really?
  
  ” Then he turned to Bradley. “We can share one!”

  Bradley smiled at Harry, eyes soft and warm. “No carbs for me, thanks, baby.” Louis wanted to puke.

  They sat at the table, the three of them, each with a mug of tea that Harry had made. Louis watched the steam curl up from his cup like it might carry off the long list of things he’d planned to say. Somehow, everything he’d been dying to tell Harry on the drive back now seemed ridiculous. Or worse, irrelevant.

  “How was the drive?” Harry asked, completely normal, like they hadn’t been texting until three in the morning every day for the past week. He took a bite of his croissant, letting out a soft sound of appreciation. Then he noticed a smear of butter on his thumb and licked it off.

  Louis blinked, too caught up in his thoughts to reply. “Aren’t they good?” he asked, a little too brightly.

  “They’re amazing,” Harry nodded, reaching for another bite.

  Louis turned his gaze to 
  
    No Carbs Bradley
  
  , sat neatly between them, sipping his tea like he’d always belonged at their table. Louis resisted the urge to sigh dramatically.

  “So,” Louis said, eyebrows raised. “What’s 
  
    our
  
   opinion on honeydew green tea, Harreh?”

  Harry considered it, lifting his mug. “I think it’s meant to be a cold tea?”

  Louis clicked his tongue. “Cold tea isn’t a thing. Not in 
  
    this
  
   country.”

  “Of course it’s not. You only drink Yorkshire.” Harry rolled his eyes with a grin.

  “What can I say? I’m loyal.” Louis leaned back in his chair, ignoring Bradley’s presence entirely now. “Anyway, what are we doing tonight? We should grab some beers or something.”

  Harry hesitated. His eyes darted to Bradley for a second too long. “Uh… we were actually thinking of catching a film. Since it’s the last weekend before exams and all…”

  “Right.” Louis nodded, masking his irritation with a tight smile. “Danielle texted. Might go to the pub.”

  Harry raised an eyebrow. “Danielle? That 
  
    good
  
   friend of yours?”

  Louis glared at him. “P@ss off.” Deciding to quit pretending Bradley didn’t exist, Louis turned to him. “You studying music too?”

  Bradley smiled, ever pleasant. “God, no. I’m a personal trainer. Harry’s personal trainer, actually, that’s how we met.”

  Louis blinked. “Personal trainer? Since when?” 

  They both looked at Harry, who suddenly found great interest in his croissant. “Since October, I think,” Bradley said.

  “October?” Louis looked at Harry. “You’ve been working out since 
  
    October
  
  ?”

  “What, you thought the abs just materialised?” Harry asked, grinning at him over the rim of his mug. “I usually go after class, when you’re working.”

  “Oh.” Louis took a long sip of his tea. He had seen his abs way too many times before, but he never thought there was a Bradley behind the appearance of it.

  When Bradley finally left after the tea, the flat felt… odd. Like something had been left out of place. Suddenly, being friends with Harry didn’t feel as natural as it did for the last twenty something days. 

  Louis took a deep breath, watching them hug goodbye. Then he peeled himself from the chair and slumped down onto the sofa. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand up again if he tried.

  With a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes, Louis unlocked his phone and texted Danielle.
Louis: hey love, i’ll be there.
  Harry joined him on the sofa, a blanket in his hands. Without asking, he draped it over both their legs, just like he had on Louis’ birthday. “So?” Harry asked, settling in close. “What did you think of him?”

  Louis looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  Harry’s smile faded a bit, going softer. “He’s cute, right?”

  “Not sure 
  
    cute
  
   is the word I’d use. But he seems very proud of his legs, I’ll give him that. Shorts in winter is a bold move.” Louis let his hand rest on the blanket, just next to Harry’s. “You dating him?”

  “I’m… something-ing him.”

  Louis huffed a laugh. “Something-ing?”

  Harry gave a sheepish nod. “He’s nice. Didn’t see it coming, honestly. I thought he was straight. Turns out, he’s not. I’m pretty good at figuring it out, though. Got a decent radar.”

  “Do you?”

  Harry looked proud for a moment. “I think so. He’s bi, though. Maybe that threw me off at first.”

  Louis raised an eyebrow, teasing. “Not 
  
    that
  
   good a radar, then.” Harry gave him a look, then smiled with closed lips, soft eyes. Sweet Harry had returned. “How’d you find out?” Louis asked.

  Harry cleared his throat, lowering his voice. “He… sort of… knelt in front of me in the gym locker room.”

  Louis choked on a laugh, jaw dropping. “He what?!”

  “You asked!” Harry flushed red, tugging the blanket a little higher up his chest.

  “When was this?”

  “Last week.”

  “And you’ve been hanging out since?”

  Harry hummed in confirmation. “We run in the mornings. Sometimes he comes here. Sometimes I go to his. Don’t worry, haven’t used your bed yet,” he added, with a sh@t-eating grin.

  Louis scowled. “You're an @rs@.”

  Harry laughed. “Just a little.”

  Louis’ tone gentled. “Any… feelings involved?”

  “Not from me, no,” Harry said quietly, eyes meeting his. “I don’t usually do that. Can’t remember the last time someone made me fall.”

  “You don’t get butterflies and all that?” Louis asked. Harry shook his head. A soft no. “I used to,” Louis said. “Can’t remember the last time, either.”

  Harry tilted his head, watching him. “I just can’t picture you all wrapped up in someone. You always seem so… composed.” Louis shifted closer, letting their arms brush. It didn’t feel like a risk anymore. “I’d love to see it,” Harry added, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You, completely smitten, following someone around like a little puppy.”

  “Won’t happen, mate,” Louis laughed, shaking his head. It felt like something from another life, falling that hard, that helplessly. Maybe someday, far off in some distant future, he’d meet someone nice. Settle down. Have a dozen kids. But for now, it all felt abstract, far. “The best you’re gonna see right now is this situation with Dani.”

  Harry groaned, rolling his eyes. “Just 
  
    love
  
   that journey for you.”

  Louis grinned. “It’s so funny you don’t like her. She’s good, Harreh.”

  “She 
  
    lied
  
   about me.”

  “She didn’t lie, she just had the wrong impression. You should give her another chance. Maybe I’ll make that happen.”

  Harry stared blankly at the TV. “Do I have to?”

  “I’d like it,” Louis shrugged. “If you and Bradley want, you could meet us after the movie. Unless you’ve got… other plans.”

  “No plans,” Harry said, switching on the TV. “Love Island?”

  “F@ck yeah.”

  They watched the last two episodes of the old season they had silently agreed to only watch together. It had become their ritual. Shared brain rot, mutual eye-rolls, and way too many comments about the contestants’ fashion choices. 

  When the finale ended, Louis yawned and stretched. “This show is absolute sh@t.”

  Harry chuckled. “You couldn’t wait to get home to watch it with me.”

  “I 
  
    despise
  
   it,” Louis insisted, pointing at him accusingly. “We should be watching something better. No more of this cr@p. What’s our next?”

  “We could re-watch 
  
    Friends
  
  …”

  “And forget what year it is?” Louis gave him a smirk. “Maybe. I’ll think about it. It’s so 
  
    loooong
  
  .”

  “So?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “We’ve got a little over a year until you leave.”

  And that simple phrase sank Louis’ heart. 

  A little over a year. That was all the time he had left in the flat. It might sound like a lot, but the past three months since Harry arrived had flown by. After The Bar Course, it would be over. No more waking up to Niall singing in the kitchen, or Zayn muttering something poetic with a joint in hand. No more Liam pacing with his assignments. No more Harry.

  He had shared moments with each of them. Late-night cuddles on the couch when someone needed comfort, quiet conversations where he offered a shoulder to lean on or listened through the tangled mess of someone’s love life. There were nights pulsing with music, laughter, smoke curling into the air, and the familiar warmth of being surrounded by people who felt like home. Louis would miss arguing about whose turn it was to wash the d@mn dishes, about missing groceries, about the bl@@dy loo light being left on again. They bickered like family, rolled their eyes like siblings, and made up just as quickly. Louis had poured parts of himself into each of them, thread by thread.

  But with Harry, it was different. Louis had only just opened his eyes and come to his senses. It had been less than a month since he realised how easy it was to be around him, how good it felt, how natural. As if something had been quietly waiting for him since October, when Harry first arrived. They had wasted so much time.

  Everything between them still felt new, tender, like fresh paint that hadn’t quite dried yet. Every tear of laughter they shared, every joke, every long-winded conversation was also a reminder that the clock was ticking, that these moments were running out.

  After his Bar Course, everything would change. He’d move back to Doncaster, land some serious, soul-crushing adult job, spend his days stuck in a suit, working his @rs@ off for people who barely remembered his name. He’d come home to a sh@tty, silent flat, heat up leftovers, and collapse on the sofa. His only real joy would come on the weekends, when he’d finally get to see his family, hear about his sisters’ much more colourful lives, and pretend, just for a bit, that he hadn’t grown old.

  Every night, just before sleep took him, he would drift back to his old life. He’d picture the flat, wonder what his friends were having for dinner—probably one of Liam’s sad attempts at cooking. He’d imagine Niall complaining about it, Zayn rolling his eyes. He’d wonder what was new with them, even though he’d be too buried in work to call. And always, without fail, his thoughts would circle back to Harry. He’d think about his laugh, the way he curled up on the sofa, the quiet way he looked at him sometimes. And he’d f@ck@ng miss him.

  Not that Louis thought he’d 
  
    never
  
   see Harry again after moving out of Manchester, but he knew things would never be the same. He wouldn’t fall asleep to the familiar white noise, or wake up to the sound of him butchering Fleetwood Mac songs on the guitar. He’d forget Harry’s smell and all the ridiculous little face expressions he pulled when lying or laughing or being a menace. It suddenly felt like a deadline.

  Eventually, Harry got up and announced he’d make them something to eat before they went out. Louis figured that was his cue to shower and throw on warmer clothes, seeing as night was creeping in.

  When he came back out, hair still damp and socks mismatched, the kitchen smelled like 
  
    chicken
  
  . Proper meal chicken. Roast-something-with-herbs chicken. “Thought you’d do, like, sandwiches or  noodles or something,” Louis said, wandering in with suspicion in his eyes. “Not an actual f@ck@ng meal.”

  “You have to eat properly before drinking,” Harry replied, deadly serious.

  Louis blinked. “Thanks, Mum.”

  “That’s the opposite of what they call me,” Harry said with a giggle, setting the plates on the table.

  “Jesus! Stop with the s@x innuendos,” Louis gasped, clutching his metaphorical pearls. “You’re a child!”

  “I turn twenty-one next month, actually.”

  “You do? When?”

  “February first,” Harry said, pausing just before sitting down across from him.

  Louis looked down at the plate in front of him, eyebrows raised. Despite being a child, Harry could cook. And not just “student cook” either. Real meals, with flavour and balance and zero ketchup involved. Unlike Liam and Niall, whose idea of a culinary masterpiece was toast. Louis himself had given up after one traumatising attempt involving a fire alarm.

  “Lou! Wait! I just remembered something—don’t touch your food yet!” Harry yelped before sprinting off toward their room, nearly slipping on the kitchen rug like some cartoon idiot. Louis blinked after him, left alone in front of two steaming plates of food and absolutely no explanation.

  He returned seconds later, panting and grinning, with something clutched behind his back.

  “What’s this?” Louis asked warily as Harry revealed a neatly wrapped gift.

  “A birthday present,” he said, handing it to Louis. “Wrapped it myself. Open it!”

  Louis squinted at him. “What? Why’d you get me a gift? You already paid for our lunch the other day, that was more than enough.”

  “That doesn’t count,” Harry waved off, already bouncing in place. “I didn’t even know it was your birthday that day. Go on. Open it.”

  With a slow grin spreading on his face, Louis stared at the wrapping, his heart softening as he started peeling it back. There was something about the way Harry was watching him. Eventually, the paper fell away and Louis found himself holding a book. 
  
    An Introduction to the History of Psychology.
  

  His brows rose in surprise. “Seriously?”

  Harry shrugged with a crooked smile. “I don’t really know if you’ll like it, but I thought it might be 
  
    useful
  
  .”

  Sweet, sweet Harry. Always somehow paying attention when no one thought he was.

  Without overthinking it, Louis stood and pulled him into a hug, a proper one. Tight and warm, like a thank you that couldn’t be put into words. They’d been getting good at this hugging thing lately, and it didn’t feel weird anymore. It felt as natural as gravity.

  For a few seconds, he just stayed there, breathing in the comfort of Harry’s arms, the familiar scent of soap and whatever he used on his curls, and that was easily the best part of his day.'
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