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He checks to make sure Duchess‟s water bowl is full, making a mental

note to ask Zayn to come by to feed her. “I don‟t know what the fuck

I‟m doing,” he says to her as she winds between his legs. She just purrs

and headbutts his shins. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and grabs his bag off

the table. He pulls out all his work stuff—God, he hopes Liam thought

of a way to cover for him fucking off in the middle of the day—and

throws in a hoodie, an extra pair of pants, and a book he grabs blindly

off the shelf.

He feels like he needs things, like he needs a plan, but he can‟t think

properly. Everything is overwhelmed by a siren inside his head that‟s

wailing go go go and he‟s pretty sure that if he doesn‟t do this now

he‟ll never do it at all. He grabs a handful of granola bars—when the

fuck did he buy granola bars?—and throws that in the bag as well,

dimly aware that he probably will need to eat something at some point.

Breathing fast and hands shaking, he zips up his bag and looks around

his flat. Seeing nothing else he needs to bring with him, he walks

quickly out, closing the door behind him.

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Ten seconds later, he storms back inside and walks straight to the

drawer in the kitchen. He yanks it open and grabs the shining object in

the very back, shoving it into the front pocket of his bag and banging

the drawer closed again before he can change his mind. Now he‟s

ready.

It‟s one-fifteen, and there‟s a two o‟clock train. He‟s going to be on it.

He throws himself into his car and speeds to the station, violating at

least half a dozen traffic laws along the way and not giving a damn

about any of them. He slams his car to a stop in the car park, half-

falling out onto the pavement and wrenching his bag out as he goes. It‟s

twenty to two by the time he screeches to a halt at the back of the queue

for the ticket booth, and it‟s all he can do not to yell at the pensioner

counting out coins at the front that he‟s on his way to the grand

romantic gesture he‟s been waiting his entire fucked up life to perform

and can she possibly count any faster please.

As soon as he‟s got his ticket he‟s off again, almost knocking over a

pile of luggage and at least three different people on his sprint to the

platform. One of them yells something after him, but he doesn‟t catch

what the man says, because all he can hear is his heart pounding in his

ears and his feet on the station floor and, above it all, the voice over the

loudspeakers telling him that time is running out.

He makes it onto the train. He‟s out of breath and he may have sprained

his ankle, but he makes it onto the train and drops down into a seat

that's thankfully surrounded by other empty ones just before the doors

close. He's not sure he could deal with making small talk right now.

In that moment of relief, he pulls out his phone, meaning to text Zayn

and ask him to go round and feed Duchess that night. Instead what

comes out is going to London, wish me luck x.

He hits send and then locks his phone, his knee jogging restlessly as the

train starts to heave forward, leaving the station. He can‟t quite keep his

500

thoughts together, though, and then he‟s unlocking his phone again and

tapping out another message.

That man of yours was worth every second xxxx

Louis turns his phone off after that, because he can‟t handle human

contact right now. The countryside races past like it‟s as impatient for

this as Louis is, like it‟s pushing the train along as fast as it can. He

tries to read his book, tries to distract himself with the half-finished

newspaper Sudoku he finds wedged in the seat cushions, but he can‟t

make himself focus. It‟s like that siren is still going off in his head, that

warning that‟s he running out of time, like he‟s going to run out of

courage any second now and collapse back into the person he‟s tired of

being. He spends half an hour just stalking up and down the aisle of the

train, swaying slightly as the tracks curve. Anything to keep moving.

Just outside two hours has the train pulling into Euston Station with a

whine, and Louis has been bouncing up and down by the car doors for

five minutes when they finally slide open with a hiss.

He ignores the voice telling him to mind the fucking gap and hauls

himself out onto the platform, fishing the business card out of his

wallet. He hasn‟t been to London in a while, and it takes him a few

minutes to figure out where the fuck he‟s going and sort out a tube pass

before he‟s running again. He doesn‟t even have a time limit anymore

but he can‟t afford to take his time about it. The half hour and one

transfer on the tube feel strangely familiar, takes him back to his days

of coming to the city for auditions and casting calls, riding the tube

with nerves filling up his head and the distant fear of rejection

humming along with the electricity on the tracks.

As soon as he‟s back on a platform, he‟s running up the steps toward

daylight. He doesn‟t take the time to take in the London sights and

instead narrows his focus down to the map outside the tube entrace. He

finds the street he‟s on, finds the street he needs to get to, and picks his

next move. That‟s all he can do, just pick the next place to go and get

there as fast as possible.

501

Somehow it feels like the studio should stand out more than it does,

since it‟s been such a huge fixture in Louis‟ mental landscape for

months as the thing that stole Harry away, but it doesn‟t. It‟s just a

simple building sandwiched between storefronts like any other place. It

doesn‟t look like the kind of place that could have ruined everything.

Strange.

He wrenches the front door open so swiftly the little bell on the top

almost comes off. The receptionist looks up as he walks in, putting

down her phone, and he doesn‟t even have time to come up with a lie.

“I‟m looking for Harry Styles?” he says, breathing heavily. He braces

up against the desk and tries to put together any sort of excuse, but his

heart is racing too fast.

“Are you the model who missed the shoot yesterday?” she asks, brow

arched. “That‟s convenient, I was just about to phone your agency.”

Fuck it, sure. “Yeah, sorry about that. You know how it is.” He tries to

smile winningly at her, but he‟s pretty sure it comes out a bit deranged.

Harry is somewhere in this building, and this is his last obstacle. He

feels like he‟s about to vibrate out of his skin. “You wanted to

reschedule?” he asks, taking a stab in the dark.

“Appointments aren‟t my job, first off, and you should be thanking

your lucky stars we‟re willing to reschedule and didn‟t just drop you on

the spot.” Louis nods, eyes wide, and wonders if he could find Harry

before security threw him out if he just made a break for the lift. The

woman sighs heavily. “Hold on, let me call upstairs and find the intern.

He‟s in charge of scheduling,” she says, and picks up her phone again.

Louis drums his fingers on her desk, sure that any second some

terrifyingly handsome bloke is going to walk through the door and

blow his cover. On hold, the receptionist looks him over. “Bit short for

a model, aren‟t you?” Louis just sort of shrugs, because it‟s not like

she‟s wrong.

502

He‟s saved from having to figure out a response to that when whoever

she‟s waiting on picks up her call. She exchanges a few words with

whoever‟s on the other end of the line—Louis tries not to think about

who it could be—and then hangs up. “Well, he‟s supposed to be

hanging clothes for a shoot right now,” she says, “But if you go up to

the studio he‟s prepping he should be able to reschedule you.” She

writes down and hands to him a room number on a sticky note. Room

217. “Don‟t be late again!” she calls after him as he walks away, and he

waves over his shoulder.

He rushes into the lift and presses the 2 button about twenty times.

How can it take this long to go up two floors? When the doors open

he‟s pretty sure he bursts out like he‟s in a goddamn action movie,

panicking slightly because he doesn‟t know if 217 is to the right or to

the left and right now that feels like a catastrophe. It‟s left, he figures

out, it‟s to the left and then he‟s at the door and he‟s inside. And the

room is empty.

It‟s not a particularly large room, but it‟s well-lit with a white backdrop

and few racks of clothes off to the side. It feels a bit like a stage. Louis

can take some comfort in that, at least. Familiar surroundings. If it has

to happen somewhere, it might as well happen here, where there's

nowhere for Louis to hide if he loses his nerve.

Now that he has nowhere to go, he starts to feel terror rising in him.

Before he‟d had the distraction of making his way here, spending the

last four hours or so barrelling his way to this spot in front of this plain

white backdrop. Now that he‟s stopped, all of his anxiety has caught up

to him at once. He knows this is where he needs to be, what he needs to

be doing, but he has no idea what he‟s going to say. He has no idea if

Harry will even be willing to hear him say it, after everything.

There‟s comfort, though, in the fact that there‟s nothing left to lose.

He‟s already lost Harry, lost what they had, and even if what happens

next doesn‟t get Harry back, at least he‟ll like himself a little better on

the other side. At least Harry will know.

503

Louis thinks of Niall and his ridiculous secret life that he willed into

existence by loving something enough to chase it down. He thinks

about Zayn‟s faith and patience, about Liam‟s honest bravery. He

thinks that if he can manage to be the best person he‟s ever been for the

next ten minutes or so, he might be able to do this.

The door opens, and Louis stops breathing.

It‟s so surreal, after all this time and all this distance, that Harry is

standing in front of him. The same body and the same mouth and the

same stupid curly hair. The same hands that haven‟t been touching him,

the same eyes that haven‟t been looking at him, the same person that

hasn‟t been filling up his bed and splitting Chinese takeaway and

making him laugh until he cries. It doesn‟t feel like they should be able

to share the same space like this anymore, but they are, and this is

happening, and suddenly all his nerves are lifting. Louis doesn‟t think

he could stop this even if he wanted to, and it‟s a relief. With Harry

right in front of him, he feels the full weight of everything he‟s been

holding back for months, and God, he finally gets to let it go.

He knows how he feels. He always knew, all along, even if he wasn‟t

ready to admit it. He‟s ready now.

Harry doesn‟t see him at first, too busy trying to wrangle a massive

armload of clothes. He‟s wearing a blazer over a white v-neck, all

effortless professional chic. He‟s still got his camera around his neck

even though he doesn‟t seem to be allowed to do any of the actual

photography, but things like that have never stopped Harry from taking

pictures of things before. Louis is terribly, terribly fond of him.

Wobbling and grunting a little, Harry drops the heap of clothing on a

nearby table. He straightens up and turns around, messing about with

his fringe in that habitual way of his, and then his eyes land on Louis

and he freezes on the spot.

His eyes run over Louis wildly, flicking back several times to his face

like he has to keep checking that it‟s really him. Louis wonders if

504

Harry‟s had close calls like Louis has, if he‟s seen people out of the

corner of his eye that looked just enough like him to give him a heart

attack as he walks down the street. The thought should please him, but

it just makes him sad.

Harry is still just looking at him, fiddling with his camera and blinking

rapidly, and he‟s just on the other side of the room but Louis feels like

he‟s miles away. He needs him closer.

“Hi,” Louis says, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep himself from

doing anything stupid with them.

“Hi,” Harry says, looking stricken. He stares at Louis, and Louis stares

back, and then he lifts his camera and there‟s that old sound of the

shutter closing and opening as he takes a picture. Louis blinks a little at

the flash, but doesn‟t move or try to hide his face. Not today.

Harry lowers the camera a little, looking at Louis with that little line

between his brows like he can‟t imagine what Louis is doing there. He