Chapter Text
“Cut!”
The rain stops mid-drop — or, more accurately, the lukewarm water spraying out of the rig above us shuts off — but Louis doesn’t step back. He’s still standing there, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else on Earth than three inches from my face.
“There’s no chemistry,” the director says flatly from behind the monitor. “None. It’s like watching two pieces of cardboard flirt.”
I arch a brow. “Maybe if my co-star didn’t flinch every time I touched him—”
Louis’s eyes narrow. “Maybe if you weren’t so—”
The director throws up his hands and storms over, clipboard clutched like a weapon. “This is supposed to be the romantic climax. You’ve known each other’s characters for two whole in-universe years. You’re supposed to be desperately in love by this point. You—” he jabs the clipboard toward Louis, “—look like you’re calculating the fastest way to set him on fire.”
Louis mutters, “Accurate.”
I grin. Can’t help it. He looks like he wants to bite me, and not in the good way, but the spark in his eyes is the most alive he’s looked all day.
“Alright,” the director sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “take ten. Try to remember you’re actors, not sworn enemies.”
As Louis turns to walk off set, I lean in just close enough for my voice to reach him. “Guess we’ll have to fake it, sweetheart.”
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t look back, but I catch the twitch in his shoulders — the tell that he heard me. That maybe, just maybe, I got under his skin. Good. This might actually be fun.
“Back to one!” the director shouts, clapping like we’re on some primary school field trip. Louis is already back at his mark, dripping water and glaring at the floor like it owes him money. He won’t look at me. Eye contact might be dangerous for him.
I take my place opposite, adjusting my shirt like I’ve got all the time in the world. “Action!”
We run the scene. I step closer, thumb brushing his jaw — a move I could sell to anyone else without trying. With Louis, it’s like flirting with a brick wall. A very pretty brick wall, but still. His mouth twitches, not in a cute way — more in a ‘God, I hate you way.’
We get halfway through before—“Cut!”
The director barrels over, shaking his head. “We’re changing the approach. Harry, Louis — I want you closer. No space. Harry, hand on his waist. Louis, hand on his chest. Hold it there. I need tension.”
Louis blinks, deadpan. “You want us to—”
“Yes, exactly that. Closer. Like you’re about to do something you shouldn’t.”
I smirk. “Hear that, sweetheart? You’re about to do something you shouldn’t.”
He ignores me, which is honestly adorable. We reset. His palm hovers over my chest like I’m contagious. I slide my hand to his waist, slow and deliberate, just enough pressure to make him notice.
“Action!”
This time, he looks at me like he’s debating murder. I give him my best grin, because I know the camera’s eating it up.
“Stop, stop, stop!” The director’s voice cracks through the set, sharp enough to slice through the fake rain and whatever half-baked moment we were supposed to be having. Louis and I pull apart instantly — well, he jerks back like I’ve just tried to set him on fire, and I take a casual step away.
“Maybe we need a break,” the director sighs, rubbing his temples. “Alright, one hour. Reset everything.”
The crew scatters like pigeons. In seconds, the cameras are powered down, the rain rig is off, and the set feels quieter, emptier. Everyone’s gone… except Louis. And me.
We’re still standing a little too close. I can see water dripping from the tips of his hair, his breathing still uneven from the scene. For a second, I almost say something, but then his hand shoves lightly at my chest.
“Get the fuck away from me,” he mutters, not even looking at me before turning and walking off. I grin to myself, because that right there? That’s a reaction. And getting a reaction out of Louis Tomlinson is my favorite new hobby.
I slip out the side door, tugging the joint from behind my ear and sparking it up. The air outside is thick with summer heat, the kind that makes the drenched clothes from our scene almost bearable. Almost. I settle onto one of the picnic tables, feet placed on the bench, letting the smoke curl from my lips.
The set’s just a few meters away, but out here it feels quieter, just the hum of traffic and the faint buzz of cicadas. The door swings open again. Louis steps out, running a hand through his wet hair, looking like he’d sell his soul for a dry shirt. He spots me, sighs like I’m personally ruining his day, and heads my way.
I turn lazily to look at him, blowing the smoke out in a slow stream, a smirk already pulling at my mouth.
Before I can get a word in, he says, “Is that supposed to make you look cool or just taller?”
I grin, leaning back on my hands. “Don’t need the table for that, baby. I’m already taller than you.”
“For fuck’s sake, will you stop calling me that?”
I shake my head, tapping ash to the ground. “Not a chance, love.”
The glare he gives me could probably kill a weaker man. Luckily for both of us, I’m not one.
“Smoking is bad for you, you know?” Louis says, folding his arms like he’s about to give me a lecture.
“I know,” I reply, exhaling another lazy stream of smoke toward the warm summer air.
“That stuff can kill you.”
“Nobody dies from weed,” I say with a shrug.
He opens his mouth like he’s about to snap back, but footsteps and excited voices cut him off. Two girls, maybe late teens, rush toward us with wide eyes and phones clutched in their hands. “Oh my God—hi! We didn’t think we’d actually run into you!”
I’m already sliding off the table, joint pinched between my fingers as I grin at them. “Well, lucky day, huh?”
They ask for autographs, and I take the paper and pen one of them offers. “Who should I make it out to?” I ask, scrawling my name with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this a million times. As I’m signing, one of them glances between me and Louis. “How’s the filming going?”
“It’s going pretty well, don’t you think, pretty boy?” I say, looking at Louis over the paper, smirking just enough to let him know I’m enjoying this way too much.
He stares at me, his irritation practically humming in the air, but I know he’s not going to make a scene in front of fans. He takes the pen when they offer it, signing quickly without even looking up.
“Could we maybe get a picture too?” one of them asks, eyes hopeful.
“Of course,” I say instantly, passing the joint to the table behind me and moving to stand beside Louis. He stiffens the second I’m close, which only makes me lean in just enough that the camera will catch it. My arm brushes his, and I flash my stage-perfect smile.
The girl snaps the photo, thanking us about three times before lowering her phone. “Louis, are you ever going to act in another horror movie?”
He shrugs, handing back the pen. “Possibly. It was fun.”
They turn to me, grinning like they’re about to stir trouble. “And Harry… when’s the album coming out?”
I smirk, lowering my voice like I’m letting them in on a secret. “Few more songs and it’ll be done by next month. But it’s our secret, okay?”
They giggle, nodding like they’ve just been handed state-classified information. “Bye! Thank you!” they call as they start walking off, still waving.
I wave back easily. “Anytime, love.”
Once they’re out of earshot, I reach over to pluck my joint off the table again, glancing at Louis just to catch the unimpressed look he’s wearing. I flick the ash from my joint and glance sideways at Louis. He’s still leaning against the table bench, arms folded, looking like he’s counting the minutes until he can escape me entirely.
“Why are you out here if you can’t stand me?” I ask, exhaling a slow curl of smoke.
“I wanted to dry my clothes a bit,” he says, his voice flat. I can tell he’s trying for cordial. Professional, even. Which is cute — and pointless. I’ve never been good at leaving him alone.
I smirk, take another drag, and lean back on the table. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you came out here for me.”
He gives me a look like I’ve just tracked mud across his carpet. “You’re so full of yourself it’s disgusting.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, already grinning because I can see him winding up.
“Maybe you wouldn’t have to write so many sad songs if you didn’t fuck half of Hollywood.”
“That’s a bold claim. Sounds like jealousy to me.”
Louis rolls his eyes. “Right. Because nothing’s sexier than a man who’s allergic to commitment.”
I tap ash to the ground, watching him. “Don’t worry, Hollywood doesn’t have anything I want right now.”
And for half a second, he freezes, like he’s not sure if that was just another smug quip, or if I meant something else entirely. Louis snorts. “Not sure if that’s meant to be an insult or a confession.”
I let my gaze drag over him, slow and deliberate — damp hair curling at his temples, T-shirt clinging to his shoulders, the faint crease between his brows that only shows up when I’ve really gotten to him. Definitely a confession.
“Confession,” I say easily, smirking. “Shame though, I would’ve written you something pretty, baby.”
His jaw tightens. Which is exactly the reaction I was going for. Louis’s mouth curls into something between a sneer and a smile. “I’ve heard enough about Heartbreak Harry to know better.”
I tip my head, grin widening. “Enough to know, or enough to be curious, love?”
He exhales sharply, like he’s trying to rid the air of me entirely, but I catch the flicker in his eyes before he turns away looking out into the sky. Louis rolls his eyes, stepping just far enough away to make it clear he’s done with this conversation. “The day I’m curious about you is the day hell freezes over.”
I smirk, leaning back on my hands. “I could make that happen for you. You underestimate how far I’ll go for your attention, baby.”
He shoots me a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Keep it in your fucking pants, Styles. Save it for your next red carpet hookup.”
I let out a low laugh, dragging from my joint again just to watch him glare. “Careful, love. You’re starting to sound jealous.”
That earns me another eye roll before he turns on his heel, muttering something I can’t quite catch. I grin anyway, because I’m pretty sure I just won this round — and I’m definitely keeping score.
The door swings shut behind him, and just like that, it’s quiet again. No footsteps, no sighs, no biting remarks — just the hum of the summer air and the faint sizzle of my joint.
I take another slow drag, leaning back on the table. My mind wanders, not anywhere important, just that messy in-between space where thoughts don’t line up properly. And of course, Louis is in there, because he’s always in there after we talk.
He’s… fucking annoying. There’s no other way to put it. Every conversation with him feels like wading through barbed wire — every look, every word sharpened just enough to draw blood. He pushes back at everything, never lets anything slide.
And yet… he’s attractive. Stupidly so. The kind of attractive that sneaks up on you in the middle of an argument, when you should be focused on winning but instead you’re noticing the curve of his mouth or the way his eyes spark when he’s pissed off.
I shake my head, exhaling smoke into the warm air. Not that it matters. There’s not a chance in hell we could ever be anything other than rivals. And honestly? That’s fine by me.
“Harry!” The AD’s voice cuts through the still air. “We’re back on in two minutes!”
I glance at my phone, joint still hanging between my lips. “Fuck,” I mutter around it. Pulling it free, I stub it out on the edge of the table and toss it in the trash before heading inside.
The change from blazing sun to the cool blast of the air-conditioned building makes me shiver instantly, my damp clothes clinging uncomfortably to my skin. I ignore it, weaving through cables and crew until I’m back on set.
Louis is already there, arms folded, giving me the kind of look most people reserve for finding gum on their shoe. I grin. “I love it when you pay attention to me.”
“Fuck. You.”
I chuckle under my breath, taking my mark as the crew resets the lights and camera.
“Alright,” the director calls, settling into his chair. “From the top.”
And we’re back in our marks, pretending to be two people who are madly in love — while I’m busy wondering if Louis is ever going to realize how much I enjoy winding him up.
The cameras are rolling, the rain rig’s on, and we’re standing exactly where the director wants us — close enough that if either of us leans forward even an inch, the scene turns into a kiss.
I’m supposed to hold his gaze. Look at him like this is the moment my character realizes he’s in love. Easy enough. He’s got that drenched, stubborn, jaw-locked thing going on that would sell to anyone watching.
But I can see the tension in the set of his mouth, the slight twitch of his brow — he’s hyper-focused, determined to get through this without breaking. Which is exactly why I lean in just slightly and murmur, so quiet only he can hear: “You’re staring at me like you’re in love, sweetheart.”
His eyes flash, his jaw tightens. And then, just like I knew he would, he looks away — breaking the moment.
“Cut!” the director barks. “What happened? Louis?”
Louis shakes his head, wiping rain from his face. “Nothing. Just—” He glances at me like he’s debating murder. “It’s hard to stay in character when someone’s whispering crap in your ear.”
I smirk, unbothered. “Just trying to help with the chemistry, love.”
“You think this is funny?” he snaps.
“A bit, yeah.”
He exhales sharply, turning away before he says something that’ll get us both in trouble, and the crew scrambles to reset the shot.
“Cut! Goddamn it!” the director shouts, throwing his arms up.
Louis glares at me like I’ve just committed a war crime. “Any chance we can cast someone who doesn’t think being pretty is a skill?” he says, loud enough for half the crew to hear.
I press a hand over my heart, feigning sincerity. “Pretty? You flatter me.”
His glare sharpens, but I can see the faint twitch of his jaw — the kind that tells me I’ve gotten under his skin again. Which is, admittedly, my favorite part of the job.
Louis is still glaring, arms folded like he’s trying to keep from swinging at me in front of the entire crew.
“Cut it out,” he snaps. “With the pet names.”
I grin. “Why? They suit you.”
He exhales sharply, like he’s trying to expel me from the air itself. “Use my name. That’s what it’s there for.”
“Oh, I know your name, love.” I let the corner of my mouth twitch up. “I just prefer the ones I give you.”
His groan is loud enough to draw a couple of snickers from the crew. He mutters something I can’t catch, but I’m sure it’s not flattering, before turning away to reset for the next take.
The director drags a hand down his face and lets out a long, tired sigh. “Alright, enough for today. Everyone, take five… or better yet, take the rest of the afternoon. We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
“Thank fucking God,” Louis mutters under his breath, loud enough that I hear it perfectly.
I can’t help the chuckle that slips out, even as he shoots me another glare before walking off in the opposite direction.
I stretch and head toward my dressing room. The sooner I get out of these soaked clothes, the better. A hot shower, a change of clothes, maybe even a coffee before I’m cornered for another scene with Louis.
By the time I close the dressing room door behind me, the noise of the set is muted, replaced by the quiet hum of the air conditioning. I toss my shirt toward the hamper, peel off the rest, and step into the shower, letting the heat chase away the chill that’s been clinging to me since I walked back inside.
The water is hot enough to chase the last of the chill from my skin, steam curling around me as I lean under the spray. I’ve just worked the shampoo into my hair when there’s a sharp knock at the door.
I pull the shower curtain back just far enough to stick my head out. “Come in,” I call, then let it fall closed again. Footsteps follow — quick, irritated ones — and then: “Why the fuck are you still in the shower? What are you even doing in there?” Louis’s voice cuts through the steam, sharp as ever.
I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my mouth, even though he can’t see it. “Thinking about you, baby.”
There’s a pause, but I can practically hear his jaw clench from here.
“The director told me to tell you we’re supposed to ‘get it together’ before the press tours,” he says, each word clipped like it’s been measured out just to avoid swearing. “His words, not mine.”
I tilt my head back under the spray, still grinning. If this is his idea of a pep talk, we’re in for a long shoot.
“That’s a shame — I was hoping you were here for something more fun,” I say, running a hand through my wet hair and letting the smirk carry in my voice.
There’s a second of silence before Louis fires back, his tone flat and heavy. “Why can’t you take anything seriously?”
I lean one arm against the cool tile, still hidden behind the shower curtain. “I take plenty of things seriously, love.” I pause just long enough for him to think I might mean it. “Just not you.”
The silence stretches, heavy and irritated. I can practically hear his jaw tighten.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, voice low but sharp. “I cannot wait until this shit is over.”
I chuckle under the spray. “Counting the days already, sweetheart?”
His shoes thud toward the door, and a second later it shuts behind him, not quite a slam, but close enough to make me grin. By the time I’m dressed and my hair’s half-dry, the set’s mostly emptied out. I sling my bag over my shoulder, head out to the lot, and slide into my car.
The phone buzzes as soon as I start the engine. One glance at the screen and I see the name.
Simon: How are the songs coming along?
I let out a slow breath through my nose, toss the phone onto the passenger seat, and pull out of the parking space. “Shut the fuck up, Simon,” I mumble in a voice an octave higher than my own, mocking, just under my breath.
The radio kicks in as I hit the main road — some pop track with a beat I don’t hate. I hum along without thinking, tapping my fingers against the wheel in time with the snare. For a few minutes, it’s just the music, the hum of the road, and the faint echo of Louis’s voice in my head saying he can’t wait until this is over.
I drum my fingers harder against the leather and turn the volume up. The chorus fades into the second verse when the car’s Bluetooth lights up with an incoming call. Simon. Of course. I consider letting it ring out, but my manager’s like a dog with a bone, ignore him once, and you’ll have three follow-up calls, two emails, and a “just checking in” text by dinner. I hit accept.
“Harry,” Simon says, like he’s been waiting his whole life for me to pick up. “The songs. Talk to me. Where are we at?”
I make a face even though he can’t see it, drumming my fingers on the wheel. “They’re coming along. Got a few nearly finished, a couple in the works.”
He hums like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Deadline’s creeping up. We need the final tracklist before the press cycle starts.”
I steer onto the highway, my jaw tightening. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it handled.”
Except, somewhere between ‘handled’ and ‘deadline,’ my brain helpfully supplies the image of Louis, wet hair plastered to his forehead, glare sharp enough to cut glass, mouthing off like he’s auditioning for Most Irritating Co-Star Alive.
And it’s… annoying. Maddening. Distracting. And, if I’m being honest, way too fucking attractive for my own good.
“Harry?” Simon’s voice cuts back in.
I clear my throat. “Sorry, lost you there. Bad reception.”
He sighs. “I’ll check in next week. Don’t make me chase you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, smirking to myself as I hang up. By the time I get home, all I want is to sink into the couch and not move for the rest of the night. I let out a long sigh, head tipped back, eyes closed… until I hear movement from down the hall.
“Luke, buddy,” I call without opening my eyes, “why are you in my house?”
He appears in the doorway a second later, shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of pants like he owns the place. “I needed inspiration.”
“In my house?”
“Yeah?”
I shake my head and sit up. “Yeah, whatever.”
I grab my keyboard and notepad from the coffee table, flipping to the half-finished song I’ve been trying to nail down all week. I light another joint, letting the smoke curl lazily toward the ceiling as I tap out a few chords.
“Smoking’s bad for you,” Luke says, wandering closer.
I groan. “You sound like Louis.”
“Louis again?”
“Yeah.” I exhale through my nose, the rest of the smoke spilling from my mouth.
Luke heads toward the kitchen, rummaging for something. “Louis has got you in a chokehold.”
I snort. “He’s just attractive, that’s all. It’s nothing else.”
“Nothing else?”
I glance up at him briefly before looking back down at the keys. “You think I’m gonna fall for another actor? Please. I’ve learned my lesson. And Louis—he’s not the type I’d commit to.”
Luke leans against the counter with a smirk. “Why not? He’s not hot enough for you?”
I keep writing, my fingers pressing absent notes. “No, it’s not that. It’s just… dating a co-star? That never ends well.”
I jot down another line, letting the chords fade under my fingers, when my phone screen lights up on the coffee table. A little red bar at the top catches my eye. I frown, lean over, and realize the camera’s still rolling from when I’d been messing with voice memos earlier. It’s caught everything, every piece of our conversation. Every scratch from my pen going across the paper. Every sound from the keyboard. I sigh, long and tired, and hit stop. No point deleting it right now, maybe I could use something out of that.
“Great,” I mutter, setting the phone aside.
Luke’s in the kitchen humming to himself, completely unaware, and I go back to my song, tapping the keys like the last few minutes didn’t just happen. He comes back with a bottle of water, twisting the cap off like he’s been on some epic trek instead of raiding my fridge.
“You’re really working on that one, huh?” he asks, nodding toward my notepad.
I shrug, eyes still on the keys. “Can’t get the bridge to feel right.” My fingers move automatically, looping the same progression. Under my breath, I mumble a line, barely loud enough to hear.
Luke tilts his head. “What was that?”
I keep playing, not looking up. “Just…random words.” I brush off. But Luke looks over my shoulder and the scribbled words, ‘the fridge light washes this room white, the moon dances over your good side.’
He smirks. “Sounds like you’re writing about someone.”
I roll my eyes, leaning back slightly. “I’m writing about whatever sells. Don’t overthink it.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, clearly unconvinced.
I glance at the clock, tapping out the rhythm against my thigh. “Unless you’ve got something helpful, let me work before this turns into another dead song.”
He chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, rockstar. I’ll shut up.”
I go back to the keys, letting the line echo in my head longer than I mean to. I keep playing the chord progression, letting it loop like maybe repetition will trick my brain into giving me something. A verse. A feeling. Anything.
I try to picture my exes, the long-term ones, the ones I thought I cared about at the time. Faces blur together. None of them fit the tone I’m trying to find. I think about the people I’ve hooked up with, the casual flings, the nights that were over before the sun came up. Empty snapshots. No weight to them. They don’t stick either.
Even the people I know I’ve cared for, really cared for, they don’t slot into this melody. Every time I try to put them there, the music spits them back out. The fridge light line is still hanging in my head, sharp and vivid, but there’s no one standing in the glow. Just a blank space where someone should be.
I exhale through my nose, lean back, and stare at the ceiling. “Brilliant,” I mutter to myself. Writing a love song with no one to write it about.
“Write about me,” Luke says from the opposite end of the couch, one leg kicked up, eyes glued to the TV while he shovels crisps from my kitchen into his mouth.
I laugh under my breath, not even looking up from the keys. “Please. We hooked up once, years ago.”
He doesn’t even glance over, just chews and swallows. “And that meant something to me,” he says in this overdramatic, mock-serious tone. I finally look up at him, smirking. “We were both drunk and heartbroken. Pretty sure we barely remembered each other’s names the next morning.”
Luke shrugs, reaching for another crisp. “Still — good material.”
I shake my head, turning back to the keyboard. “Trust me, mate. That’s not the kind of song I’m trying to write at the moment.”
Luke crunches through another crisp, eyes still on the TV. “Maybe you should write about sex again.”
I roll my eyes, tapping a chord progression. “I write a lot of songs about sex. I’m trying something different.”
That finally earns me a glance. “You wrote one love song and now you think you’re an expert.”
I smirk, leaning back a little. “Writing about love is easy.”
Luke doesn’t miss a beat. “Then why are you having such a difficult time right now?”
I pause mid-chord, my fingers hovering over the keys. I don’t answer right away — mostly because I don’t have a good one. Instead, I go back to playing, ignoring the smug look spreading across his face.
Luke tilts his head toward me, still half-watching the TV. “How does the beginning of this one go? ‘Same lips red, same eyes blue?’” He pauses just long enough to smirk. “And if I can recall, Louis has blue eyes.”
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. “A lot of people have blue eyes.”
“Mm-hm,” he says, dragging out the sound like he doesn’t believe me for a second, before shoving another crisp into his mouth. I shake my head, focusing back on the keys, letting the melody drown him out — or at least trying to.
I take another drag from the joint, letting the smoke drift upward before pushing the rest out through my nose. Luke’s still half-watching the TV, half-watching me, crunching through my crisps like he bought them.
“You’re gonna end up coughing up a lung one day,” he says.
I smirk. “You’ve been saying that since we were nineteen.”
“Still true,” he replies, popping another crisp into his mouth. “You just listen even less now.”
I tap the keys a few times, letting the sound fill the quiet. “If I listened to you all the time, I wouldn’t get anything done.”
Luke tilts his head. “Or maybe you’d get more done, and it wouldn’t take you three hours to write a single verse.”
I snort, leaning back slightly. “I’m pacing myself.”
He laughs under his breath. “You’re stalling.”
I shrug, striking another chord and letting it ring. “Call it what you want.”
I set the joint down in the ashtray and reach over for the guitar leaning against the side of the couch. My fingers slide into the shape of a familiar chord as I strum once, then again, slower.
Huh.
I nod to myself, shifting into a softer rhythm. “This sounds better,” I murmur, leaving the keyboard behind and sinking into the shape of the melody as it blooms under my fingers. It fits.
Luke looks over from the couch, one brow raised. “Switched sides?”
I keep playing, half-focused. “Keyboard’s too stiff. Guitar feels more like… feeling.”
He hums, unimpressed but not arguing. I strum again, let it sit. Then, as the words start to take shape, I glance over at him and say, “You know, for someone who’s never had a serious relationship — like, ever — you sure write a lot of love songs.”
Luke doesn’t flinch. “I’ve been in love.”
“Yeah?” I ask, honestly surprised.
“Yeah. Once.”
I pause mid-strum. “So all your songs are based on this one person?”
He leans back against the arm of the couch, staring at the ceiling like it’s more interesting than me. “All the serious ones are.”
I’ve given up on the keyboard entirely. The guitar feels better — warmer, less clinical. I settle it on my lap and start running through the same progression again, waiting for the right words to click into place. They don’t.
Luke tosses the empty crisp bag onto the coffee table and leans his head back against the couch. “Alright. Try this.”
I glance over. “God, what now.”
He turns his head toward me. “You can’t finish a song unless you know how it ends.”
I raise a brow. “What, like it has to end in heartbreak?”
“No, like it has to end in something. A moment. A feeling. Something real.”
I go back to strumming, unimpressed. “That’s not how writing works.”
“Maybe not for you. But just try it.”
I humor him. “So what? I’m supposed to picture the end of the story before I even write the first verse?”
“Exactly,” he says, sitting up now. “What’s the last thing they say to you?”
I hesitate. “Who?”
He shrugs. “Anyone. Everyone. The one that mattered. Or the one that didn’t. Whatever your gut gives you first.”
I strum once, then again, slower. My fingers land in a minor chord without thinking.
“What if there’s no ending?” I ask, eyes on the strings.
“Then give it one,” he says. “Write the one you wish you had.”
Silence hangs there for a minute, save for the soft hum of the television and the distant sounds of traffic outside my window. Luke doesn’t speak again. Neither do I. Not until the melody shifts and something — not fully formed but close — falls out of my mouth before I can catch it.
I pause, fingers hovering. My throat tightens unexpectedly. I stare down at the guitar like it just betrayed me. Like maybe it knew more than I did. Luke exhales slowly from the other end of the couch. “That was perfect.”
I shake my head, brushing a hand through my hair. “No, it’s not. It’s— I don’t even know what that was.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “It was honest. That’s why it worked. You didn’t overthink it for once.”
I strum again, softer this time. The lyric lingers like smoke.
Luke watches me for a second, then says, “You ever think maybe the reason you’re stuck is ‘cause you’re trying so hard to not feel anything?”
I glance at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he says, “you’re trying to write a love song without letting yourself actually… love.”
I scoff, half-laughing. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who thinks commitment is a disease.”
He grins. “True. But I’m not the one agonizing over a damn bridge.”
I look down at the guitar again, thumb brushing against the strings. “It’s not that deep,” I mutter.
Luke snorts. “What you wrote was not casual. That’s not about a hookup. That’s not even about an ex”
I don’t respond. He raises an eyebrow. “You gonna tell me who it’s about?”
I give him a pointed look. “It’s not about anyone.”
Luke smirks, leaning back again. “Right. Just some imaginary person who brings you home. Super original.”
I try not to smile. Fail a little. “Shut up.”
He throws a pillow at me. “Write the rest before I start crying.”
The ashtray’s full, and my fingers are sore from running the same three chords over and over, hoping a better lyric will fall out if I just keep looping. It doesn’t. The melody’s decent, but the words still sound hollow. Like they’re trying too hard to mean something.
Luke’s stretched out at the other end of the couch, drink in hand, watching the TV on mute — not because he cares about what’s on, but because he’s waiting to see if I implode.
I sigh. “You ever wonder if you’ve actually been in love, or if you just liked the idea of it?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t even glance my way. I add, softer, “I don’t think I ever have. Not really. Not the way people write about.”
There’s a long pause. Then Luke mutters, low and too fast: “Must be nice.”
I glance over. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs without looking up. “Nothing. Just jealous of your emotional detachment, man.”
I scoff. “You? Jealous of me?”
Luke finally turns his head a little, his expression unreadable. “Imagine writing love songs without feeling like shit every time you sing ’em.”
I look back at my guitar. Say nothing. Let the moment pass. He goes back to pretending he doesn’t care, and I go back to pretending I didn’t hear the bitterness in his voice. But it lingers anyway.
My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen mid-strum and mutter, “Shit. I completely forgot about this.”
Luke’s half-asleep on the couch with a bowl of cereal he stole from my kitchen. “Forgot what?”
“The group dinner tonight,” I say, already pushing off the couch and setting my guitar against the coffee table. “Director’s forcing the whole crew to play nice. Well—more like forcing Louis and me to behave during interviews.”
I grab my hoodie from the chair, muttering, “Apparently people are starting to speculate we hate each other.”
Luke snorts, eyes still on the muted TV. “But… you do hate each other.”
“Yeah,” I say without hesitation, shoving my notebook into my bag. “We do.”
He glances over, raises an eyebrow. “And yet you still flirt with him like it’s your job.”
I grin without meaning to, tossing my joint into the tray correctly. “He’s a dick. But he’s still attractive.”
Luke hums like that answer bothers him, but he doesn’t say anything. I head to the bedroom, stripping off my shirt and tossing it somewhere in the vague direction of the hamper. Doesn’t make it. Don’t care.
Closet’s a disaster, but I know what I’m looking for: something mildly offensive. Not to the public — to Louis. Button-up, sheer enough to piss him off. Necklace he once called “obnoxiously sparkly.” Sorted.
He makes it too easy. One raised eyebrow, one dragged-out ‘sweetheart,’ and he short circuits. Fumes. And I live for it. The guy’s an actual menace in fitted jeans. But he’s fun to poke. Always has been. Always will be. I roll my sleeves to my elbows and check the mirror. Black jeans, rings, the smug grin that’s gotten me into and out of too much trouble.
“He’s gonna hate this,” I mutter to my reflection. “Perfect.”
Out in the living room, Luke’s half-asleep on the couch, spoon deep in my cereal. He squints at me. “You dressing up for Louis?”
I scoff. “I’m dressing up to ruin his night.”
Luke just hums like he’s not buying it. The city’s a blur through the windshield, golden and sharp in that way only L.A. can be before sunset. I tap my fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of a song that isn’t finished yet. Always with the unfinished songs. I should’ve stayed home and kept writing.
The album’s mostly done… technically. But it’s all the same shit: smoky bars, half-naked bodies, cheap highs and quicker come-downs. I’ve written hookup anthems in every key. Whole tracks dedicated to the backs of strangers and morning regrets. It’s fine. It works. But I want something else this time. Something… realer.
Something with weight.
But writing a love song when you’ve never actually been in love? That’s like trying to paint the ocean from memory when you’ve only ever seen a bathtub. I wrote one decent love song about two months ago. Just poured out of me one night — no edits, no overthinking. It was good. People still talk about it. So why the fuck can’t I write another?
I frown, flick on my turn signal, eyes scanning traffic. I could blame the pressure. Or the expectations. Or the fact that everyone seems to think I’m some glorified fuck boy who can’t keep it in his pants long enough to feel something real. Maybe they’re right.
But I’m tired of being a caricature. I want something that lasts longer than the buzz.
The restaurant’s two blocks away now. I roll the window down, let the air hit my face. My shirt flutters a little in the breeze — the one Louis hates. The one I wore just for him.
Because sure, I can’t write a love song. But ruining his evening? That, I can do.
I pull up to the restaurant and kill the engine, the headlights washing over the white stone steps like some overdramatic movie entrance. There are already cameras outside. There always are. Not a mob — just a couple of paps lingering by the valet line, pretending to be disinterested until someone interesting shows up. I stay in the car a second longer, hands on the wheel.
Breathe in. Hold. Exhale slow.
I blink a few times, roll my shoulders back, and open the door. The valet kid walks over with the same polite smile they all wear like a uniform. Couldn’t be older than twenty.
I get out, flip the keys into his palm. “She’s a bit sensitive in reverse,” I say, which is true, though I don’t know why I say it. He nods and slides into the driver’s seat. I watch him adjust the mirrors — carefully, respectfully — and then pull away.
And for some reason, I feel… weird about it. I always did. I mean, why can’t people just park their own cars? I’m perfectly capable. The garage is literally right there. But no — that’s not how it works. Not here. Here, everything’s handed off. Performed. Smoothed over. A stranger drives away in your car while a camera catches the way your shirt clings to your back when you walk inside.
I tug at the hem of mine, straighten it out, then plaster on the kind of grin that makes photographers click faster.
Time to go ruin dinner.
Inside, the host greets me by name. They always do. It’s not impressive. It’s expected. I give them my best easy-going smile.
They lead me to the back where the room is, tucked away behind glass and curated exclusivity. I can already hear voices, silverware, fake laughs. Directors always laugh the loudest, always trying too hard to be charming.
Half the crew’s already seated, menus open, pretending they haven’t just been talking about us. A few polite nods. Some smiles. The director lifts his glass at me like we’re old friends. I give him a nod and make my way to the only open seat.
Of course it’s right next to Louis’s. I take it anyway. No one says it, but everyone’s watching. Waiting. Hoping we don’t start a war across the bread basket.
“You’re twenty minutes late,” Louis mutters without even looking at me, flipping his menu like it’s personally offended him. I shift into the seat beside him, all calm and charm. “Yeah, well… Some of us have multiple careers, sweetheart.”
His jaw ticks, just a little. “Right. I forgot that being a walking ego trip is a full-time job.”
I grin, grabbing the menu and opening it like we’re having a pleasant conversation. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
He scoffs, finally glancing my way, eyes flicking over my shirt — the sheer one he hates. I don’t miss the way he rolls his eyes before going back to pretending I don’t exist. But he does exist. Loudly. Next to me. Breathing all annoyed and dramatic like I’m ruining his night by simply being here.
Mission accomplished.
“You planning on sulking through dinner?” I ask, keeping my tone light. “Or are we pretending to be friends already? Practice run for the interviews.”
Louis doesn’t answer. Just reaches for his water and sips like the glass might save him from committing a felony. I lean back in my chair, smiling to myself. This is going to be so fun.
The waiter barely finishes his greeting before I flash him a quick smile. “Just water, thanks.”
He nods, a little too eagerly, scribbles it down. Young guy. Probably new. Probably hasn’t been warned yet. I can feel Louis watching — not just watching, judging — from the moment the smile leaves my face.
Then, right on cue: “You might wanna run while you can,” Louis tells the waiter, tone smooth and sharp. “He’ll charm you, ghost you, and write a top-ten single about the tragic ending.”
The waiter blinks.
I don’t. I just grin wider and tilt my head toward him, voice light. “He always gets like this when I talk to someone else. Don’t take it personal.”
The guy lets out the most awkward laugh I’ve ever heard, nods quickly, and all but jogs away from the table. Louis leans back in his chair, looking way too pleased with himself.
I stretch out, arm draped over the back of the seat beside me. “You know, love, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous.”
He scoffs under his breath. “If I were gonna be jealous, it’d be over someone impressive.”
“Ouch,” I say, grinning. “That almost sounded rehearsed. Practicing your comebacks for the press tour?”
He doesn’t answer — just picks up his menu like it personally offends him. God, he’s so easy to mess with. Too easy. And unfortunately, a little too pretty when he’s pissed.
I look at him. Slowly.
He’s got that same goddamn menu open like it’s shielding him from nuclear radiation — like if he just focuses hard enough on appetizers, I’ll disappear.
“You really can’t go five minutes without trying to fuck something, can you?” he says, dry as bone, not even glancing up.
“I could,” I reply, because I could. In theory.
He finally breathes, and it’s a scoff. “I’d love to see you try.”
I keep staring. Just to piss him off. Just to see if he’ll finally crack and look at me. He doesn’t.
He scoffs and says,“why don’t you ‘could’ your way into shutting the fuck up?”
That one lands. I grin slow, licking my lips like I’ve just been handed dessert on a silver platter. He makes it too easy.
“You’re so hot when you insult me.”
Still nothing. No reaction. But I swear to God I see the corner of his mouth twitch. Or maybe I imagined it. Either way, I lean back in my chair and pretend I’m done. I’m not. But I let him have the silence — for now.
The waiter returns with our drinks, balancing the tray like a pro. He sets the water down in front of me, and I glance up, already halfway through a smirk.
“You come with the water, or do I have to request you separately?” I say, voice just low enough to count as trouble.
He laughs, looking far too pleased. “Depends — are you always this charming, or is it just my lucky night?”
To my left, Louis exhales sharply through his nose, then rolls his eyes so hard I can practically feel it.
I look over at him and grin. “You’d think I was awful, the way my scene partner sulks.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “What can I say? You bring out the worst in people.”
Ouch. Hot.
The waiter clears his throat, politely ignoring the obvious tension radiating off us. “Are you ready to order?”
I shake my head lightly, still watching Louis. “Couple more minutes, love.”
The waiter smiles, maybe blushes a bit, and walks off. Louis, still angled slightly away from me, mutters without even looking up, “So I was right. You can’t go five minutes.”
I glance over, let my knee brush against his just to irritate him. “Don’t be jealous, sweetheart. I’ve got enough charm to go around.”
His jaw flexes. The annoyance radiating off him.
I barely shift my leg — honestly, just enough to get more comfortable — but somehow it jostles the table. One second we’re sitting there, fuming in peace, and the next—Louis gasps.
Ice-cold water spills right into his lap, soaking through his jeans. He pushes back in his seat like he’s been electrocuted, and I blink at the mess as the glass teeters once, then settles upright. It didn’t even fall. Just tipped. That’s impressive.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Louis snaps, already dabbing at himself with a napkin.
I lift my hands. “That was not all me.”
“You knocked the table.”
“You put the glass on the edge!”
He glares at me like I poured it on him on purpose. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“It’s water,” I say, smirking. “Not a crime scene.”
“It’s all over me.”
“And? You act like I threw red wine on a Versace suit. Relax.”
Louis mutters something under his breath. Probably a curse. Probably creative. His thigh is still touching mine — barely — and I swear I feel the tension rising like heat off asphalt. The napkin he’s using is already useless. His hair’s falling into his eyes.
“You’re the most insufferable person I’ve ever met,” he hisses.
“And yet,” I say, smiling as I lean in a little, “here you are. Still sitting next to me.”
He pushes his chair back suddenly, like he’s about to get up. I laugh. I can’t help it.
Louis slams the useless napkin down on the table and glares at me like I personally rewrote his entire career to revolve around public humiliation.
“You’re just a fucking idiot,” he spits, low and sharp. “You never take anything seriously.”
I blink at him, still half-smiling. “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I have mourned the water?”
“You think everything’s a joke.”
“No, just you.”
He scoffs. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re overreacting.”
“I’m sitting in a puddle because you can’t keep your legs to yourself—”
“That’s rich coming from the guy who kicked me under the table last week because I said ‘good morning.’”
He leans in now, voice quieter but somehow sharper. “God, you’re exhausting.”
I grin. “You say that like you didn’t sign the same contract I did.”
“I didn’t sign up to babysit a man-child who thinks flirting his way through life is a personality trait.” Louis says, jaw tense.
“And yet, I’m still everyone’s favorite.”
“You’re everyone’s PR nightmare.”
“Only yours, sweetheart.”
His nostrils flare. He’s so close I can see the freckles that make him look younger than he wants to. The silence stretches. Hot. Tense. Dangerous. And then—“Gentlemen?” The waiter’s voice breaks in, nervous, hovering. “Do you… need a moment?”
“Gentlemen?” the waiter says again, hovering like he’s not sure if he should call security or bring a mop.
We both ignore him. Louis twists in his seat, still soaked, still fuming. “You know what your problem is?”
“Oh, please,” I mutter, turning to face him fully. “Do enlighten me.”
“You’ve never worked for anything,” he spits, bitter and low, his voice cutting like glass. “Everything just falls into your lap. Roles. Tours. Fans. You bat your lashes and flash a smile and suddenly you’re on another magazine cover. You don’t even try.”
That lands. My smile fades — just for a second — and it’s so quick he almost misses it. But I see the exact moment he realizes he hit something sore.
“You don’t know shit about what I’ve had to do,” I say, quieter than before, but colder.
“Oh, I know enough. You flirt your way out of accountability like it’s an art form.”
“And you walk around like you’re the only person who’s ever struggled.” I lean in a little, voice dark. “Just because I smile doesn’t mean it’s been easy.”
He scoffs. “Right. Poor Harry Styles. Cry me a fucking river.”
I clench my jaw, nod once — then push back in my seat. The waiter finally retreats, wisely, sensing the tension at the table.
I turn to Louis again, calmer now, the calm that comes right before the storm. “You think you’ve got me all figured out. That I’m just some charming dick with a pretty face and nothing underneath.”
“If the shoe fits,” he says.
I almost laugh. “You know what’s funny?” I say, voice sharp. “You say I don’t take anything seriously, but here you are — soaked in water, hating me with your whole chest — and still the only thing you can’t stop doing is talking to me.”
He doesn’t respond. Just glares. The silence between us is louder than anything either of us could say.
“Fuck.”
The voice cuts through the tension like a knife, and both Louis and I turn our heads at the same time. It’s the director — standing a few feet away from the table — eyes wide, mouth tight. But it’s not just him. It’s everyone else in the damn restaurant.
Dozens of eyes on us. Phones out. Cameras raised. Screens glowing in the dim lighting. And every single one of them is pointed right at our table.
Right at us.
Fuck.
I sit back slowly, trying not to look like I care. Louis, on the other hand, looks like he might combust. His jaw clenches so hard I think his teeth might crack.
The director storms over, whisper-yelling like that’s somehow better. “What the fuck is wrong with you two?” he hisses. “This was supposed to be a lowkey dinner. A team-building moment. Not a goddamn Twitter trending topic.”
I open my mouth, but Louis beats me to it.
“Maybe if some people could learn how to act like adults—”
“Oh, that’s rich,” I mutter.
“—we wouldn’t be in this situation,” Louis finishes, ignoring me.
The director rubs a hand over his face like he’s aged ten years in the last ten minutes. “You think I don’t have enough fires to put out already? I’ve got PR breathing down my neck about your chemistry problems, I’ve got marketing pissed because you two can’t stop throwing daggers in interviews, and now you just gave the internet a live feed of your fucking meltdown over a glass of water?”
“It wasn’t just the water,” I mumble. The look he gives me could melt steel.
Louis doesn’t say anything. He just grabs the useless napkin again, dabs at his jeans like it matters, and stares down at the table. The director sighs, lowers his voice. “You want to know what’s worse than bad press? Messy press. This right here? This looks like a feud. A personal feud. You want people thinking that? You want tabloids calling this a lover’s quarrel? Because that’s what it fucking looks like.”
I glance toward the front of the restaurant. Phones are still out. Flashlights on. A few people have already started typing. I force a smile. A fake one, for the cameras. The kind that says everything’s fine when it’s clearly not.
Louis doesn’t even pretend.
The director runs a hand through what’s left of his hair, muttering a string of curses under his breath. His eyes dart between Louis and me like we’re toddlers mid-tantrum in the middle of a five-star restaurant. Which, to be fair, isn’t far off.
“We need damage control. Now.”
I sigh, already exhausted. “You think?”
He doesn’t answer — just yanks out his phone like he’s about to defuse a bomb and points to the bench. “Sit. Close.”
Louis and I exchange a look. He’s already bristling, and I want to laugh just to annoy him further. But I sit. So does he. The chairs groan under us like it’s dreading what’s coming next as much as we are.
“Closer,” the director says, waving his hand.
We shift. Barely. Our shoulders brush.
“Closer.”
Louis huffs and edges in just enough to make it believable. I lean in too, resting my arm on the back of the bench like I’m doing him a favor. I can feel the tension radiating off him like secondhand smoke.
“Stop being so tense. You’re love interests on screen, friends off screen. Okay?” He snaps his fingers, frustrated when the air still crackles with mutual hatred. The AD pipes up, hovering behind him. “Make the photo blurry. No one’ll notice if they’re not actually smiling.”
The director nods like he’s just been handed divine inspiration. “Good idea.”
He raises the phone. I tilt my head toward Louis. Louis grits his teeth and pretends I’m not breathing his air. The shutter clicks.
The director lowers the phone and steps closer, voice low but sharp. “You better get your shit together before those press tours. You think a leaked video’s bad? Try sitting on a live panel while trending as ‘Hollywood’s Most Dysfunctional Couple.’”
He walks off still grumbling. Louis exhales like he’s just been punched. I glance over, smug. “Well. That was intimate.”
He doesn’t even look at me. “Don’t.”
I grin. I do anyway.
The director and the AD drop onto the bench opposite us like they’re about to negotiate peace between two warring nations. The director’s got a folder in hand, thick and already creased at the corners like he’s been stress-flipping it all morning. He opens it with a flair that screams ‘I’m too old for this shit,’ and hands each of us a few stapled sheets of paper.
“What’s this?” I ask, eyeing the pages like they might explode.
He leans forward, eyes sharp. “I got a hold of the interview questions you’ll be asked during the upcoming press run. I also wrote out your answers.”
Louis lets out a sharp laugh, flipping through the pages. “You wrote out our answers?”
“Yes,” the director says with zero patience, “because neither of you can answer a question without some bullshit backhanded compliment or obvious sarcasm.”
I smirk. “What if I have a better answer than the one written down?”
“You won’t,” Louis mutters, not even looking up from his packet.
I raise a brow at him. “You haven’t even read mine.”
“I didn’t have to.”
The director pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a long, exasperated breath. “It’s hard to believe either one of you has had media training.”
“I never use it,” I say with a grin.
“Oh, we know,” Louis snaps, flipping a page a little too aggressively. The AD just sips his coffee like he’s watching a train wreck in real time.
The director taps his fingers against his knee, hard enough to echo. “You two are representing a multi-million dollar romance film. I need chemistry. I need charm. I need—God help me—civility. Just get through the press tour without turning it into a public feud or a goddamn pissing contest.”
Louis and I both hum at the same time, equally unbothered and equally insufferable. The director mutters something about needing a vacation and starts to stand. I flip to the next page. “Ooh, look at this. ‘What was it like working together?’ Care to workshop our fake friendship now or later, baby?”
Louis doesn’t even blink. “You say something charming. I act like I don’t want to slap you. Everyone swoons. Easy.”
I grin at him. “You do listen.”
He rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately.”
The director finally storms off with the AD, muttering about blood pressure and yoga retreats, leaving us with the thick stack of PR bullshit in our laps and the rest of the dinner to suffer through.
I lean back in my chair, still wet from earlier, and pick up the menu with one hand while thumbing through the stapled pages with the other. Louis is next to me, flipping through his own copy like he’s searching for a reason to set it on fire.
Across the table, the rest of the cast and crew are chatting, pretending not to notice the storm cloud hanging over us. Someone orders appetizers. A bread basket lands in front of us like a peace offering. Louis doesn’t touch it.
He flips to the third page and scoffs. “Seriously? ‘We bonded during long shoot days and developed a genuine respect for one another.’”
I take a sip of my water and grin. “I mean, we did spend long days together. I respect your commitment to hating me.”
“Thanks,” he mutters dryly. “I respect your commitment to turning everything into a goddamn joke.”
“I do what I can,” I say, flipping to the same page. “‘Harry always brought a lightness to set, and his creative energy inspired me.’ Jesus.”
Louis snorts. “You didn’t inspire me. You gave me a tension headache.”
“You say tomato,” I hum, nudging him with my elbow, “PR says ‘creative energy.’”
Louis stares straight ahead. “I hope you know I’m not saying any of this.”
I tilt my head, voice lower now. “Then make something up that won’t get us trending as #SwornEnemies again.”
He flips the page again, this time slower. The next question is about on-screen chemistry. He reads the answer out loud under his breath, voice bitter.
“‘We had instant chemistry. It was effortless, really.’” He turns to look at me with a deadpan expression. “Effortless my ass.”
I shrug, turning my body just enough to face him fully. “I don’t know. Sometimes hating someone this much takes effort.”
He looks like he wants to say something back but the waiter reappears, notepad ready. “Have you both decided?”
Louis hands over the menu without looking. “Steak. Medium rare.”
I pass mine too. “Portobello risotto, please.” I flash the waiter a grin. “And maybe one of those little espresso martinis, yeah?”
Louis mutters beside me, “Of course you’d get something that dramatic.”
“I’m dramatic?” I blink innocently. “You’re the one who shoved a soggy napkin at me earlier like I’d personally summoned the rain.”
Louis leans forward, eyes narrowed. “That was your fault.”
Dinner ends, mercifully. Louis barely says a word to me after the argument, and I return the favor, walking out without a glance in his direction.
The sky’s already gone dark by the time I slide into my car. The streetlights flicker above like they’re debating whether to stay on, and the city buzzes in the distance — muffled, tired, like it’s winding down. I pull out of the parking lot, headlights casting long beams across the pavement, and I try not to think too much about anything.
I almost manage it.
But then my phone lights up with Simon, and I swear under my breath, slapping the steering wheel once before hitting the answer button on the dashboard screen.
“Styles,” Simon’s voice booms through the speakers like I summoned a demon by accident.
“Simon,” I say flatly.
“You want to explain to me why there’s a video of you and Louis arguing in the middle of a very public restaurant?”
I blow out a slow breath through my nose. “Because we were arguing. In the middle of a very public restaurant.”
“Jesus Christ, Harry.” His voice sharpens. “I told you to behave. This press tour is already a minefield. You want to hand the tabloids a damn landmine on a silver platter?”
“I wasn’t the one who knocked over the water,” I mutter.
“I don’t care who knocked over what. I care that you two looked ready to throw punches over spaghetti.”
“Risotto,” I correct, because I’m an idiot.
“Do not test me right now.”
I roll my eyes, one hand gripping the wheel a little tighter. “What do you want me to say, Simon?”
“What I want,” he says, each word punctuated like a threat, “is for you to go back to media training.”
I bark a humorless laugh. “You can take that media training and shove it up your ass, Simon.”
Silence.
Then a sharp sigh. “I’m not in the mood for your charming bullshit, Harry. You’re not nineteen anymore. You don’t get to flirt your way through PR disasters.”
“I didn’t flirt my way through anything.”
“Oh please,” he snaps. “You flirt with the waiter, you flirt with the press, you flirt with the camera. At least pretend to be professional. I’m running out of fires to put out.”
“Don’t worry,” I say lightly, taking a turn. “Louis hates me enough for both of us. That’s not going anywhere.”
“Fix it,” Simon says, hard and final.
He hangs up before I can say another word.
The car is quiet again — too quiet, with Simon’s voice still echoing through the speakers like it left a bruise on the air.
I grip the wheel tighter, jaw ticking, eyes scanning the road but not really seeing it. I can still hear him in my head: ‘You’re not nineteen anymore.’
As if twenty-one’s any better. I scoff under my breath, bitter and soft. “Yeah,” I mumble to no one, “’Cause twenty-one’s going great.”
The silence that follows is heavier than it should be, like the kind that crawls into your chest and sits there with its arms crossed. Outside, the streetlights flicker past. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to shake it off, but it clings.
Simon acts like nineteen was some golden age I should’ve grown out of — like I was ever allowed to be nineteen. Like I wasn’t already trying to stay afloat in a world that didn’t give a shit if I sank.
I tap my thumb against the steering wheel, jaw locked, the engine humming beneath me. Nineteen was a fucking mess. Twenty-one’s just a quieter one. Same pressure, just less noise. Or maybe I’ve just stopped reacting.
I take a breath. It doesn’t help.
Outside the windshield, the headlights paint long shadows across the garage wall — blurred, stretched, kind of like me. Always performing. Even in the dark.
I push open the door and step inside, the quiet hitting harder than expected. The house smells faintly like sandalwood and old coffee — something leftover from this morning, maybe yesterday. Doesn’t matter.
I toe off my boots by the door, shrug off the weight of the night like it’s clinging to my jacket, and toss it over the back of the couch.
The hallway’s dim, just a slant of moonlight from the kitchen window lighting the way. I don’t turn on the lights. I like it better this way — shadows and silence.
I pass by the wall near the stairs, my fingers brushing the edge of the frame out of habit.
It’s a photo I’ve seen a thousand times: me at seventeen, awkward and grinning, standing next to her — eyes crinkled, cheeks full, arms wrapped around me like she never wanted to let go.
She was proud that day. I pause for a second, just long enough to let the quiet settle. Then I smile — small, private — and keep walking. I don’t need to touch the photo. It’s already burned into me.