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Harry learned Louis’s schedule without ever meaning to.
It had started with patterns—the way Tuesdays and Thursdays always seemed to bend around the same hour, the same bench outside the humanities building where the afternoon light fell soft and gold. Louis was always there, laughing too loudly, leaning back on his hands like the world had never once asked anything hard of him.
And she was always with him.
She looked exactly like the kind of girl songs were written about. Long blonde hair that caught the sun like it had been designed for it. Long legs that made everything else feel shorter in comparison. Lips that curved naturally into something between a smile and a secret. Lashes so long they cast shadows when she looked down at her phone, and then when she looked back up at him.
Harry hated that he noticed.
He hated that he noticed everything.
They didn’t touch much—nothing that would let people point and say there it is. Sometimes her knee brushed his. Sometimes she leaned in close to say something, and Louis tilted his head down, like listening was an intimate act. Sometimes she laughed and reached for his arm, and Louis let her. He always let her.
No one really knew what they were.
That somehow made it worse.
Because if they had been together, Harry could have named it. He could have put the hurt somewhere specific. He could have told himself he was late, that he had missed the moment where this might have been possible. Instead, it sat loose and undefined in his chest, heavy and constant.
Everyone watched them. Everyone envied them. Two beautiful people orbiting each other like it was inevitable.
Harry pretended he didn’t.
He sat a few rows back in lectures, eyes fixed on his notes while Louis’s voice carried easily across the room—warm and familiar in a way it had no right to be. Harry knew the sound of his laugh better than he knew the material he had to study. He knew the way Louis ran a hand through his hair when he was thinking. Knew the exact slope of his shoulders under soft jumpers and worn jackets.
Harry didn’t want the girl.
Not really.
He wanted to know what it was like to be the one Louis looked at the way he looked at her—easy, open, like there had never been any question of staying. He wanted to be chosen without anyone needing to lower their voice about it.
So instead, he watched.
And he ached quietly, carefully, as if keeping it small enough might keep anyone from seeing how badly it hurt.
Niall was the one who noticed Harry’s crush first.
“Y’know,” he said one afternoon, sliding into the seat beside Harry with a thud and a grin that already promised trouble, “if you stare any harder, he’s gonna start charging rent.”
Harry didn’t look away from the quad. Louis was there, sprawled on the grass now, Zayn and Liam flanking him like they always did. Someone had a speaker going low between them. The girl sat cross-legged near Louis, her blonde hair falling down her back, her friends clustered just behind her, all of them easy with laughter and sun-warmed skin.
“I’m not staring,” Harry said.
Niall snorted. “You’re studying, you’re right. There’s a difference.”
Harry finally glanced at him, unimpressed. “You’re meant to be on my side.”
“I am,” Niall said easily. “That’s why I’m telling you before you start writing poetry about his collarbones.”
Harry huffed despite himself, dropping his gaze to the coffee cup in his hands. The lid was warm. Too warm. He’d been holding it too long.
Across the quad, Louis laughed—head thrown back, mouth open, unguarded. Zayn said something that made Liam groan dramatically, and the girl leaned forward to add her own comment, gesturing with her hands. Louis turned towards her without hesitation, attention snapping into place like muscle memory.
Harry felt it then. That familiar, stupid twist low in his chest.
“They’re not even together,” Niall said, quieter now.
Harry blinked. “What?”
Niall shrugged, eyes still forward. “At least that’s what I heard. Apparently, the flat’s a mess. People coming and going. Zayn sleeps on the couch half the time, and Liam swears there is nothing official between Louis and her.”
Harry watched as the girl bumped Louis’s shoulder with hers, laughing again. Louis didn’t move away.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Harry said. He meant to say it as a fact, not a protest.
“Sure,” Niall replied. “Whatever you say, H.”
Harry shot him a look, and Niall just smiled at him.
Louis’s group began to shift then—bags slung over shoulders, drinks tossed, Zayn standing first and stretching like a cat. Louis followed, pulling himself to his feet with easy grace before extending a hand to the girl, who gladly took it as she brushed grass from her legs with her other hand.
For a brief, dangerous second, Louis’s gaze lifted.
Harry froze.
It wasn’t long. barely a glance, even. But Louis’s eyes passed over the quad and landed on him, just for a moment. Louis smiled, small and quick, like a reflex.
Harry forgot how to breathe.
He looked around to see if he’d mistaken the glace, if there had been anyone else around him Louis’s smile could be directed to, but there was no one. Just Niall, who had his back turned to Louis, so it definitely couldn’t have been directed at the Irishman.
Then Zayn said something, Liam laughed, and Louis turned his back to Harry as if nothing had happened.
Niall had been studying Harry during the quick exchange of glances, and he spoke the moment Harry’s eyes met his again, “Jesus,” he muttered, “Louis’s lethal if he can make you act like that.”
Harry swallowed. “He looked at me.”
“Figured.”
“He doesn’t mean anything by it, though.”
“Maybe not,” Niall said. “Maybe he did. You, however, have got a lecture to get to, and I’ve got a moral obligation to stop you from staring into the middle distance like a tragic indie film protagonist.”
Harry stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
He followed the stream of students toward the lecture hall, letting the crowd carry him along, letting it put distance between him and the sight of Louis walking ahead with that effortless ease. Zayn said something at Louis’s shoulder that made him laugh again, bright and unguarded, and the blonde girl drifted close, her stride matching his like it was an instinct.
Harry looked away before the ache in his chest could sharpen.
The lecture hall was already half full, warm with bodies and low conversation. Harry slipped into a seat a few rows from the back, far enough away to feel invisible, close enough that he could still see the slope of Louis’s shoulders when he leaned forward. Louis and his friends took their usual spot nearer the middle. Zayn dropped into a chair with a dramatic stretch. Liam kicked Louis’s foot lightly under the desk. And the girl sat down beside Louis, her long blonde hair spilling over the back of her chair, long legs crossed with grace. She smiled and laughed as Louis made a comment, nothing over the top, but still, Harry noticed it. Harry noticed everything.
He opened his notebook and took out a pen to write and start taking notes—not that he’d be taking notes, he never did when Louis was in the lecture hall. He tried, he really did, but when Louis was near, there was nothing else Harry could focus on.
The lecturer began speaking. Words formed and passed through the room without ever really reaching him. Harry’s pen moved anyway; he wasn’t taking notes; instead, the entire page was slowly being filled by mindless doodling.
He watched the way Louis listened—chin tipped down, brow probably faintly furrowed. He watched the girl lean in to murmur something, her mouth close to his ear. Louis smiled, soft and reflexive, not even looking at her properly this time; he was too busy actually paying attention to the lecturer, unlike Harry.
Harry’s chest tightened.
It wasn’t that he wanted her. Not at all, actually. It was worse than that. He wanted to know what it felt like to be her—to be the person Louis’s attention settled on without effort, to be close enough that his smile felt earned instead of observed.
The thought came uninvited, uncomfortable and honest: he hated how easily she made Louis smile. Hated that something as small as a glance or a laugh could feel like a rush and a loss all at once.
Time passed strangely. The lecture blurred.
Halfway through, as the room shifted and chairs creaked, Harry became aware of a presence beside him. Not abrupt. Just… there. Familiar in a way that made his shoulders loosen before he’d fully registered it.
He turned.
Niall sat two seats over, slouched comfortably whilst taking notes of the slides and what the lecturer had been talking about.
Harry frowned. Then frowned harder.
“You don’t—” he whispered, leaning closer. “You don’t even take this class.”
Niall didn’t look at him; he kept writing. “Mm.”
Harry stared. “Niall.”
Niall finally glanced over, mouth quirking. “We’re about thirty minutes in, and you finally noticed. Well done, H.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Auditing,” Niall answered shortly before letting out a laugh. “Initially, I was keeping an eye on you,” Niall said easily. “You wandered off looking like you were about to emotionally self-destruct. Thought I’d supervise.”
Harry scoffed quietly. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are,” Niall replied. “And I’m the lecturer.”
Harry looked forward again, heat creeping up his neck. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Protective,” Niall corrected. “There’s a difference. Also, I took notes for you since you were too busy staring at the back of Tomlinson’s head. No idea what any of it means, but yeah, I hope you can use it.”
Niall handed Harry the notes, and Harry stared at them, amazed by all the things Niall had picked up on.
At the front, the lecturer paused to ask a question. No one answered. Louis leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out beneath the desk. The girl shifted too, their knees brushing briefly. She didn’t move away.
Harry felt it like a dull thud behind his ribs.
He imagined, helplessly, what it would be like to sit there instead. To feel that casual closeness. To be the one Louis turned toward when he laughed, the one he listened to without effort. To be beautiful in the way that seemed to make the world open for her.
The wanting sat heavy and strange in his chest—not sharp enough to be dramatic, just constant, like a low ache he couldn’t ease.
Beside him, Niall nudged his foot lightly against Harry’s. A warning. A tether to the here and now.
He didn’t want to want this. Didn’t want to measure himself against someone who hadn’t done anything wrong. But the feeling lingered anyway, quiet and persistent—the kind that stayed even when you wished it wouldn’t.
And no matter how hard he tried to focus, his attention kept drifting forward, back to Louis, and to the girl who had no idea she was being wished into someone else’s skin.
The thought unsettled him more the longer it lingered.
It wasn’t just that she was close to Louis. It was that whatever closeness existed there seemed transferable, like it left a trace. Harry found himself wondering what it would feel like to touch something that had already known Louis—to brush against whatever warmth, whatever familiarity, she carried with her simply by being near him. The idea was uncomfortable and intimate and entirely uninvited.
He pressed his pen harder into the page, grounding himself in the space of ink against paper. He couldn’t get her off his mind.
Louis shifted again, resting his forearms on the desk now, shoulders relaxed. The girl leaned inslgihtly, her mouth close to his ear once again, and whatever she said this time made him smile once more—not wide, not performative, just soft around the edges and genuine. Like it belonged to a private version of him, Harry never quite got to see.
Something twisted low in Harry’s chest.
The lecturer’s voice filled the room again, steady and measured, but it barely registered. Dates blurred. Names slipped away as soon as they were spoken. Harry’s focus kept on drifting forward, caught on the easy line of Louis’s shoulders, on the way he sat like he belonged wherever he was.
The girl leaned back into her chair, close enough that her arm brushed Louis’s again. Harry imagined—helplessly—what it must feel like to be near. To know the small, ordinary details of him. To hear the quiet versions of his laughter, the ones that didn’t need an audience.
He wondered what it would be like to be close enough to Louis that his presence lingered. That it stayed with you even when he wasn’t looking. Like a taste you couldn’t quite place, familiar and intimate all at once.
The thought made his throat tighten.
Harry forced his eyes on his notebook again, the page swimming slightly, the doodles staring right back at him. He pressed his pen harder than necessary into the paper, grounding himself in the motion. Still, the wanting persisted—quiet, insistent, settling into him like something he’d have to learn to live with.
The lecture drew toward its end. Chairs creaked. People shifted. Someone coughed near the back. At the front, Louis laughed softly at something Liam murmured to him, the sound barely audible, meant just for the people around him.
Harry felt it land anyway.
The lecturer finally wrapped up, announcing the end with a practised efficiency. The room erupted into movement. Bags zipped. Notebooks were being put away. Louis stood with his friends, waiting until the other people in their row had left. The girl’s hand brushed Louis’s arm as she got up. Louis took her bag and waited until she was ready to go as well.
Harry stayed seated for a moment longer.
He watched as Louis gathered his things last, listened as Zayn said something that made him grin again. The girl leaned close once more, their heads angled towards each other, sharing a space that felt closed to everyone else.
Harry’s chest ached—not sharply like before, not enough to break him open completely, but just enough to hurt in that slow, enduring way. Like wanting something you knew you couldn’t ask for. Like standing close to warmth you weren’t meant to touch.
Beside him, Niall shifted, standing and waiting without comment.
Harry rose at last and followed him out into the corridor, the noise of the hallway swallowing the quiet of the lecture hall behind them. Somewhere ahead, Louis’s laughter carried briefly before fading into the crowd.
Harry let it go.
Or tried to.
The ache lingered anyway, it always did—the impossible wish to be closer, to be chosen, to be the one Louis leaned toward without thinking. And as he walked away, it stayed with him, heavy and unresolved, like a longing that had nowhere to land.
Harry didn’t go straight home after his final class.
The walk back toward the halls felt too quiet, and his thoughts were too loud at the moment, so he veered off toward the small coffee shop tucked between the library and the sports centre. It was busy in that soft, end-of-day way—low music, steam hissing, people half-slumped over laptops or talking in murmurs.
He pulled his phone out as he queued and typed quickly.
— You want anything? I’m at Sip Happens
The replies came only moments later.
Just tea, thanks. Yorkshire, dash of milk, please. —
You’re a saint, H, compared to my seminar of HELL. —
See you in a bit :) —
Harry smiled faintly and ordered a matcha latte for himself, something warm, green and grounding. A lot of people claimed it tasted like grass, and maybe in a way it did; it definitely had something herby, but Harry didn’t mind that.
The barista called his name, handed over the cups, and Harry took a seat by the window, shrugging out of his jacket and setting Niall’s tea carefully on the table.
Outside, students passed in loose groups, laughter floating in and out as the door opened and closed. Harry pulled his notebook from his bag and flipped it open, telling himself—firmly—that he was going to study.
For a few minutes, he even managed it. Going over Niall’s notes and checking their accuracy in his course book. He added a few notes here and there. His pen moved steadily, the scratch of it soothing his mind a little. But then his focus slipped, as it always did, drifting black to the same place it usually did.
Louis.
Louis’s eyes. Louis’s laugh. Louis’s smile.
The way softened when the girl leaned close.
The closeness itself—casual and unquestioned.
Harry stared at the page, the ache resurfacing quietly.
Without quite realising he was doing it, his pen moved again, this time writing something that didn’t belong to the lecture at all. A line that had been circling his thoughts all afternoon, insistent and intimate and a little humiliating perhaps.
I want to taste her lips, yeah, ‘cause they taste like you.
He froze as soon as the words were down.
Harry stared at them, heart thudding, like the page had betrayed him. He shut the notebook halfway, then opened it again, as if that might make the sentence disappear.
It didn’t.
He exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. Wanting like this felt ridiculous when it was written out. Too honest. Too close to the truth, he kept trying not to name.
The bell above the door chimed.
Harry barely noticed it at first. He was still staring at the notebook, still caught on the memory of that smile—the softer one, the kind Louis only seemed to wear when he was with his closest friends.
Then a voice spoke, tentative, like it was testing the shape of a name.
“Harry?”
Harry’s head shot up. Louis was standing just inside the doorway, near his table, one hand hooked awkwardly into the strap of his bag. His hair was still damp, messy in a way that suggested he’d rushed straight from something physical. Football practice, in Louis’s case. He looked warm, flushed and a little dishevelled. Harry blinked, caught somewhere between disbelief and panic.
And for a good second, Harry honestly thought he might be imagining him.
“Oh,” he said, far too quietly. “Hi… uh, hi.”
Louis gave a small, hesitant smile, like he wasn’t entirely sure he should be smiling at all. “Sorry—that is your name, right? Zayn’s mentioned it a few times, he’s tight with your mate… the uh… Irishlad,” Louis said, seemingly trying his best to remember Niall’s name.
“Niall,” Harry answered quickly, fidgeting with the edge of his notebook.
“Your name?” Louis then asked, brow furrowed; he was visibly confused.
Harry’s stomach sank. Of course, this was going wonderfully. Perfect first impression. “I—uh—no, you were right. I’m Harry. Niall’s my friend. The one who’s friends with your friend,” Harry furrowed his brows together, noticing how he made the conversation even more confusing.
“Right,” Louis said, visibly relieved. “Good. Got it. Harry.”
Harry nodded and forced himself to smile, all nerves and awkward city charm bundled into one.
Louis shifted his weight then, wincing faintly. “Well, Harry—oh god, this is random, I think I’ve pulled a muscle at training earlier. Would you mind if I sat for a bit? Just till it eases.”
Harry’s brain stalled completely.
Every instinct screamed at him to say something—to be normal, to not stare like this was the first time he’d ever seen another human being. His pulse thudded in his ears.
“Yeah,” he managed. “Yeah, of course. Please.”
Louis let out a breath that sounded like relief and slid into the chair opposite him, moving carefully. Up close, he smelled faintly of soap and something clean and familiar, like warm skin and fresh air. Harry’s matcha and Niall’s tea sat between them, almost forgotten.
“Thanks,” Louis said, easing back. “Didn’t fancy limping all the way home.”
Harry nodded, fingers tightening around his cup just to keep them steady. His notebook lay open on the table between them.
He hoped—desperately—that Louis hadn’t noticed what was written there.
Harry noticed how Louis’s eyes flicked down, and he hoped they wouldn’t stop to read his notebook. Thankfully, Louis’s eyes stopped at the cup of tea that was meant for Niall. His brow quirked in that way that suggested he was trying to figure something out. “That’s… yours too?” he asked cautiously, nodding toward the tea, his eyes shifting between the tea and the cup Harry was holding in his hands.
Harry quickly shook his head, cheeks heating slightly. “No, no, it’s not for me, it’s for Niall. He’s still stuck in a seminar, so he won’t be here for a while.”
Louis leaned back slightly, studying the cup. “You sure, ‘cause if he’s coming soon, I really don’t want to impose and sit in his seat.”
“You’re good—you’re fine, totally chill,” Harry quickly said, cringing at himself for saying that.
Louis then studied him, his eyes scanning Harry’s face before letting out a gentle chuckle. It was one of the best sounds Harry had heard in his entire life. His cheeks heated up even more, and he desperately hoped Louis didn’t notice.
“Yorkshire tea,” Harry then announced, not really understanding why he started presenting the tea to Louis as if it were a class assignment. “It’s Yorkshire tea with a dash of milk.” He finished his sentence.
Louis let out another chuckle, and Harry felt like he was about to combust. He hated that everything Louis did was so incredibly attractive.
“That’s my usual, too,” Louis then announced. “Weird coincidence.”
Harry felt a little thrill run through him. He hadn’t expected that to land, hadn’t expected any connection at all. Before he could stop himself, words tumbled out. “I mean… You can have it if you want. I mean—he’s not here, so… it’s just sitting there, getting cold and all that.”
Louis hesitated, giving him a small, incredulous smile. “I wouldn’t want to take someone else’s drink,” Louis answered him.
Harry blinked, momentarily flustered by the eye contact Louis was keeping with him. “It’s fine. Really. I insist.”
Louis raised an eyebrow, teasing but careful. “You insist?”
Harry nodded, voice just a little too quick. “Yes. Please, take it.”
Louis’s lips tugged into a small smile, and after a brief pause, he reached out and took the cup. He held it carefully, as though it might vanish if he wasn’t gentle. “Well… thank you,” he said quietly before taking a sip. “I’d probably have added a bit of sugar, but that’s just my personal taste.”
It was Harry’s turn to smile then, he now knew Louis’s tea order. “Noted,” he said.
Louis glanced at the green drink that Harry was holding. “And yours?”
Harry shrugged, a little embarrassed, twisting the lid between his fingers. “Matcha latte. Thought I’d treat myself.”
Louis tilted his head, curiosity flickering across his face. “Matcha… huh? Never tried it properly, I don’t think. Is it… strong?”
“It’s… earthy,” Harry said, choosing his words carefully, “and a bit sweet. Well, I have it with oat milk, so it’s creamy too.”
“The girls have it like that too, sometimes,” Louis then said. “Oat milk, a little sweetness… guess it’s a bit of a trend.”
Harry stiffened. His chest tightened. He tried to laugh it off lightly, twisting the lid between his fingers again. “Yeah, must be… very trendy.”
Louis tilted his head, studying him like he was trying to see something deeper. “It’s a nice touch, I suppose. Creamy. Softens the bitterness, doesn’t it?”
Harry’s stomach churned. That was exactly it. That’s why she drank it like that. That’s why she always had that easy way of making him laugh, of making Louis smile without even trying. And Harry hated that he wanted that so badly. Wanted to have it, to be that person—the one who could make Louis relax, who could make his smile soft instead of sharp or distracted.
“I just… like the flavour,” Harry said quickly, not meeting Louis’s gaze. “It’s comforting.”—unlike the direction this conversation had taken.
Louis smiled faintly. “I suppose so.” He took another slow sip. “I guess it’s funny, isn’t it? I’ve got the same order as your mate, and you’ve got the same as the girls.”
Harry’s chest constricted. He wanted to argue, to say that it wasn’t the same at all—well, it was, but all the layers beneath it told a different story. It would never be the same, because no matter how many matcha lattes with oat milk he had, he would never be her. He would never be the girl with the long blonde hair, the midnight smile, the magic touch that somehow made Louis unwind without even trying. Not the girls who always seemed to occupy the space Louis gave effortlessly, like she had a private key to him.
He wanted to be that. And it made him ache.
He swallowed, eyes flicking down to the notebook he’d left open. Louis’s eyes then seemed to follow Harry’s, and he could feel Louis reading the line in the notebook.
I want to taste her lips, yeah, ‘cause they taste like you.
“Oh,” Louis said slowly, reading the line aloud, just above a murmur. “Quite the poet, I see. Anyone in particular that this is about?”
Harry’s face went hot. His chest felt hollow, and for a long second, he didn’t know what to do, how even to respond. He had no words that wouldn’t betray him completely.
Louis held his gaze for a moment, quiet, patient. Then he leaned back, a soft shrug accompanying a small, understanding smile.
“You’ve got every right to keep that information to yourself, you know.”
Harry blinked, relief and shame warring in equal measure.
If Louis only knew.
Louis leaned a little closer, voice dropping. “I hate it when people ask me about… friendships. Like, with Diana, for instance. They try to pry, and it’s simply exhausting. Sometimes it’s better to just… keep things private.”
Harry nodded slowly, still hammering, but grateful. There was no teasing here, no pressing, just understanding, and that’s probably what hurt Harry the most. Louis felt the same thing, except it wasn’t for him.
The ache stayed. Worsened.
Because even though Louis didn’t press, even though he gave Harry the room to retreat into himself, Harry couldn’t stop wanting. Couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like to be her—the one who got the comfort, the closeness, the small, effortless pieces of him that were never meant for anyone else.
He took a sip of his matcha, too bitter, too sweet, too comforting—and for a moment, Harry let himself pretend that maybe, just maybe, it was enough to be near him. Even if it wasn’t.
Louis’s gaze drifted from the notebook back to the table, lingering there just long enough for Harry’s stomach to knot. Then his eyes caught on the edge of the coursework book that was peeking out from underneath the notebook.
“Wait,” Louis said, frowning slightly. “Is that Critical Theory B?”
Harry blinked, pulled back into the room. “Yeah.”
Louis’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re in that lecture too?”
Harry nodded. “Same one. Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
Louis let out a soft, incredulous laugh, tipping his head back against the chair. “You’re kidding. I didn’t understand a word of it today.”
Something loosened in Harry’s chest at that—the small, ridiculous relief of realising Louis wasn’t effortlessly good at everything, too.
“You’re not alone in that,” Harry said, trying to remember what the lecture had even been about. “It was… a lot.”
Louis huffed. “That’s one way of putting it. I genuinely thought my brain had switched off. Halfway through, I was staring at the slides like they were written in another language.”
Harry thought back to the lecture earlier that day—the way the words had blurred together, the lecturer’s voice turning into background noise as his attention kept drifting forward. Louis leaning back in his chair. Diana’s knee brushing his. That soft smile Harry couldn’t stop replaying in his mind. He’d been there physically, doodling in his notebook, but his mind had been somewhere else entirely.
“I didn’t do much better,” Harry admitted. “I was… distracted.”
Louis glances at him, curious but not pressing. “Fair. I tried asking Diana about it during the lecture. She explained some of it—helped a bit. Still feels like I missed something obvious, though.”
Harry nodded, even as something twisted low in his chest. He could picture it too easily—Diana leaning in, whispering explanations, Louis turning toward her without thinking. Of course, she’d make sense of it. Of course, he’d listen.
“It might click later,” Harry said. “Sometimes it does.”
“I definitely hope that happens,” Louis replied, smiling like the possibility didn’t bother him much. He never seemed too concerned with how he was perceived—content to let people think he was clever or clueless or something in between.
Harry wondered what that would feel like. To exist without constantly measuring himself against someone else.
Louis glanced down at his leg again, rolling his ankle slightly, testing it. Whatever tension had been sitting there earlier seemed to have eased a little.
“Feels a bit better,” he said, more to himself than anyone else, but Harry heard it. Harry then noticed the bell over the door chiming again, and he looked up.
Niall stood just inside the café, scanning the room the way he always did, eyes bright and curious, scarf half-undone around his neck. His gaze landed on Harry first—relief flickering there—and then shifted.
To Louis.
There was a brief, unmistakable pause.
Louis straightened immediately, pushing his chair back with care. “That him?” he asked, nodding lightly in Niall’s direction.
Harry nodded. “Yeah.”
Louis picked up the empty cup, then hesitated. “I should probably sort him another tea, shouldn’t I? I kind of nicked this one.”
“Oh, you don’t have to. I insisted,” Harry said quickly, even as part of him wanted to cling to the moment, to keep Loui sitting there just a little longer.
Louis smiled. “It’s alright. I’ve already overstayed.”
He limped only slightly as he crossed the café, the movement looser now, less careful. Harry watched him go, his chest tightening in that familiar way—the awareness that this was ending, that whatever fragile bubble had formed between them was already thinning.
Niall approached the table slowly, eyes flicking between Harry and Louis, who was currently ordering.
“... What did I miss?” he asked, low.
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. His thoughts were still tangled up in lecture halls, green matcha and the way Louis had come in asking to sit down. It was a lot.
“He pulled a muscle at training,” Harry said finally. “Asked if he could sit.”
Niall blinked. “Right.”
Louis then returned a moment later, setting a fresh cup of tea down in front of Niall. “Yorkshire tea, dash of milk, yeah?”
Niall looked up at him, clearly caught off guard, then smiled. “Yeah. Thanks, man.”
Louis nodded, easy. “No worries. Nicked yours, so I figured I owed you one.”
He turned back to Harry, addressing him again. “I should head off before it stiffens up again.”
Harry’s fingers curled lightly around his own cup. “Yeah. Of course.”
Louis hesitated—just a fraction—his gaze flicking briefly to the open notebook, then back at Harry’s face. Whatever he might have been thinking, he didn’t say it.
“See you in the lecture,” he said instead, that small, private smile returning.
“See you,” Harry replied, voice quieter than he meant it to be.
Louis left, the bell chiming softly behind him and marking his departure as final.
For a moment, Harry just sat there, staring at the door and then at the empty chair opposite him. It still felt warm somehow, like proof that the last half hour hadn’t been something he’d imagined. His chest ached with it—the closeness, the almost, the knowledge that Louis would walk back into his life again next week like none of this had mattered. Like it hadn’t meant anything. And to Louis, it probably hadn’t. But to Harry, this brief exchange meant everything.
Niall slid into the empty chair Louis had been sitting in earlier, wrapping both hands around the fresh cup of tea like he was anchoring himself there. He didn’t rush it. Just looked at Harry over the rim, eyes soft, observant in that way that always makes Harry feel both seen and gently exposed.
“So,” Niall said at last. “You alright?”
Harry nodded again, automatically. The motion felt hollow. His chest still felt too full, like something had been lodged there and forgotten.
“Louis just—” Niall started, then stopped himself. “What did he want, exactly?”
Harry shrugged, eyes dropping to the table. “I told you, he pulled a muscle at training and asked if he could sit there. That’s it.”
“H, I’ve known you longer than today,” Niall said, pointing out that Harry wasn’t telling him everything. “So?”
Harry sighed. The truth of it was that nothing really happened at all. He’d talked about class, overthought everything Louis said, felt ashamed for feeling so much toward Diana, who had done nothing wrong in truth.
“He was nice,” Harry said quietly. “Kind. Normal. Like it wasn’t a big deal at all.”
Niall nodded slowly. “Okay.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the low hum of the café filling the gaps. Harry stared at the condensation on the cup, tracing the path of a droplet with his eyes.
“We talked about coffee or tea orders for a bit,” Harry then let on. “He mentioned her a few times, but didn’t give anything away. Maybe that’s the worst part.”
Niall’s mouth twitched. “When is it ever easy?”
Harry huffed a weak laugh, then fell quiet again. The truth sat just beneath the surface—how the pining had been seeping into everything lately. Lectures he could no longer focus on. Notes that didn’t make sense. Thoughts looping back to the same impossible place.
“I can’t concentrate,” he admitted finally. “Not in lectures. Not now. My head just… goes.”
Niall followed Harry’s gaze, and that was when his eyes landed on the open notebook.
He didn’t read it straight away. Just tilted his head slightly, then gently tapped the edge of the page with one finger.
Harry’s stomach dropped.
He reached forward instinctively, half-closing the notebook, but it was too late. The line sat there, unmistakable. Private. Exposed.
Niall, knowing about Harry’s inner turmoil, looked back up at him, his expression careful. “You don’t have to explain it,” he said quickly. “I’m just… checking in, H.”
Harry swallowed. Words crowded his throat, useless and tangled. He didn’t know how to explain wanting something that wasn’t meant for him. Wanting someone in a way that twisted sideways, that madehim wish he could step out of himself and into someone else’s skin.
“ I don’t know,” he said, finally. It felt like the only honest answer he had.
Niall studied him for a beat longer, then leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Right,” he said. “New plan then.”
Harry blinked. “What?”
“We’re not studying,” Niall said decisively. “You’re having a rubbish day, and pretending this”—he gestured vaguely at the notebook—“is going to go anywhere is a lie.”
Harry let out a small, tired breath. “You sure?”
“Absolutely,” Niall said. “We can sit. We can drink. I can talk absolute nonsense if required.”
That earned him a faint smile.
They stayed there, shoulder to shoulder in silence broken only by Niall’s occasional, deliberately stupid commentary about the café music or the bloke at the next table who kept stirring his coffee like it had personally offended him. Harry appreciated it—the effort, the steadiness of having someone beside him who didn’t need explanations.
Still, his mind wandered.
Back to Louis. To the way he’d spoken about people prying, about him and Diana, as if it were something he’d grown used to. Like he didn’t mind being misunderstood, or maybe just didn’t care enough to correct it. Harry couldn’t decide which was worse.
He wondered what it meant. What Louis let people believe. What he kept to himself.
Across the table, Niall bumped his foot lightly against Harry’s, grounding him.
Harry looked up, grateful, even as the questions kept circling in his mind—quiet, insistent and unresolved.
And he knew, with a sinking certainty, that this wasn’t going to pass quickly.
The weekend passed slowly, as if it were resisting him.
Harry tried to fill it the way he always did—laundry done too late on Saturday, half-hearted attempts at reading, a walk he didn’t need just to get out of the flat. Niall drifted in and out, noise and warmth and distractions Harry appreciated but couldn’t fully hold onto. Everything felt slightly muted, like he was moving through a version of his life turned down a notch.
Louis kept finding him anyway.
Louis in the coffee shop, specifically. Harry replayed the way Louis had sat across from him, the way his voice had softened when he spoke about people prying, the easy kindness of him offering to replace Niall’s tea without being asked. None of it had been remarkable in isolation. That was the problem. Louis had done nothing special at all—and yet Harry kept returning to it, turning it over in his mind, searching for something hidden in the ordinary.
He caught himself wondering what Diana had said to Louis during the lecture. Whether she’d leaned in the same way she always did. Whether she’d smiled when she explained things, like she knew he’d listen to her even when he didn’t understand. Harry hated how clearly he could imagine it—her blonde hair falling forward, her voice low and patient, Louis angled toward her without thinking.
Harry wanted to be her.
He so badly wanted to be her.
The thought unsettled him every time it surfaced, but it never stayed away for long. He wondered what it would feel like to exist in the world the way she did—to move without hesitation, to take up space beside Louis as if it was a given. To have his attention rest on you so naturally that it didn’t need to be earned.
Sunday evening, he sat on his bed with his notebook open, pen hovering uselessly above the page. He’d written a few lines—fragments, really—then crossed them out again. Everything circled back to the same place. Wanting. Watching. Standing just outside something warm and bright, close enough to feel it, never close enough to step inside.
By Monday, the ache had settled into something duller but no less present. It followed him into lectures, into conversations, into the spaces between things. He tried to focus in class, tried to listen, but his mind drifted forward anyway—to the middle rows of the lecture hall, to where Louis usually sat, legs stretched out, attention half-there and half-elsewhere.
He told himself not to look.
He looked anyway.
Louis was there.
Nothing remarkable about it—just his usual presence, familiar now in a way that unsettled Harry. He sat with his friends, Diana close behind him, her knee angled toward his, her hair falling forward as she laughed at something Zayn said. Harry forced his eyes back to the front, his chest brightening with that familiar mix of longing and resignation.
Tuesday, however, was worse.
Harry noticed the absence immediately. The middle rows felt wrong, unfinished, like a sentence that had been cut off halfway through.
Louis wasn’t there.
The realisation landed quietly, but it stayed. Not sharp, not dramatic—just a slight disorientation, like a sound that should have been there and wasn’t. Harry’s eyes lingered on the empty seat longer than necessary before he forced them back to the front.
Harry wondered if Louis had texted Diana about his absence. If she had been the first person he’d thought to explain himself to. He pictures it too easily—a casual message, something light, something that didn’t need to be careful. Can’t make it today, maybe. Or training wrecked me. Diana then replied with someone easy and warm, the way she always responded, something that made Louis smile without her trying.
The thought sat heavy in Harry’s chest, uninvited and persistent.
The lecture went on without Louis. Words washed over Harry, as they so often did lately, dates and theories sliding past without leaving as much behind. He wrote them down anyway, pen moving out of habit rather than understanding, his handwriting uneven, drifting across the page like it couldn’t quite commit to staying in one place. None of it felt important enough to hold onto.
Every so often, he found himself glancing back toward the middle of the room again, like Louis might appear if he looked enough times—slipping in late, apologetic, dropping into his seat beside Diana and Zayn like he’d never been gone at all. Harry imagined the quiet relief that would follow, the way his body would settle without him even noticing.
But the seat stayed empty.
As the professor kept talking, Harry wondered what it would be like to be the reason someone noticed an absence. To be the person Louis reached for instinctively, without thinking. To have the kind of closeness that didn’t need to be earned or explained—just assumed.
He, once again, wondered what it would feel like to be her. Diana.
The thought made his throat tighten. Not jealously exactly—something quieter, something sadder. A wish to step sideways into another life, to wear someone else’s ease for just a moment and see what it felt like to be chosen without having to ask.
Harry looked forward again, eyes blurred slightly as the lecturer spoke on. He forced himself to keep writing, to stay where he was, even as his attention slipped away from him entirely.
Louis didn’t appear.
And the wanting stayed—unresolved, unshared, pressing gently but relentlessly against his ribs, like it always did.
The rest of Tuesday and Wednesday blurred together.
Harry carried Tuesday with him—the empty seat, the half-notes, the feeling of something missing he hadn’t had the right to miss in the first place. And so, by Wednesday, the ache had softened into something familiar, something he wore without thinking. He stopped expecting anything from it. Just let it sit.
Thursday came too quickly.
Harry arrived early, slipping into the lecture hall with his head down, choosing a seat further back than usual. He told himself it was practical—easier to leave, easier not to look—but he still felt it when he sat, the small withdrawal, the quiet hope being folded away.
The room filled slowly.
He kept his eyes on his bag as he unpacked, lining up his notebook and pen with unnecessary care. He didn’t look toward the middle rows.
He didn’t need to.
Louis was there.
Harry felt it before he saw him—that familiar shift in the room, the subtle re-centring of his attention. He glanced up despite himself.
Louis sat with his friends as usual, Diana beside him, close enough to matter. Her knee pressed against Louis’s. She leaned in to say something, her hand brushing his arm. Louis laughed, his head tipping back slightly, easy and unguarded.
Harry looked away.
The lecture began. He focused this time—or tried to. The words landed better than they had on Tuesday, but his attention still snagged on small things: Louis resting his chin in his hand, Diana nudging his knee under the desk, the way Louis looked over his shoulder a few times, unfocused, but searching.
Harry didn’t imagine it meant anything,
When the lecture endedm the room shifted all at once—voices started rising, the collective rush to leave palpable in the air. Harry packed up quickly, muscles tight with the familiar instinct to get out before his thoughts could catch up with him.
He stood, slung his bag over his shoulder, and turned toward the aisle.
“Harry.”
He stopped.
Louis stood only a few steps away, alone now, his friends already moving ahead. Up close again—too close—his expression was open, almost hesitant.
“Hey,” Louis said. “Sorry—I don’t mean to keep you, but have you got a minute?”
Harry nodded, heart thudding. “Yeah.”
Louis shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “I missed Tuesday’s lecture,” he said. “Training ran long the day before, muscles were absolutely burning by the end of it. Anyway, I was wondering if you had the notes? Just—” he gestured vaguely, “if that’s alright.”
For a second, Harry couldn’t speak.
This was nothing. He knew that. Simply a practical question, a normal interaction. Louis would’ve asked anyone, right?
Still, it settled in his chest like something precious.
“Yeah,” Harry said, voice steady despite himself. “Yeah, no, of course. I’ve got them.”
Louis smiled—the small, genuine one—as Harry quickly rummaged through his bag to find the notes he took on Tuesday, and then handed them over.
“Cheers. I owe you.”
Harry watched him turn back toward his friends, Diana waiting at the door, already mid-conversation. He caught a whiff of her perfume, an attractive scent, floral and not too sweet. Just enough to linger, to pull someone in, and Harry hated it. He hated that he wanted to drown himself in that perfume.
Harry stood there for a moment longer, the wanting rising up again—not louder, not sharper, just there.
Just enough.
The flat was quiet when they got back, the kind of quiet that settled in after a long day. Niall kicked his trainers off by the door and wandered into the kitchen, walking as he went—something about a seminar that had gone on too long, a tutor who refused to answer emails, the usual low-stakes grievances of university life.
Harry hummed in response from the sofa, bad at his feet, notes spread out in front of him. He stared at the page without really seeing it. The words blurred together, just shapes and lines, meaningless in the way they’d become lately.
Niall paused mid-sentence.
He turned, took Harry in properly—he way his shoulders were tense, the way his eyes kept drifting, unfocused, like he was somewhere else entirely.
“Alright,” Niall said gently. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”
Harry blinked. “Sorry.”
Niall walked over and sat on the arm of the sofa, folding his arms loosely. He studied Harry for a moment, then asked, quietly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world—
“Louis?”
Harry’s breath caught.
He nodded.
The ache surged then, sharp and sudden, like he’d pressed on a bruise he’d been pretending wasn’t there. His throat tightened, and he looked down at his hands, at the notes he’d taken today and the emptiness that the missing notes he’d given to Louis earlier today had left behind.
Niall didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
Harry swallowed, chest heavy with the truth of it—with the knowledge that Louis would never look at him the way he looked at Diana, that whatever warmth existed between them would always stop just short of where Harry wanted it to go.
He lifted his head and met Niall’s eyes. There was pain there, unhidden now, raw in its honesty.
“I got a girl crush.”
And that was all there was to say.