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It starts with toast.
Or, more specifically, it starts with Louis forgetting about the toast because he got distracted—first by a TikTok of a girl teaching her cat to high-five, then another of a dance challenge he's already half convinced himself he could master. Just a few more seconds he tells himself, thumb already hovering to scroll to the next video.
By the time the smell hits him, it's too late. Acrid and sharp, the scent of burning bread floods the tiny flat, and then—right on cue—every smoke alarm in the building shrieks to life.
"Shit—shit, shit, shit!" Louis yelps, abandoning his phone as he lunges for the kitchen. The toaster is a smoking ruin, tendrils of grey curling upward like they're trying to escape the chaos. Panic blooms sharp and fast in his chest. He's in his boxers and a faded Black Sabbath t-shirt that barely reaches his thighs, and he's waving a tea towel at the ceiling like he's conducting an exorcism.
The alarms are relentless, a piercing chorus bouncing off the narrow walls. His flat isn't much more than a studio—a bed shoved against one wall, a battered sofa crammed next to a bookshelf overflowing with records, a cramped kitchenette where disaster has apparently chosen to make its grand debut.
"Come on, come on, go out!" he mutters, voice pitched with desperation as he wrenches the window open, fresh air biting at his flushed cheeks. He pulls the plug on the toaster, grabs a cushion off the sofa, and starts fanning the smoke with it; his heart a wild drumbeat beneath his ribs.
The smoke alarm has been blaring for at least ten minutes when a sound cuts through the chaos.
A bang at the door—not a polite, curious knock—a solid, authoritative thud that means business.
"Fire department!" A voice, deep and steady, commands through the door. "Anyone inside?"
Louis freezes, cushion mid-swing, breath snagging in his throat. Oh God. Do smoke alarms just automatically—
"Uh—yeah! Yeah, I'm here!" he manages, too loud and too fast.
The door swings open without a second's hesitation—right, he forgot to lock it—and in strides a figure that looks like something out of an extremely well-budgeted calendar.
Tall. Broad shoulders filling out thick, scuffed turnout gear, the high-vis stripes catching the dim hallway light. A helmet snug over a mess of dark curls, and a face that's... well. That's a problem. Sharp jaw, a mouth set in a firm, no-nonsense line, and eyes the green of rain-soaked fields—steady, vivid, and entirely too observant as they sweep the room with practiced precision.
Those eyes land on the toaster, the still-smoking wisp from the charred bread, the open window, and finally—Louis. The smoke alarm is still screaming. Full, ear splitting, migraine-inducing shrieks ricocheting off every surface in the flat.
The firefighter takes one step inside and squints up at the ceiling like it's personally offended him. "Toast?" he shouts, deadpan, over the noise.
Louis gapes at him, confused. "What?"
The firefighter cups one gloved hand around his mouth and tries again, a little louder. "Toast?!"
"What!?" Louis yells back, blinking through the haze.
The firefighter sighs, crosses the room in three calm strides, and reaches up to the smoke alarm. A practiced press of the button, and blessed silence drops like a curtain. The sudden quiet is jarring—just the ticking of the toaster cooling and Louis' heart thudding somewhere near his throat.
"I said," the firefighter says, and the corner of his mouth twitches just slightly. "Toast?"
It's just one word, dry as autumn leaves, and Louis wants to die. Actually, genuinely, right here on his tragically beige carpet.
"I—yeah. It, um. Got away from me," he says, a weak laugh bubbling up like it might drown him. He gestures at the toaster with the cushion, which does nothing but waft more smoke around. "Turned around for, like, two seconds."
"Mm." The firefighter steps in further, and it's like he brings the scent of cold air and faint woodsy smoke with him. His gloved hands lift his helmet, tucking it under his arm to reveal a tangle of wild curls, and somehow it makes him look even more absurdly handsome. His gaze flicks over Louis again, an almost imperceptible dip to the bare legs peeking out from beneath the oversized shirt.
Louis is suddenly, acutely aware of how little he's wearing. His cheeks blaze even hotter, a wildfire of embarrassment racing from his collarbone to the tips of his ears. He's definitely going to die here. Cause of death: Hot firefighter witnessing the culinary failure that is his now charred sourdough. A tragedy in act one.
"You're the source of the alarm?" the firefighter—Styles, his badge reads—asks, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. His green eyes are bright, crinkling slightly at the corners. He's clearly trying not to laugh, and somehow that's even worse. "The whole building went off."
"Oh God." Louis groans, dragging a hand through his already disastrous hair. "Yeah. Sorry. Is there a fine? Or, like, do I get put on some kind of neighbourhood watch list?"
"We're not quite there yet," Styles says, his voice settling back into a calm, confident register. He looks at Louis again, the mirth still dancing on his lips. Not angry. Just amused. Amused and stupidly, devastatingly fit.
Louis' grip on the cushion tightens, knuckles going white.
"Next time, try a lower setting," Styles advises, nodding toward the toaster, his tone perfectly dry.
"Are you—" Louis' jaw drops, a strangled laugh escaping. "Are you mocking me in my time of crisis?"
"Just offering constructive feedback," Styles says, and then he smiles—full and unapologetic. It's like the sun breaking through storm clouds, sharp and dazzling.
He's still trying to string a coherent thought together when another figure appears in the doorway—a second firefighter, older, with silver at his temples and a clipboard in one hand. His gaze sweeps the room—the lingering haze, the pitiful toast graveyard on the counter, and then Louis, still bare-legged in his boxers and Black Sabbath t-shirt, clutching the cushion to his front like some tragic, smoke-stained fig leaf.
"All good in here?" the older firefighter asks, one eyebrow lifting.
"Safe and sound," Styles replies easily, not missing a beat. "Victim sustained minor emotional trauma from a particularly aggressive… sourdough?"
The older firefighter snorts, but there's a fondness in his exasperation as he extends the clipboard. "Don't take all night, Romeo."
Styles takes the clipboard with a casual nod, and even though he's not looking at Louis, there's something there—a quiet warmth in the slight curve of his lips.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmurs.
Louis watches this exchange like he's forgotten how his legs work. His entire body feels like it's been set to slow motion, his brain struggling to catch up.
Firefighter Styles turns back to him, suddenly all business—or pretending to be. "Right," he says, a touch of that teasing spark still lingering. He glances around. "Do you mind?" he asks, nodding toward the small kitchen table, the helmet still tucked under his arm. "This thing weighs a ton. Just need to set it down before my shoulder gives out."
"Oh—yeah, yeah. Go for it," Louis says quickly, stepping aside like the table's sacred and this guy’s the pope.
He sets the helmet down with a soft clunk and flips the clipboard into his hand with one practiced movement. "Just need to take a few details for the report."
"Oh. Yeah. Of course." Louis stands up a little straighter, a futile attempt at looking put together. He shoves his hair back again, which probably just makes it worse. He's half-tempted to throw the cushion out the window and just embrace his mortification at this point.
The firefighter pulls his gloves off and puts them inside his helmet. His pen hovers over the clipboard. "Name?"
"Louis Tomlinson."
"Date of birth?"
"Uh—twenty-fourth of December, 1991."
His eyebrow quirks, the edge of a grin teasing his lips. "Christmas Eve baby. Bet that's traumatic."
Louis snorts, some of his tension easing. “No more than this is” he mutters to his feet.
"Address, which I guess I already know—unless this is a decoy flat and you're in witness protection?"
"It's not and I’m not."
"Not very convincing, but I'll take your word for it."
Louis' lips twitch, and he can't help it—he's leaning into the banter now, the back-and-forth warming something in his chest.
"Phone number?" He asks, pen poised.
Louis reels it off, the numbers falling from his mouth with a nervous lilt.
"Perfect. We'll text you when it's safe to cook toast unsupervised."
"Oh, you're really enjoying this, aren't you?" Louis manages, a laugh breaking free before he can stop it, bright and a little breathless.
Styles only smirks, a slow, devastating curve of his lips. "Just trying to make the paperwork bearable." He flips the page on the clipboard with an exaggerated show of focus, his pen poised. "Star sign?"
Louis blinks. "What?"
"Star sign," The man repeats, all calm professionalism with a twinkle of mischief lurking just beneath. "Y'know. For the official record."
"Um... Capricorn?" Louis offers, like he's being quizzed on his own existence.
The firefighter nods, making a show of scribbling on the form. "Ah. Explains the chaos."
"Excuse me?" Louis squints, crossing his arms over his chest, the cushion now barely hanging by the tips of his fingers. "Wait—are you actually writing that down?"
"Yeah." He doesn't even glance up, his expression deadpan. "It's protocol now. Next up: blood type. Then preferred pizza topping, safe word, and favourite flavour of crisp."
Louis' jaw drops. He's not sure whether to be mortified, impressed, or so wildly flustered that his body just gives up and combusts on the spot. "I—what?"
He turns to Louis with a faint smirk. "No wrong answers. Except prawn cocktail. That one's a red flag."
Louis' laugh bursts out of him, loud and genuine, filling the smoke-tinged air. The firefighter's gaze softens, the sharp edge of his teasing easing into something warmer, and he scribbles one last indecipherable squiggle at the bottom of the form.
"That's it, then." He tucks the pen behind his ear with an effortless grace that shouldn't be as distracting as it is. "Paperwork complete. Flat still standing. No fatalities." His gaze sweeps over the room once more, deliberately slow, and then it dips—just for a second—over Louis' bare legs. "Tragic loss of toast, though. Really makes you think."
Louis rolls his eyes, even though his cheeks are still warm. "Was the last two slices, as well."
"Now that's a real crime," He says, clicking his tongue, and Louis hates how badly he wants to keep this going, to stretch out every second just a little longer.
But he's already shifting, turning toward the door, the clipboard tucked securely under one arm, helmet under the other and his gloves hanging from his pocket. His boots thud heavily against the floor, and Louis is bracing himself for the sharp cut of the goodbye—except he pauses, one hand on the doorframe.
"Alright, see you around," he says, casual and easy, like this is just a normal encounter and not the most unhinged, humiliating, brilliant five minutes of Louis' life. "I've been Harry. You've been... a disaster."
He winks—actually winks—and then he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him
Louis stands there, frozen in place. He can faintly hear Harry's boots fading away, the quiet murmur of another voice—probably the older firefighter—and then nothing but the beat of his own panicked heartbeat.
Slowly, Louis lets the cushion slip from his fingers, dropping it onto the smoky carpet. He brings his hands to his face, pressing his palms to his burning cheeks as if he could will the embarrassment out through his fingertips.
"Oh my God," he whispers in disbelief.
The air in his flat is still thick with the acrid smell of burnt toast and wounded pride. His smoke alarm blinking overhead is an unforgiving reminder of his embarrassment.
He turns, sending an accusatory look at the toaster and remnants of what was supposed to be his snack. He glances between the scene of the crime and the front door.
"What the fuck just happened?" He asks his toaster.
⊹₊ ঌ⋆｡°✩
Louis is running his fingers over the edge of a pink bag of prawn cocktail crisps. He's in the middle of aisle seven, eyes glazed, expression grave, like he's about to deliver news of a death in the family.
"I think I fell in love yesterday."
Niall barely looks up from chilli-flavoured peanuts as he throws them into the shopping trolley. "With prawn cocktail crisps?"
Louis turns to him slowly. "No, you actual rat. A man."
That gets Niall's attention. He straightens up and gives Louis his full attention. "A man? Christ, what happened to just scrolling for thirst traps like a normal person?"
Louis picks up the crisps and stares down at them like they might show him a sign from above. "He was a firefighter. Came to the flat. Curls, green eyes, arms like sin. Said I was 'a disaster' and then winked. I nearly passed out."
Niall blinks. "Wait—why was there a firefighter in your flat?"
"It was toast!" Louis says, defensive. "Barely even smoked."
"Right. So you nearly committed accidental arson."
Louis rolls his eyes and dumps the crisps into the trolley with a flourish. "I didn't even mean to do it. I didn't know an actual sex god would turn up. But then he walked in all broad shoulders and cheekbones and tragic backstory energy. Like the kind of bloke who's emotionally unavailable until exactly you come along."
They start walking again, Niall steering the trolley down toward the frozen section. "Jesus Christ."
"I'm telling you. His voice was like—like gravel and warm honey. His arms were probably carved by Michelangelo. He had this little smirk, and he kept looking at my legs—don't laugh—and I swear, it was the most electric domestic failure I've ever had."
Niall snorts. "You've had multiple domestic failures."
"Yes, but not sexy ones." Louis grabs a pizza from the freezer and tosses it in. "He asked if I was the source of the alarm even though he already knew the answer. He just wanted to watch me squirm, which, obviously I did. Spectacularly."
"Can't believe I'm saying this, but I kinda want to meet this fire twink now."
"He's not a twink," Louis says, scandalised. "He's the type that makes you reconsider your entire taste in men. Like, if danger had a day job and perfect forearms."
Niall raises an eyebrow. "That sounds like a very roundabout way of saying 'daddy.'"
Louis doesn't miss a beat. "He's absolutely a daddy."
Niall groans. "I walked right into that."
They reach the fridges at the end of the aisle, Louis grabbing a four-pack of some overpriced craft lager with a label that looks like it was designed by a hungover art student. Niall grabs a cheap pack of tins and dumps it in the trolley.
As they start heading toward the checkout, Niall glances sideways. "Alright, but do you even know his name?"
Louis opens his mouth, then closes it again. His brow furrows, then lifts. "Harry."
Niall hums. "Just Harry?"
Louis shrugs, too casual. "His badge said Styles but he said it when he was leaving. 'I've been Harry, you've been a disaster.'"
Niall barks a laugh. "God, he read you."
Louis smiles down at the beers in the trolley, too fond for his own good. "Yeah. And I liked it."
At the self-checkout, Niall starts scanning items while Louis lingers dreamily behind him, still caught in the haze.
Niall glances over his shoulder. "You better not ruin boys' football night by going on about Hot Harry all evening."
Louis makes a face. "I won't."
A beat.
"...but also, do you think I could start a fire with a faulty kettle?"
Niall doesn't even flinch. "You're banned from owning small appliances."
⊹₊ ঌ⋆｡°✩
The match is on with the volume turned up just enough to mask the sounds of Louis and Niall ripping open snack bags like raccoons at a campsite. The living room is dimly lit mostly by the flicker of the TV and the glow from Louis' tiny kitchen light. Their beer cans are scattered across the coffee table, and Louis' sofa is doing its best under their collective sprawl.
"Tell me again why you've got four different dips for two kinds of crisps?" Niall asks, crunching loudly.
Louis shrugs, licking salt off his thumb. "Sometimes a lad wants options."
They fall into an easy rhythm, half watching the game, half shouting over it. Louis throws a cushion at the telly when a striker fumbles an easy shot. Niall flips him off in solidarity.
Around half-time, while the pundits are droning on, the cameras linger on a girl in the stands waving a homemade sign. Niall nudges Louis and mutters, "Camera guy's got a crush. That's, like, the third time he's zoomed in on her."
Louis doesn't respond. He's got his phone out, thumbs moving with purpose.
"You stalking your firefighter again?" Niall asks, raising an eyebrow.
Louis doesn't look up. "I'm doing research."
"Right," Niall says, dragging out the word. "Research that involves the Greater Manchester Fire and Rescue Service website?"
"He had a badge, didn't he? I'm narrowing it down."
Niall blinks at him. "Mate. Just search Facebook like everyone else who's horny and mildly unhinged."
Louis scoffs. "Obviously that was the first thing I did. He must have a private account. Or a fake name. Or—oh my God, what if he's got one of those names with an annoying spelling, like Jaxon with an X?"
Niall leans over to peek at his screen. "You're literally on the staff directory."
Louis tilts his phone away. "Well, if I burn something again and he comes back, I'd like to be able to address him properly."
Niall groans, flopping dramatically onto the arm of the sofa. "You're not even watching the game."
"I am," Louis says, scrolling further down the webpage. "Just in a more... emotionally layered way."
Giving up for now, Louis lets out a frustrated noise and tosses his phone to the side, where it lands somewhere between the sofa cushions. He flops back dramatically, limbs splayed like some kind of animal that’s been involved in a traffic collision. "He's not even listed on the website. Maybe I imagined him. I was delirious. Smoke inhalation does weird things to the brain."
Niall doesn't even blink. "You'll have to call and see if he turns up, then."
Louis sits up then, eyebrow raised at Niall as if a lightbulb has just clicked on in his head.
Niall narrows his eyes. "No. No, no, no. Louis. You can’t!”
“It was your idea!” Louis says accusingly.
“Are you seriously considering calling for a non-emergency? Isn't that, like... illegal?"
Louis doesn't look up from his phone. "Not if I actually need help."
"But you don't."
"You don't know that."
Niall scoffs. "What would you even call for?"
Louis lifts a shoulder. "Fire-adjacent emergencies."
"Yeah, like what? Getting your cock stuck in a Pringles tube?"
Louis rolls his eyes. "You're wildly overestimating my girth if you think I'd get stuck in a Pringles tube."
Niall nearly chokes on a Dorito, wheezing with laughter. "Jesus Christ."
Louis grins, tapping something into his notes app. "Besides, technically, weird noises from appliances can be dangerous."
Niall stares at him. "If you burn down this flat for a man, I'm never letting you forget it."
⊹₊ ঌ⋆｡°✩
It's mid-afternoon on a Wednesday, the sky a sharp, cloudless blue that spills light across Louis' cluttered kitchen table. The sunlight slants in through the window, glinting off his half-drunk iced coffee that’s sweating a ring of condensation onto the worn wood. His left foot bounces against the table leg, a relentless jitter that matches the frantic hum of his thoughts.
It's been five days since Toastgate, and Louis has thought of little else. Not because of the embarrassment, though that still makes his cheeks burn at random intervals, but because of him—Harry, the hot firefighter with the devastating smile, slow teasing wit, and the devilish wink he sent Louis on his way out.
Five days, and the memory of Harry has settled into Louis' brain like an itch he can't scratch.
So now he's hunched over his notebook like it's a sacred text, his pen clutched in a white-knuckled grip, a list sprawled across the page in frantic, increasingly scruffy scrawl.
Fire-Adjacent Emergencies (Hot Fireman Traps)
• Cat stuck in a tree (he doesn't have a cat. Or a tree.) — NO
• Suspicious gas smell?? (not safe, also a lie) — BIG NO
• Smoke coming from neighbours?? (It's a vape, but he was concerned) — absolutely not
• Flat too hot?? Overheating sockets? — too vague
• Weird smell in the walls? Could be wires? — maybe??
• Dropped necklace behind oven. Could be dangerous to retrieve??? — actually not terrible
• Bird on the windowsill won't leave — not a fire issue, Louis
• Turned oven on, heard a weird noise, panicked, turned it off again — pathetic but safe (circled in red)
• Started small fire to see how quickly they respond — what is WRONG with me (crossed out multiple times with aggressive, frustrated slashes)
Louis stares at the list, chewing his pen cap in thought. This is insane. This is absolutely, completely, embarrassingly insane.
And yet...
His gaze flickers to his phone, screen black but waiting. Just a single call. Just one tiny overreaction away from seeing Harry again, and hopefully watching that infuriating, stupidly charming smile spread across his face.
"I can't just set something on fire," Louis mutters, dragging a hand through his messy hair. "That's—well, it's probably illegal. And also, you know, dangerous."
But the idea of doing nothing is unbearable. Harry's probably forgotten him already, another minor call in a week full of real emergencies. Another silly story to tell over the firehouse dinner table—"guy nearly burns down his flat with toast, only wearing his boxers."
Louis winces, the blush flaring hot across his cheeks again. But embarrassment has never been enough to stop him, and he's halfway to his phone before he even realises it. He catches his own reflection in the dark screen—wild hair, bright eyes, a flush that refuses to fade. Desperate.
But then again, isn't this kind of romantic? A bit reckless, a bit mad—one step short of climbing a burning tower and waving a handkerchief. Only his tower is a tiny, smoky flat, and his handkerchief is... a rapidly fraying sense of dignity.
"Okay," he whispers, taking a deep breath. "This is fine. Mid-afternoon. No one's setting anything real on fire right now."
His gaze flits to the clock. 2:46 p.m. The calmest part of the day, right? Statistically peaceful. Not like Friday night bonfires or drunken chip pan chaos. This is safe. This is harmless.
Probably.
His thumb hovers over his phone, hesitates, dances back.
Louis' mind whirls through possibilities—the oven making a weird noise is safe, but is it too boring? Would that even get Harry? Or would they send someone else—some tired, grumpy firefighter who'd take one look at him and leave a pamphlet on safe cooking practices?
God, this is pathetic. He should stop. He should absolutely, immediately stop.
He pushes away from the table and paces tight, frantic circles in his tiny flat, the threadbare carpet scuffing beneath his bare feet. His phone is a slippery weight in his clammy palm, and Louis keeps catching glimpses of his reflection in the dark screen—a manic man on the brink of either glory or complete humiliation.
"Hi, yeah, sorry to bother you, just think my oven might be sparking? Bit of a weird smell? Thought I should check..." he mutters, voice twisting into a strained, casual tone. He cringes immediately. Too chill. He can't sound like he's ordering a takeaway instead of reporting a potential disaster.
"Good afternoon," he tries again, putting on a posh, clipped accent. "I'm slightly concerned about a possible electrical issue in my—"
"No. No, Jesus." He drags a hand through his hair, the strands sticking up in a chaotic mess. He's going to lose his mind before he even makes the call.
But his thumb hovers over the screen, and he swallows, heart racing. It's fine. It's completely fine. He's just being safe. He's being responsible. A concerned, safety-conscious citizen who definitely isn't orchestrating an entirely fake emergency just to see a stupidly fit firefighter again.
His thumb moves, and before he can talk himself out of it, he dials 101, the number for non emergencies.
The line connects with a soft click. One ring.
"Emergency services, who can I connect you with?"
Louis' voice catches, but he forces it out. "Uhhh—fire services, please?"
There's a brief pause, static crackling faintly in the silence. "Okay, please hold."
The line fills with tinny, soulless hold music—a warped, distorted version of something meant to be calming but instead only makes his pulse pound faster. His stomach twists, equal parts anticipation and shame, and he can practically feel the judgmental stares of his nonexistent neighbours.
Then—another click. A voice, steady and efficient. "Fire services, what's the nature of the emergency?"
Louis freezes, mid-step, his breath catching. Then he clears his throat and pitches his voice somewhere between concerned citizen and harmless idiot.
"Hi, yeah—sorry, um, I think my oven's making a weird noise? Like a... s-sparking sound? I turned it off straight away, but now there's sort of a funny smell? I'm probably overreacting, but I didn't want to take any chances, y'know, in case it's like—wiring, or something."
He's babbling. He can hear himself babbling and can't stop, words tumbling out in a frantic, tangled rush.
There's a pause on the other end. Long enough for Louis to imagine his name being added to some secret blacklist for time-wasters, a warning email going out to all Manchester firefighters: "Be advised: Louis Tomlinson is a menace."
But then the woman's voice returns, calm and unbothered. "Alright, we'll send someone to check it out."
"Brilliant!" The relief in his voice is too obvious and he winces. "Thanks. Cheers. Um, I'll just—wait here, then."
He barely hangs up before he's hurtling across the flat, panic-fuelled energy sending him ricocheting off furniture. He dives into the bathroom, flicking the switch so hard he nearly cracks plastic. He splashes cold water on his face—too much, drips splattering his shirt—and drags a hand through his hair, trying to tame it into something that says effortless but not trying too hard.
Two spritzes of cologne. He hesitates, then half a third, because maybe he sweats when he's nervous and that's definitely going to happen.
Back in the main room, he's everywhere at once—straightening the scattered cushions before artfully messing them back up, shoving his mug from this morning into the sink and then pulling it back out because it's a lived-in flat, not a staged crime scene. He sweeps a hand through his hair, tries a smile at his reflection in the small window of the microwave, immediately hates it, then tries for an expression of mild concern with just a touch of "oh, this is so inconvenient."
This is ridiculous. This is desperate.
And yet, when the heavy, authoritative knock echoes from the door twenty minutes later, his heart does a wild, hopeful leap in his chest, his breath catching in his throat.
"Fire department!" A clear familiar voice carrying just enough amusement to make Louis' knees go a bit weak.
Oh. Oh, that's definitely him. Game face on.
Louis takes a deep shaky breath, rubbing his sweaty palms against his jeans before pulling the door open.
Harry's standing there and the world sharpens around him. No helmet this time, curls a riotous mess from where they'd been shoved beneath it, and one curly lock falling just over his forehead. He's wearing a white T-shirt tight enough that Louis can actually see the shape of his pecs through the fabric. His eyes—green, stupidly green, like someone's bottled sunlight in emerald—sweep over Louis, and his mouth curves, slow and easy.
"Hello again, Trouble." Harry's voice is laced with humor and a bit of intrigue, and the sound of it makes something in Louis’ stomach flip
Louis ignores his already burning cheeks. "Trouble? That's a bit harsh."
"Is it?" Harry leans a shoulder against the doorframe, clearly not in any rush to investigate the suspicious smell in Louis’ oven. "Thought I recognised the address. What is it this time, burn a frozen pizza?”
He pushes off the doorframe, and Louis steps aside to let him in, catching a hint of Harry's scent—clean soap with a hint of smoky cedar and a trace of something sharper underneath. He tries to focus, but it's like his thoughts are caught in a blender, his heart racing just from the proximity.
"It's—" Louis gestures vaguely toward the kitchen where the oven sits in accusing silence. "The oven. I think. I mean, it was making this... noise?"
"Noise," Harry echoes. "Like a crackle? A spark? A little tap dance routine?"
Louis' mouth opens and closes, a laugh slipping free before he can stop it. "I mean, you joke, but it did sound a bit like it was plotting something."
"Sounds serious." Harry's tone is smooth, but there's a twitch at the corner of his mouth, that same barely-contained smile from before. He steps closer, brushing past Louis, and Louis' pulse spikes.
Harry's hands, strong and sure, run along the edges of the oven ensuring the dials are all switched off. "Alright. Tell me exactly what happened."
Louis' brain flounders, scrambling for a convincing lie that doesn't make him sound like a babbling idiot. "Um. Well, I turned it on to, like, preheat? And it sort of... crackled. A bit. And then I smelled something kind of... weird? Not, like, smoke, but... like... warm plastic?"
Harry makes a low, thoughtful sound, crouching down to peer at the oven door. Louis' eyes trace the line of his shoulders and the way the fabric of his T-shirt pulls tight showing a glimpse of strong, corded forearms as he runs his hands down the side of the oven.
"I see," Harry says, the professional mask slipping back into place. But when he glances over his shoulder, there's a spark in his eyes. "Did you turn it off straight away?"
"Of course!" Louis lies, a little too quickly. "I'm not—I mean, I'm not a complete idiot."
"Hm." Harry's smile is a quick flash of perfect teeth and Louis' stomach flips.
"Wow, I'm feeling really safe and supported right now." Louis folds his arms, trying for indignation, but he knows Harry can see through it.
"Safety first, feelings second." Harry straightens, brushing his hands off and stepping back to gesture at the oven. "Alright, so why don't you do exactly what you did before? Let's see if we can recreate the problem."
"Oh. Right. Yeah, sure." Louis' mouth goes dry. This is fine. This is perfectly fine. Nothing about this is a disaster waiting to happen. He takes a deep steadying breath, readying himself for ultimate humiliation, and steps up to the oven to reach for the dial.
Clicks it on.
Nothing but the usual hum of the oven.
Louis glances at Harry who's standing just behind him, close enough that Louis can feel the faint warmth of him at his back. Harry's gaze is fixed on the oven, the sharp line of his jaw tensing slightly.
They stand like that for a few seconds, waiting. Nothing. No crackle, no smell, no hint of disaster.
"So," Harry drawls, leaning one shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. "What noise did you say it was making?"
Louis' cheeks absolutely burn and he is certain they are the color of a ripe tomato. "I mean... I swear it was like a... crackly, sizzling kind of—"
"Uh-huh." The skepticism rang clear in Louis’ ears, doing nothing for his rapidly growing embarrassment.
Louis' hands fly up, his face a mix of determination and panic. "No, I swear, it was like this—" He makes a crackling, sputtering sound, something between static and a bad radio signal. "Like... psht-psht, and then sort of a... fizz?"
Harry's eyebrows climb, lips pressing together like he's fighting a laugh.
"I'm serious!" Louis insists, leaning forward, both hands now waving for emphasis. "It was so clear, and then this weird sort of... pfft. You know?"
"Alright, Trouble," Harry soothes, stepping forward and catching one of Louis' flailing hands with a gentle grip. "Don't hurt yourself. Maybe I should have a look at the wiring instead, yeah?"
Louis' breath stutters at the touch, warm and solid around his wrist, and he barely manages a nod. "Yeah. I mean... couldn't hurt."
Harry's thumb brushes against his wrist before letting go and Louis is left clutching his own hand, his skin tingling where Harry touched it. His heart's still racing, every nerve lit up, and he has to force himself to focus as Harry moves with that quiet, capable ease.
Harry turns the oven off again and plants a boot against the base of it, gripping it with both hands, and pulls. The appliance slides out smoothly, heavy but no match for the subtle flex of muscle beneath Harry's shirt. Louis is holding his breath, gaze shamelessly tracing the line of Harry's back and the broad sweep of his shoulders. It lingers at the soft curls that lay against the nape of his neck.
"It all looks pretty clean back here," Harry says, crouched down with one hand braced against the wall. His voice is calm and sure. "No scorch marks, no obvious damage. Wiring's intact."
"Brilliant." Louis forces out, trying to sound normal. "So... maybe it was just a false alarm?"
"Could be." Harry straightens, brushing dust from his hands. When he glances back at Louis, there's a playful spark in his green eyes. "Or maybe you just wanted to find a way to get me back here."
Louis' heart stumbles, then takes off at a sprint. "What?"
Harry's head tilts to the side and his smile spreads — measured, slow, and unmistakably daring. "What?"
"No, you—" Louis avoids Harry’s eye and laughs nervously. His cheeks burn, but he refuses to give in, folding his arms across his chest like they'll shield him from how exposed he suddenly feels.
"Relax, Trouble." Harry's voice is a soothing drawl, but his gaze is sharp like he's daring Louis to deny it. "I'm only teasing."
Louis' stomach flips, a heady mix of relief and disappointment. "Right. Of course. Just teasing."
"Unless...?" Harry's eyebrows lift, his grin widening.
"Oh my god." Louis wants to sink straight through the floor, laughing despite himself.
"Seriously though—" His voice softens, just a little. "Electrician is probably what you want next time your oven makes a weird noise."
"Right. Electrician." Louis echoes. He feels like he’s stumbled mid-step—caught off guard by the whiplash of Harry's teasing turned professionalism.
"Otherwise I'm going to have to start charging you," Harry adds, grinning as he steps back.
"Not sure I could afford your hourly rate," Louis manages, attempting to return Harry’s smile.
"I'm pretty generous with my time for the right people." Harry makes direct eye contact with Louis, and it feels like both a challenge and a promise.
And then he's moving toward the door, boots heavy against the floor. "Take care, Trouble."
The door swings shut behind him leaving Louis in a flat that suddenly feels too small and too quiet with the lingering scent of aftershave, sweat, and Louis’ own anxiety filling the air.
⊹₊ ঌ⋆｡°✩
The line crackles faintly as Louis holds his phone between his shoulder and ear, one hand flicking through racks of pre-packaged curtains like he's on a timed game show.
"I'm telling you, Lottie," he says, tone conspiratorial, "I've searched everywhere. Instagram, Facebook, even LinkedIn. It's like the man's a ghost. A devastatingly fit, government-employed ghost."
Lottie snorts in his ear. "You're being dramatic. He's not in MI5, he's in the fire brigade. How hard can it be to find a Hot Harry in uniform? Leave it with me—I'll do some recon."
"Lottie, no," Louis says quickly, pulling a paisley pattern aside to examine it under the terrible store lighting. "Your idea of recon involves DMing strangers and making a spreadsheet."
"Exactly," she says smugly. "Give me a day and I'll have a shortlist."
"You're terrifying," he says fondly, running a thumb over the fabric tag. "Also, I think I like this one. It's got a sort of... retro, grandad chic vibe."
"You are a retro grandad," Lottie deadpans.
Louis huffs a laugh. "Rude. Anyway, I'm gonna pay before I spiral further and ask the checkout girl if she knows any local daddies with hero complexes."
"Bye, loser," she says, and the call cuts off.
Louis pockets his phone, still smiling as he heads for the till, curtain packet tucked under his arm and Harry's face still burning like an afterimage in his mind.
The curtains are swinging from the bag against his leg as Louis makes his way down the high street, the late afternoon sun doing its best to blind him every time he rounds a corner. His headphones are in now, but nothing's playing. He just likes the illusion of being unbothered.
He's halfway home, cutting past a row of red-bricked terraces when something makes him pause.
A building a few doors down has its front gate half off the hinge, swinging crooked in the breeze. But it's not the gate that catches his eye—it's the tangle of exposed wires spilling out of the little wall-mounted fuse box just beside the door frame. He slows to a stop.
The wires are scorched. Not badly, but enough to look... suspicious. Dodgy. Fire-adjacent.
He stares at it for a long moment.
And then his brain, without permission, starts scheming.
He could say he was walking home and spotted a potential fire hazard. He could say he was concerned. That it's a residential area. That he's a good citizen.
It's technically not his building—but it's near his building.
By the time he unlocks the door to his flat, he's already talking himself into it. The bag of curtains hits the counter with a soft thunk and Louis pulls out his phone, heart fluttering in anticipation.
One fire-adjacent emergency, coming up.
Louis sits on the edge of his kitchen counter, phone clutched to his ear, feet bouncing wildly. His heart's racing like he's about to confess to a crime rather than... you know. Just report a minor fire hazard he technically had nothing to do with.
The line clicks, then rings twice before a voice answers—smooth and professional.
"Manchester Fire and Rescue, what's the nature of the report?"
Louis clears his throat. "Hi, yeah, um. Hi. Sorry. It's not, like, urgent-urgent? But I saw something weird outside a building near mine. Wires. Like, electrical ones. I think they might be—" He winces. "—a bit melty?"
A pause.
Then, "Alright, can you be more specific about the location?"
Louis rattles off the street name, eyes fixed on the curtain bag as if it might help him remain grounded in reality.
Another pause.
"And what's your name?"
"Oh. Uh. Louis."
Silence. Then—
"...Louis."
Louis bites his lip. "Yeah."
There's the faint rustle of movement, a chair creaking on the other end.
"You said it's not your building?"
"No. I mean, it's close. But I was walking home, and I saw the wires. And they just looked a bit—dodgy? Like, not fully on fire but potentially flammable. Sort of. I just thought—like, better safe than sorry, right? Because if it's like a thing where the insulation's gone or something could spark—"
"Louis."
Louis freezes.
"Hello, Trouble. I thought I recognised your voice."
Louis makes a strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "Oh my god."
"I was wondering how long it'd take before you cracked and made up another excuse."
"I didn't make anything up! It's a legitimate concern!" Louis insists, but he's smiling, his voice pitched high with embarrassment.
There's warmth in Harry's voice, all teasing affection. "Of course. Always looking out for the safety of the neighbourhood."
"Exactly," Louis says weakly.
"So go on then," Harry drawls. "Hit me with the thrilling details. What exactly did you see and when did you see it? Were there sparks flying? Flames licking up the side of a building? A dramatic explosion in the distance while you stood there, heroically squinting through the smoke?"
Louis huffs a laugh. "Don't mock me. It looked dodgy!"
"I'm not mocking," Harry says, though he definitely is. "Just trying to paint the scene. Was it at least raining for dramatic effect?"
"No, but I had a tote bag full of curtains and a can of Coke that was about to explode in my coat pocket if that adds anything to your mental image."
Harry chuckles, low and warm. "It does, actually. Adds a certain domestic charm. Alright, curtain boy, tell me what you saw."
Louis closes his eyes, trying to ignore the sound of his own blood rushing distractingly in his ears. "Okay, so there's this little back street near Wilton Road. Behind the charity shop—you know the one with the grim mannequins?"
"Sadly, I do."
"Yeah, well. There's a building there—one of those old brick ones that probably hasn't been updated since the eighties—and on the side of it, just under the eaves, there's a bundle of wires. And they look—um. Sort of blackened? Like the casing melted a bit. Not loads, just... enough that I noticed."
There's a shift on the line. Harry's voice, when it comes again, is a little more serious. "And this was today?"
"Just now, like fifteen minutes ago."
A pause. "You didn't see smoke, though? Or smell anything burning?"
"No smoke. Just looked off, you know?"
"Yeah," Harry murmurs. "Could be sun damage, or bad insulation. But if the casing's compromised, especially if it's near timber... that's actually a decent shout, Louis. We'll send someone to check it out."
Louis blinks. "Oh. Right. Okay. Good."
Another pause, and then Harry's voice shifts again—lightening, teasing. "Look at you. Out here saving the city one suspicious cable at a time."
Louis grins, picking at the corner of his curtain bag. "Well, someone's got to keep you lot in work."
"Public service hero," Harry says, the smile audible in his voice. "Right then. Let me just get all this down. So, you said it was Wilton Road, behind the charity shop?"
"Yeah. Down that grim little side alley with the recycling bins that always smell like bin juice and regret."
Harry snorts. "Charming. And the wires—above head height?"
"Uh-huh. Maybe just above the first floor window ledge? Kind of bundled up against the wall."
"Got it." There's the faint sound of typing on Harry's end. "You've got a good eye, you know. Most people wouldn't spot something like that."
"I'm very observant," Louis says proudly, wandering into the kitchen and opening the fridge just to look. "Also I'm a bit nosy."
"A dangerous combo."
There's a lull as Harry finishes inputting something, and Louis bites his lip, hesitating. "Hey, um. Can I ask a—like, a general fire question?"
Harry's tone perks up immediately. "Of course. What's on your mind, citizen?"
Louis huffs a laugh. "Alright, don't make it weird. Just—hypothetically. If someone, say, left a scented candle too close to a curtain. Or, like, near one of those slightly melty IKEA lamps. Is that, like, a huge risk or..."
Harry's quiet for a moment, then: "Hypothetically?"
"Yeah."
"And totally not in your own flat right now?"
"No. Definitely not. Just... in theory."
"Got it." There's a smile tucked into his voice again. "Well, in theory, yeah. That could be an issue. Candles especially. Fabrics catch quickly, and those cheap lamps overheat all the time. So if someone were to, you know, hypothetically lounge around next to that setup—they might want to rethink their life choices."
Louis giggles, half-horrified, half-besotted. "Okay, rude."
"I'm just saying. I don't want you going up in smoke, Trouble."
"I'm not—It's not even—I was just curious."
"I believe you."
"You're such a liar," Louis says, grinning helplessly, already walking into the living room. He flops onto the sofa face-first, tucking the phone between his shoulder and cheek, feet kicked up behind him like a teenage girl in a rom-com. "God. You probably think I'm the biggest weirdo you've ever met."
"I think you're entertaining," Harry says easily. "And maybe a little bit careless with your household appliances."
"I'll take it."
There's a small beat of silence. Not awkward—just soft. Unexpectedly comfortable.
Eventually, Harry says, "Alright, I should let you go. Got a few more reports to file."
Louis hums. "Yeah. Right."
"Thanks for the heads-up, though. Seriously. We'll send someone to have a look."
"Okay. Cool." Louis bites his lip again. "Thanks for... answering."
"Always," Harry says. Then, gently, "Talk soon, Trouble."
The line clicks off, but Louis doesn't move. Just lies there, phone still pressed to his ear like he's hoping Harry might say one more thing.
He kicks at the sofa cushion behind him, feeling completely ridiculous—
and maybe, just a little bit exhilarated.
⊹₊ ঌ⋆｡°✩
Louis doesn’t plan it, not exactly. But a couple of days later he’s googled the address and found out it’s only a twenty-minute walk from his flat. And it’s not like he’s doing anything else today, except maybe ignoring emails and trying not to give in to the temptation to set his bed on fire.
He’s just going to walk past. Maybe glance inside. Just a look.
That’s all.
The station’s easy to spot—big red doors, brick frontage, all exactly how you’d imagine it. And, of course, because the universe has a sense of humour, there are firefighters standing out front. Two of them are hosing down a massive engine, water catching in the sun. Another is dragging coils of hose back toward a rack. All of them are in t-shirts, some in cargo trousers, some in shorts. All muscled arms.
Louis can hear the back-and-forth banter from the street followed by the sound of exasperated laughter. He’s absolutely not intimidated at all.
Louis pauses at the end of the pavement. Somewhere in a distant corner of his mind, his brain is telling him to keep walking. Apparently, and unfortunately for Louis, he has put his brain on mute, because it’s that moment when one of the firefighters glances up and meets his eye. To his surprise, he’s graced with a friendly nod of acknowledgement.
And Louis, betraying every instinct of self-preservation, lifts a hand in return. “Alright?”
“Hey, mate,” the firefighter says, straightening up. “Something I can help with?”
“Oh, no,” Louis responds quickly, walking closer before he can think better of it. “Just passing by. Big fan of, uh… the fire service.” He winces internally. But they laugh.
“Well, cheers,” the other one says, giving the fire engine a fond slap. “Want a closer look?”
Louis blinks. “Seriously?”
“Sure,” one of them grins. “We do school groups sometimes, but I reckon you’re probably over the age limit.”
“Mentally? Just barely,” Louis jokes, following them toward the station. “But I’ll behave. I just—yeah. Always been curious.”
“Height-wise, you’re not far off, to be fair,” one of them throws in with a cheeky grin.
Louis pointedly ignores that, lifting his chin a little as he keeps walking. “Just always thought the job seemed intriguing. Dangerous, but necessary.” One of them beckons Louis a bit closer, and soon enough, they’re showing him around the engine like it’s a normal Tuesday. Someone lifts one of the compartment doors to reveal a neatly packed row of heavy-looking gear.
“This is our breathing apparatus—BA sets. Each one’s got a mask, cylinder, full rig. Needs to be checked every shift.”
Louis leans in, nodding along. “How long does the air last?”
“Depends on the job, but usually about half an hour of working time. Less if you’re climbing stairs or it’s really hot.”
They move on to the other side, where someone else points out the ladders, thermal imaging cameras, and coiled hose reels. Louis listens diligently, asking all the questions he’s always wondered about—how much water it holds, how fast they can get suited up, what it’s like in a real fire. His eyes are bright with genuine interest, and in this moment, he’s forgotten the real reason for his little mission.
“I actually looked into volunteering a while back,” Louis offers casually. “Didn’t end up doing it—schedules and that—but I always wondered what it’s actually like, day-to-day.”
That earns a few nods, and a younger firefighter leans against the open door. “It’s different every shift. Could be nothing but training and drills, or you’re flat out with jobs. You never know.”
Louis glances toward the wide doors of the station, the shadowed interior just beyond. “Is it mostly offices inside? Or do you all hang out back there between calls?”
“Bit of both,” one of them replies. “Crew room, mess, gym, bunks upstairs for nights. Want a quick look?”
Louis blinks, schooling his expression before it can tip into anything too eager. “Yeah? If that’s alright.”
“Course,” one says, already waving him along. “You’re not the first curious civvie we’ve had nosing around.”
Louis smiles, stepping past the engine to follow them in. The station smells like rubber, cleaning spray, and the lingering scent of brewed coffee. He wipes his damp soles on the mat as they lead him inside.
“Sourdough!”
Louis freezes, head whipping up.. At the far end of the station, the older firefighter from the burnt toast incident is walking toward them with a finger pointed straight at him, grinning wide.
“Oh, fuck me,” Louis mutters under his breath.
“Didn’t I tell you?” the man crows, slapping one of the younger guys on the back. “Set the alarms off in the whole bloody building over two slices of toast!”
“It was an accident,” Louis protests, ears burning.
The man just laughs harder. “You didn’t even look ashamed, you were just stood there in your pants!”
Louis buries his face in his hands for a second while everyone else laughs. He sends a quick prayer that nobody mentions the way he probably drooled over Hot Harry.
“Hang on,” one of the younger firefighters says, squinting at him. “Are you the lad Styles mentioned?” And… of course he doesn’t get that lucky. It’s fine, Louis thinks. Play it cool, he tells himself.
Louis blinks. “Oh—uh, no? I don’t think so? I don’t know that guy.” Seriously? Real casual Tomlinson.
There’s a pause. A beat of silence where they all kind of look at each other, a few brows raised. Then one of them coughs pointedly into his fist, clearly holding back a laugh.
“Right,” another says, grin stretching slowly. “Must be thinking of someone else.”
The older firefighter winks at Louis. “Funny, you’ve got the same guilty face he described after your malfunctioning stove incident.”
“I just wanted to see what the station was like!” Louis insists, but his voice is pitched higher than usual, embarrassed desperation bleeding through.
“Course you did,” the first one says, deadpan. “Come on, we’ll show you the gear lockers. You can meet all our coats.”
Louis chuckles, determinedly ignoring the blush that’s seemingly fighting for permanent residence on his face. He could play this off. Leave now before he risks bumping into the man himself. Instead, he follows as they lead him down the row of metal cubbies—open lockers stacked with boots, gloves, and jackets. The air smells of stale smoke, fresh soap, and damp nylon.
Louis walks slowly, glancing at each name stencilled across the labels. When he spots one that says Styles, he hesitates. His fingers drift out, lightly brushing the sleeve of the turnout coat hanging there.
One of the firefighters clocks it immediately.
“Careful,” he says with a grin. “That one bites.”
The others snigger behind him. Louis rolls his eyes but doesn’t immediately move his hand.
“His kit’s neat,” Louis says quietly before he can stop himself. Then quickly, and louder than necessary, “I mean, they’re all neat. Yours too.”
“Yeah, mate,” someone says, barely holding back laughter. “They’re all neat.”
Louis internally cringes at himself, pulling his hand away as they move to follow the group down a corridor lined with whiteboards and wall-mounted radios. One of the firefighters leads him through a doorway.
“This is the control room—well, our version of it,” he says. “Where we get briefed, track jobs, all that.”
Louis steps inside, eyes sweeping over the screens and pinned-up street maps. It’s quiet in here, filled with the low hum of equipment and the sharp smell of coffee and electronics. He nods like he’s seen control rooms before—even though he definitely hasn’t—and tucks his hands in his pockets to stop from touching anything.
He is interested. Genuinely. It’s all a bit fascinating, and there’s a part of him that could get lost in the screens and switches and organised chaos of it. But there’s another reason he’s here, too.
Harry.
Louis needs to know what shows up when he calls—whether Harry knows it’s him before he answers, how much information is stored in the system, how much Harry sees and how much he just guesses.
“D’you know where you’re going before you leave?” he asks. “Like—do you already know the address, what it is, or…?”
“Sometimes,” one replies, leaning against the desk. “Depends how the call comes in. We get info over the radio on the way—location, incident type. It updates us as more details come in.”
“Right,” Louis says, nodding again. “And do you ever like… keep track of houses you’ve been to before? If someone calls more than once, does it get flagged?”
There’s a short pause. A couple of the firefighters exchange a glance.
“Depends what you mean by flagged,” one of them says slowly.
Louis shrugs, playing it casual. “Dunno. Just wondered. Say someone’s, like, unlucky. Or keeps setting off the alarms.”
One of the firefighters blinks at him, all faux innocence. “Oh yeah? That happen often?”
“Suppose it might,” another chimes in, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “Some people just have bad luck with toast, eh?”
Louis narrows his eyes. “Right. Yeah. Purely hypothetical.”
“Course,” one agrees. “Hypothetical toast is the worst kind.”
Undeterred, Louis leans a bit closer to the desk, glancing at the call logs on one of the screens. “So like… do you log names? Or just addresses?”
“Bit of both,” someone replies, maddeningly vague.
“Ever look people up?” Louis asks. “To see if you’ve been somewhere before?”
“Why, you worried we’re building a file on you?” one asks, grinning wide. “Got something to confess?”
Louis scoffs. “No. Just curious. Wondered if… I dunno. If you’d remember someone if you’d been out a couple times.”
There’s a beat.
“I mean, depends,” the older one says, slow and thoughtful. “Some people make an impression.”
“Right,” Louis mutters, giving him a look.
They’re interrupted by a sharp beep from the radios, followed by a clipped voice rattling off an address. Instantly, everyone straightens.
“That’s us,” someone says, already moving. “Gonna have to boot you, mate.”
“Right, of course,” Louis says hurriedly. He steps back as the room shifts into motion—helmets pulled on, jackets grabbed from hooks, footsteps echoing down the corridor.
One of them pauses just long enough to walk Louis toward the exit. “You’re welcome back anytime,” he says with a grin. “Assuming you don’t start any actual fires.”
Louis snorts. “I’ll try to restrain myself.”
He steps out into the daylight, the engine already rumbling behind him, and watches them go, heart thudding harder than he’d like to admit.
⊹₊ ঌ⋆｡°✩
The next time Louis calls, it's not entirely his fault.
It's the curtains. Or rather, the loose bracket that's been clinging to his living room wall by sheer willpower for months. Louis finally decides to fix it himself because how hard can it be? Except his step ladder is too short, so he balances on the arm of the sofa instead. One wrong stretch, a triumphant click of the screw slotting into place—then the whole thing gives way dramatically.
He falls. Not hard, but he lands in an awkward, twisted sprawl, a sharp twinge shooting up his ankle.
It's fine. It's absolutely fine. Until he tries to stand and the pain flares, white-hot and unrelenting. Louis hisses, collapsing back onto the sofa clutching his ankle and swearing a blue streak.
For a moment he considers just... not calling. Icing it. Hobbling to bed. But the pain is pulsing now, fierce and insistent, and the thought of making it worse—and of being stuck here, alone, unable to even hobble to the loo—prickles at his nerves.
When Louis calls this time, he doesn't even bother pretending it's an emergency. Not a real one, anyway. His ankle throbs, the curtain rail dangling half-attached to the wall like it's mocking him. He's tried standing—twice—and each time the pain flared so sharp he saw stars.
So, phone in hand, cheeks already threatening to bloom in embarrassment, he dials the local fire department.
It only rings once.
"Fire department, how can we assist?" The voice is calm, clipped, and entirely professional.
"Hi, yeah, sorry," Louis begins, trying to keep his voice steady. "It's—I think I might need some help with, uh, a ladder? Or something? It's just—I was trying to fix my curtain rail, and I don't have a ladder, and—"
There's a pause, a shuffle of sound, and then—
"Oh, is that Trouble again?" The voice shifts, warmth and amusement breaking through.
Louis' heart skips. "Harry?"
"Mm, the one and only," Harry says, and Louis can hear the smile in his voice. "Haven't seen your number flash up in a few days. Thought you might've forgotten about me."
"Forgotten—" Louis huffs, trying for a laugh and only managing to sound breathless. "Very funny. I was actually trying to be a functional adult, if you can believe it."
"Impressive." Harry's voice is a gentle tease. "And how's that going for you?"
Louis glances at his ankle, already swollen, the dull ache deepening. "Well, I... I may have fallen a little."
"You may have?" Harry's voice sharpens, still light but now with an edge of concern. "How bad is it?"
"Not too bad, I don't think. Just can't really... bear weight on my foot. Or get up."
There's a sigh, the kind that sounds both exasperated and fond. Then, a playful, wet raspberry sound, like Harry's blowing out a breath. "Of course. Alright, Trouble, don't move. I'm not actually doing anything right now, so I'll be there soon."
"Wait, you don't have to—"
"Yeah, I do. Liability reasons." Harry's tone is dry, but there's something softer underneath it. "Also, I like knowing you're not gonna try to climb something else and make it worse."
Louis' face is on fire. "This is the first time this has happened to me."
"Uh-huh. I'll be there soon. Keep still, okay?"
The line clicks off, leaving Louis staring at his phone with a racing heart.
He's torn between mortification and fluttery nervous excitement. Harry's on his way. Again. Because of him.
Louis looks around his flat, the scattered cushions in disarray, the dangling curtain, the mug he abandoned on the table. He debates trying to tidy, then remembers he can't stand. He reaches for a throw pillow behind his head, gives it a half-hearted fluff with one hand, and then groans because even that hurts.
"Okay. It's fine. Just... be cool," he mutters to himself, which immediately feels impossible considering his recent attempts.
Time crawls. Louis fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt, adjusts the crumpled blanket around his legs, smooths down his hair, then ruffles it up again. The flat's quiet, too quiet, and his ankle won't stop throbbing.
Then—
"Fire department! Anyone in need of a heroic rescue?"
Louis' heart does its stupid wild leap, and he fights the instinct to sink deeper into the carpeted floor. "It’s unlocked!"
The door opens, and there he is—Harry, curls wild, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, a heavy first aid bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes lock onto Louis immediately, scanning him head to toe.
Louis' chest does that ridiculous swoopy thing again, like his ribs are too tight to hold all the relief.
"Trouble," Harry breathes, stepping inside with a sigh that's part amusement, part genuine concern. "You really can't go a week without chaos, can you?"
"Don't look so smug," Louis grumbles, wincing as he shifts. "I swear this wasn't on purpose. Just... a minor incident with a curtain rail and gravity."
Harry's mouth quirks. "Gravity's a vicious bastard." He crouches beside the sofa, his face softening. "Let me see."
"I'm fine. Probably just twisted it—"
"Uh-huh. I'll be the judge of that." Harry's voice is firm but warm, and before Louis can argue, Harry's hands are on his ankle— calloused but careful. One large palm cradles his calf, the other gently brushes up his shin, the touch leaving a trail of goosebumps.
Louis sucks in a breath—and it has nothing to do with the pain.
"Tell me if this hurts." Harry says, low and focused, any scent of teasing stripped away. His fingers move with practiced precision, checking for swelling, heated skin, signs of a break. His touch is methodical, but soothing—care and confidence in every motion.
Louis can't look anywhere but at Harry's face.
"It's—fine. Mostly. Just... tender." His voice comes out embarrassingly shaky, volume lowered to match Harry’s, and he wants to blame it on the pain, but even he knows better.
Harry's touch lingers. "Doesn't feel broken. Maybe a sprain." He glances up then, catching Louis' eyes—and the sharp edges of concentration soften. "I'll wrap it. Help keep it steady. You're gonna be alright, you know."
The quiet reassurance sinks into Louis like warmth under the skin. "Yeah. I—I know."
But he doesn't know if he means his ankle.
Harry shifts slightly, still crouched in front of the sofa, and swings the first aid kit around from his shoulder. He works quickly, cracking the lid, pulling out a compression bandage. He's done this a hundred times probably—but the way his fingers move, precise and patient, makes Louis' pulse skitter.
"Right," Harry murmurs, gently taking hold of Louis' ankle again. "Gonna keep this a bit elevated—" With effortless care, he lifts Louis' leg and settles it on a cushion. "And I'll get this wrapped up. If it gets too tight, you tell me, yeah?"
"Yeah." Louis' voice is barely more than breath.
The bandage is cool at first, then warm where Harry's hands smooth it into place. The pressure is firm and steady, his fingers brushing along Louis' shin with quiet confidence.
"There we go." Harry's voice is a low murmur, calm and grounding. "Keep it elevated. Ice will help with the swelling." He cracks an instant pack with a twist and a soft snap, gives it a brisk shake, and presses it gently over the bandage.
"Magic," Louis breathes, trying for a laugh, but it comes out a little thin.
"First aid's got its perks." Harry's smile is soft, that teasing warmth curling at the edges. Then, without warning, he leans in and slips an arm beneath Louis' knees, the other around his back.
"Wait—what are you—"
Harry lifts him in a bridal style carry. Louis' arms flail briefly, then cling to his shoulders as the world tilts. He feels weightless for a moment, the strength of Harry's arms solid and anchoring before he's settled carefully back onto the sofa, ankle propped just right, ice still in place.
Harry straightens with a satisfied little breath and turns to inspect the chaos of Louis' half-detached curtain rail. His hands settle on his hips, head tilting, curls flopping slightly forward.
"So," he says, tone light, "what exactly were you trying to do here?"
Louis shifts, cheeks prickling. "Just... tightening it. Thought it was loose. Turns out it was more... catastrophically unstable."
"Right." Harry's mouth twitches. "Catastrophic seems to be a bit of a theme with you."
Louis huffs. "Thanks."
But Harry's already stepping closer, reaching up without even needing Louis’ little step ladder. His fingers find the curtain rail, testing it with practiced ease—and Louis' breath catches.
Because Harry is tall. Tall enough that when he stretches, his T-shirt pulls taut across his back, the fabric hugging the strong lines of his shoulders. When he reaches higher, the shirt rides up just a bit, exposing a strip of tanned skin at the small of his back—a soft dip where muscle narrows toward his waist.
Louis stares, helpless.
The curve of Harry's spine, the shifting muscles in his arms, the scatter of freckles dusting his forearms—it's too much and not enough all at once. His curls fall back as he leans up, his face caught in profile, a line of concentration furrowing his brow. He bites his lip slightly, focused.
Louis swallows hard. He's fairly certain he's never been in this much danger while sitting down.
"This one's completely loose," Harry mutters, mostly to himself. "No wonder it fell. I'll get it back in place for you. Won't take a sec."
"Sure," Louis manages, though it sounds strangled.
Harry's arms flex as he works, the movement rippling beneath his shirt—and Louis might actually combust. Not from the injury, but from the sheer injustice of Harry being this strong and this nice and this stupidly fit all at once.
With a final twist, the curtain rail slides back into place, secure and steady. Harry steps back, brushing off his hands and turns—just in time to catch Louis staring.
"You alright over there?" His grin is easy, but there's a glint in his eyes—like he knows.
"Yeah." Louis' voice jumps. "Perfect. Thanks. You're, um... very handy."
Harry's grin widens. "Perks of the job. Though I usually do more, y'know... fire-related heroics."
"Well, this was very heroic." Louis swallows. "Curtain-based valour."
Harry laughs, bright and warm, his eyes lingering a moment too long. "Glad I could save the day."
Louis clears his throat, trying not to melt into the cushions. "I'd offer you a cup of tea as thanks, but..." He gestures to his ankle, helpless.
Harry's grin is immediate. "Honestly? I wouldn't trust you to make it anyway."
"Wow, the audacity," Louis says, scandalised, but he's already smiling.
Harry's heading for the kitchen nook, waving a hand. "Consider it a public service. You relax. I've got this."
Louis sinks deeper into the cushions, watching him go. "Okay, um—tea bags are in the cupboard to the left of the sink."
"Got it."
"Milk's in the fridge. Sugar's in the jar by the toaster."
"I see you've made peace with the toaster," Harry calls, glancing over his shoulder with a crooked smile.
"Barely. It's on probation."
Harry's laugh is a warm, easy sound, and Louis can hear the soft clink of mugs being set out, the quiet rush of water filling the kettle. He can't see much from his spot on the sofa, but he can hear the efficiency in Harry's movements, the gentle clatter of a teaspoon against porcelain, the click of the kettle switching off.
"You take sugar?" Harry calls out, and Louis tunes back in, momentarily thrown by the sheer absurdity of how domestic and lovely this all feels.
"Just one, please."
"Living on the edge," Harry teases.
"Look, I'm already pushing my luck with the curtain rail. One adventure at a time."
Harry's chuckle is a low, soothing rumble and Louis finds himself smiling like an idiot, the ache in his ankle almost forgotten. There's something about the sight—well, the sound—of Harry in his kitchen, making tea like he belongs there, that has Louis' heart doing an unsteady dance in his chest.
When the kettle clicks off, there's a brief, quiet rustling—Harry clearly opening a cupboard he wasn't instructed to.
"Top shelf," Louis supplies, "the biscuits are on the top shelf."
"Ah, perfect." A pause, then, "You've got a stash of chocolate digestives. Dangerous knowledge for me to have."
"Oh, please. Like you're the kind of person who'd steal a man's emergency biscuits."
"I don't know, Trouble," Harry counters, footsteps padding back toward him. "You bring out my reckless side."
Louis raises his head as Harry reappears, two steaming mugs in hand and a smirk playing at his lips. "One tea, slightly sugary, and one for me—hero strength."
Louis' grin is unstoppable. "What's hero strength?"
"No sugar. Extra judgment."
"Tragic." Louis takes the mug, their fingers brushing and the faintest spark dances up his arm. "Thanks, by the way."
"Anytime." Harry lowers himself right next to Louis on the small sofa, his solid frame settling into the limited space. Their legs press together, a warm, steady line of contact that Louis can't help but notice, his breath hitching just slightly.
Harry's gaze flickers to him, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. "How's the ankle feeling now?"
Louis flexes it experimentally, immediately wincing in exaggerated pain. "Oh, you know, might be touch and go. Could require months of heroic firefighter care."
"Drama queen," Harry teases, but his voice softens, and there's a quiet, focused concern in his eyes now. "Seriously. Don't move it too much."
"I'm fine. I promise." But his voice wavers, because Harry is leaning in a little closer, his attention completely on him.
"Just... stay still." Harry's voice is low, a quiet thread of command, and then his hand reaches up, slow and careful. Louis doesn't breathe, doesn't dare, as Harry's fingers brush against his forehead, a gentle, feather-light touch pushing a stray lock of hair back.
Louis' heart is a wild, pounding mess that he’s sure Harry can hear . With Harry this close, he can see every shade of green in Harry's eyes, the darker ring around the edges, the way his lashes fan low as his gaze flickers down, catching on Louis' mouth.
And is he leaning in? Louis could swear—
A sudden, sharp crackle of static splits the air, and Harry's radio, clipped to his belt, bursts to life. "Unit 43, we've got a reported structure fire on—"
Harry reacts instantly, all soft warmth and lingering gazes swept aside in a blink. He's up, moving with a sharp, practiced efficiency, his mug abandoned on the coffee table as he grabs for his bag. "Sorry, Louis, I—"
"No, of course," Louis stammers, trying to shake off the daze of almost. "Go. Save the world."
"Not quite, but I'll give it a shot." Harry's back to being all brisk professionalism, but as he swings his jacket on, his eyes flick back to Louis with that familiar, maddening smile slipping back into place. "Stay off that ankle, yeah? Don't want to find you dangling from the ceiling next time."
Louis can't help but laugh, even as his chest tightens. "I'll do my best."
Harry's gone with a final, "See you later, Trouble," the door clicking shut behind him, and the flat feels suddenly too quiet and empty, like all the air has gone with him.
Louis sags back into the sofa, his hand drifting up to touch his forehead where Harry's fingers had been, still warm and tingling.
"Well. Shit," he mutters, letting his head tip back, staring at the ceiling and grinning like an idiot.
⊹₊ ঌ⋆｡°✩
"I need him to fuck me, Niall," Louis says, dead serious as he smashes buttons on the PS5 controller like it's personally responsible for his sexual frustration.
Niall doesn't even look up from the game. "You've said that six times in the last hour, mate."
"And it's gonna be seven if you don't pass me the ball."
"You're offside."
"I'm off kilter." Louis groans and lets his head fall back against the sofa, his ankle still propped on a cushion even though it stopped hurting two days ago. "He touched my forehead, Niall. He was leaning in."
"That's hot."
"It was hot," Louis agrees miserably. "I was this close—this fucking close—to kissing him. And then his stupid hero radio went off and he ran out like a sexy Clark Kent, and now I'm just here. Alone. Tragically un-fucked."
Niall finally pauses the game. Turns to look at him. "You want my honest opinion?"
"No, I want you to hold me and whisper sweet little lies."
"Right. Well, in that case, he probably didn't even want to kiss you and he was just being nice, and you imagined all the tension because you're so horny your brain's short-circuiting."
Louis makes a wounded noise. "You're a monster."
"I'm a truth-teller, Louis. But for real—he's into you. You're not subtle. And neither is he."
Louis looks over, hopeful but wary. "You think?"
"Mate, he made you tea and touched your forehead. He basically proposed."
Louis groans again, dragging a throw pillow over his face. "What do I do?"
"You ask him out next time you stage an emergency."
Louis peeks out from under the pillow. "What if he's not into me like that?"
Niall gives him a look and pauses the game, setting the controller on his thigh. "You said you could see every shade of green in his eyes. A guy doesn’t get that close to another guy unless he likes them."
Louis sighs. "Fuck."
"Yes, exactly," Niall says, grabbing the controller again. "Now shut up and let me score this goal, and then you can write him a love letter or whatever."
Louis is still frowning at the ceiling when he turns suddenly, eyes wide with a terrible, brilliant idea.
"Niall," he says, sitting up straighter, ignoring the twinge in his ankle. "Can I borrow Mr Snooks?"
Niall doesn't look away from the screen. "Why?"
"I was thinking," Louis says, all innocence, "we could, y'know, gently encourage him up a tree—just temporarily—and then I'd have a perfectly valid reason to call the fire brigade."
Now Niall looks at him. "You want to stage a cat-in-a-tree emergency so you can see your crush."
"It's not staging if he's actually up a tree."
"Louis."
"Just a quick climb!"
"He's a ragdoll. He doesn't even jump on the sofa without crying. He's built like a marshmallow in a fur coat."
Louis pouts. "But he's got a strong spirit."
"Absolutely not. You're not involving my cat in your romantic delusions."
"Fine," Louis mutters. "I'll just—pretend I have a cat. And it's gone missing."
Niall squints at him. "You're going to call the fire service to report an imaginary cat?"
"People love cats, Niall! He'll take it seriously!"
"What's this cat's name, then?"
Louis thinks hard. "Um. Sir Whiskerford."
Niall groans. "You're out of control."
"No, listen, it works, doesn't it? I'll say he's an indoor cat—got spooked, darted out of the flat, hasn't been seen since. God, what if he's cold and frightened, Niall? What if he's halfway to Sheffield?"
"You're deranged."
But Louis isn't listening anymore. Niall scores a goal and jumps up, cheering like he's just won the league, arms in the air and everything, but Louis doesn't so much as blink. He's too busy muttering to himself about possible hiding spots. The drainpipe behind the building. The neighbour's balcony. Somewhere Harry would have to search.
"Poor Sir Whiskerford," Louis says softly. "So young. So innocent. So very, very lost."
⊹₊ ঌ⋆｡°✩
Louis stares at the number on his screen. It's the same one from last week— a direct line to the Manchester fire station but he’s saved it under Hot Harry like a complete idiot. His thumb hovers. He swallows hard.
Just call. It's fine. Be cool.
He dials.
It rings once. Twice.
Then, not Harry's voice: "Northbridge Fire Station, Martin speaking."
Louis freezes. "Oh—I—um—hi."
Martin waits.
Louis blanks. His heart is galloping. "Sorry, I—uh—thought this was... I was calling about... smoke. In my oven. But it's gone now. Totally gone. All clear. Sorry! Bye."
He hangs up.
Instant regret.
His face is burning. He feels like he's just prank-called the fire department. Because he has. He flops back against the sofa, flinging an arm over his eyes. "Jesus Christ."
But then—his phone rings.
Same number.
"Oh no."
He stares at it. He could not answer. He could throw the phone across the room. He could move house.
But he's trying to be a functional adult, so he takes a deep breath and swipes to answer. "Hello?"
There's a beat of silence. Then—
"Hello, Trouble."
Harry's voice. That voice. Warm, low, a little amused.
Louis sits bolt upright. "Oh. Hi."
"You alright?" Harry asks, definitely smiling. "Bit of smoke in the oven?"
Louis closes his eyes. "God, I'm sorry. That wasn't— I mean, I wasn't— It's not actually on fire."
"No?" Harry drawls. "Shame. I was halfway into my boots."
"You weren't even the one who answered."
"True. Martin was very confused. But lucky for you, he's suspicious of all charming northern accents and handed the phone over."
"I didn't mean to waste anyone's time."
"It's alright," Harry says. "I was hoping you'd call."
Louis' stomach does a full somersault. "Really?"
"Yeah. I wanted to ask if you'd recovered from your devastating curtain rail injury. Can't stop thinking about it."
Louis huffs a laugh. "Well. I've been very brave."
"I believe you."
Louis bites his lip, heart hammering now for a whole new reason. "So..."
"So."
A pause.
Then, casually, "What's the problem today?"
Louis scrambles. "It's my cat."
"Your cat?" Harry repeats, suspicious but still indulgent.
"Yeah."
"I didn't see it the last two times I was there."
"He's new."
"Oh yeah? Cute." Harry's smiling. Louis can hear it.
"What's wrong with this cat then?"
Louis scrubs a hand over his face. "He's, uh... stuck. Like, in the wall."
"In the wall?"
"Yeah."
A beat.
"Right." Harry doesn't sound convinced.
"So, like, I wondered if someone could come out and help? I'm quite worried about him." He puts a faint wobble in his voice for good measure.
There's a sigh on the other end—but it's soft, amused.
"Yeah, you know what, Trouble," Harry says, "I think I can come and help with that."
"You can?" Louis blurts, too quick, too eager.
Harry laughs quietly. "Yeah. I won't be long. Don't hurt yourself while you're waiting."
And then he hangs up.
Louis stays exactly where he is, the phone still pressed to his ear, blinking at the wall.
"...In the wall?" he mutters to himself. "Fucking hell, Tomlinson."
He sets the phone down like it might explode and immediately starts moving around the flat in a panic, scanning for anything that could even remotely pass as "cat-related." An empty box? Too obvious. A pile of laundry? Not helpful.
Finally he settles on tilting a plant pot slightly sideways near the skirting board and knocking a framed photo off the shelf nearby. It's not exactly a feline emergency, but it's chaotic, and that's the general vibe.
He stands back, surveys the scene, and mutters, "Yep. Perfect. Real believable."
It doesn't take Harry long to arrive, and today he's wearing a tight black shirt that nearly knocks Louis over when he opens the door.
Louis actually has to cling to the door handle for a second, vision filled with broad chest, snug sleeves, and the easy curve of Harry's grin.
"Back again," Harry says, dimples on full display, stepping inside like he belongs here. His shoulder brushes against Louis' chest as he passes, warm and solid and completely intentional, Louis is sure of it. "Where's this cat stuck then?"
Louis shuts the door and turns around, only now realising he absolutely did not think this through.
"He's, um, in this crawl space thing," he says, wildly making it up on the spot. "In my room."
Yes, Louis. Get him into your bedroom. That's not weird or obvious at all, he thinks with a silent wince.
Harry lifts an eyebrow but doesn't comment, just motions with a little tilt of his head. "Lead the way, then."
Louis turns, trying to walk like a normal person and not like someone who is fully aware of the man behind him and the way his own T-shirt is clinging to his back. When they reach his room, he gestures vaguely toward the corner near the built-in wardrobe.
“The crawl space is back there.”
Harry scans the room, and his eyes land on the wall opposite the bed. "Is that... a print of a frog riding a bicycle?"
Louis shrugs, trying to look casual even though his ears are going pink. "It's whimsical."
Harry huffs a little laugh, clearly amused, then follows Louis over to the far corner where a tiny cupboard door sits low to the ground.
"This is the crawl space?" he asks.
"Yeah." Louis crouches down and opens the cupboard door with a creak. It's barely large enough for a cat—or a very indulgent firefighter—to peer inside.
Harry peers in, squinting slightly. "Have you considered just... leaving this open and waiting for the cat to come out on his own?"
Louis opens his mouth. Closes it. "...No."
Harry glances over, smirking. "Right. Well. Let's have a look, then."
He drops onto his hands and knees next to Louis as he leans in. Louis mimics the pose and suddenly they're shoulder to shoulder, heads angled close together as they peer into the dark space.
It smells a bit dusty and there is, of course, absolutely no sign of any cat.
"What's its name?" Harry asks quietly, voice echoing slightly in the tiny cupboard.
Louis pauses. "Uh. He's called... Parsnip."
"Parsnip," Harry repeats, incredulous. He turns his head slightly and their faces are suddenly even closer, noses almost brushing.
"Yeah," Louis says, too quickly. "He's a rescue. I kept the name."
Harry hums, clearly biting back another laugh. "Poor thing."
Louis clears his throat. "I was gonna name him Miso. Like the soup but I thought that was more of a girl name."
Harry turns to look back into the space. "Cute. I like soup."
"Yeah, me too," Louis says—like that’s relevant—and immediately wants to melt into the floor.
"There’s been no scratching? No meowing?"
"No, he's... stoic," Louis says weakly.
Harry shoots him a look from the corner of his eye, brow arched, clearly biting back a laugh.
Harry calls the name into the dark, "Parsnip?"
Louis gasps. "Did you hear that?"
Harry turns his head, expression blank. "No. I didn't hear anything."
"I heard—" Louis starts, then immediately begins clicking his tongue, making exaggerated psst psst psst noises into the void. "C'mon, boy."
Harry just stares at him, unimpressed. "You sure you don't need to be rescued, Trouble?"
Louis sighs, rolling his eyes at himself. "Maybe."
They stay there a little longer, pressed close in the narrow space until Harry sits back on his heels and dusts off his hands. "I don't think Parsnip is coming out. Might be best to leave the door open, let him slink back when he's ready."
Louis nods like that’s perfectly reasonable. “Yeah. Good plan. Classic cat behaviour.”
They’re both quiet for a beat, still crouched awkwardly close in the little alcove. The only sounds are their breathing, the faint hum of traffic in the distance, and the rustle of fabric as Harry shifts slightly closer.
“You know,” Harry murmurs, voice low and amused, “I’m starting to think you might not even have a cat.”
Louis stiffens. “I—what? ’Course I do.”
Harry tilts his head, mischievously smiling like he already knows he’s won something. “Do you?”
“Yes,” Louis says immediately. He blinks once. “He’s… fluffy.”
Harry raises a brow. “Fluffy.”
“Yeah.” Louis clears his throat. “Very fluffy. Long-haired. Bit temperamental, honestly. Not great with strangers so that’s probably why he’s not coming out.”
“Mmhmm.” Harry’s grin widens, clearly not buying it. He sits back on his heels and Louis does the same. "How's your ankle, by the way?"
Louis immediately shifts, letting out a dramatic little huff. "Still a bit sore, if I'm honest."
Harry arches a brow, his tone half-playful but laced with genuine concern. "Want me to have a look? Just to be sure it's healing properly."
Louis hesitates for half a second, then says, "Yeah. Alright."
Harry stands and holds a hand out toward him, quick and matter-of-fact. “Come on, then.”
Louis blinks at the gesture. It’s nothing really—basic manners—but something about it still makes his stomach flutter. He slides his hand into Harry’s, palm a bit clammy, and lets himself be hauled up with frustrating ease.
“Cheers,” he mutters, rubbing his hand on his joggers like it’ll help tame the fizz under his skin.
“Alright, hop up,” Harry says, already nodding toward the bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Louis trudges over and drops onto the edge of the mattress with a sigh, lifting his leg slowly and sticking his foot out like he’s about to be measured for a slipper.
Harry kneels in front of him, brows raised. “You do know you’re not royalty, right?”
Louis sniffs, feigning offence. “Speak for yourself. I’ve got at least three fans on Twitter who’d knight me if given half the chance.”
Harry huffs a laugh and mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘I don’t doubt it’. Then his hands are on Louis’ ankle—slow, steady, deliberate. Louis tries not to react to the heat of them, the way they wrap around his body with an ease that makes him want to squirm. He starts at the top of the sock, fingers curling around the fabric, and peels it away inch by inch. The room’s cool air skates over Louis’ bare skin, but it barely registers over the warmth of Harry’s touch.
Louis watches the sock drop to the floor. Then Harry’s thumb is brushing the curve of his ankle, the press of it firm and sure. His other hand cradles Louis’ heel, rough fingers steadying him, and Louis has to focus on keeping his face neutral. He holds his breath.
Harry turns his foot gently, inspecting it from every angle. Louis watches his brow furrow, a crease of quiet concentration that shouldn’t be this attractive.
“Let me know if anything hurts,” Harry murmurs. His voice is low, rough at the edges, and it punches straight through Louis’ chest.
“Okay,” Louis says, breathless. His throat is dry and his pulse is thudding hard in his chest.
Harry runs a finger up and over the curve of Louis’ ankle, pressing just firmly enough to check for swelling. The touch is nearly clinical, but there’s a quiet tenderness in the way his thumb lingers—steady, unhurried, like he’s learning the shape of Louis’ bones by feel alone.
"You’ve got... warm hands," Louis lets out in a breathy whisper, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. He instantly regrets it—hates how breathless he sounds.
Harry’s eyes flick up, and for a second, Louis forgets how to breathe. That look—undivided and intense—makes something tighten low in his stomach. There’s something simmering behind Harry’s expression, and Louis wonders if the same thing reflects in his own.
"Good circulation," Harry says, breaking the intensity of the moment. There’s the threat of his signature smile teasing at the edge of his mouth, but his gaze doesn’t waver.
Harry’s thumb glides deliberately along the arch of his foot, then retraces its path with the same quiet intent. He’s nearer now, curls tumbling forward to graze his cheek, close enough that Louis can sense the hush of his breath. His voice, low and smooth, curls through the space between them, brushing over Louis’ skin.
"Not too tender here?" Harry murmurs, pressing the question just beneath the ball of Louis’ foot.
Louis' breath stutters. His fingers tighten in the duvet, heart thudding wildly as he fights to keep still.
“No. No, it’s—” Louis bites his lip to keep a sound from slipping out, heat crawling up his neck, his whole body tight with tension. “It’s… good.”
“Good,” Harry echoes, a low hum of approval.
His other hand shifts, crawling up the back of Louis’ calf now, supporting his leg with a strong, calloused hand. Louis’ pulse is a wild, erratic drumbeat. Every place Harry touches tingles, his skin lit up like it’s been wired to a live current. It’s unbearable—this quiet, focused care, this warmth that feels far too intimate for what it is.
When Harry’s thumb sweeps just beneath his toes, a soft, breathless sound escapes Louis before he can stop it. His whole body tenses, heat pooling low in his belly.
“Sensitive, huh?” Harry hums, and Louis thinks maybe he can hear in his voice how affected Harry is too.
“A bit.” Louis lets out on a shaky laugh.. His heart’s pounding so loud he’s sure Harry must hear it now.
Harry’s thumb circles back, feather-light along the arch. His other hand stays wrapped around Louis’ ankle, grounding him, holding him still. Then he looks up, and his gaze locks on Louis’ face—on the flush spreading across his cheeks—and stays there.
And then Harry leans in.
His mouth is warm and soft against Louis’ toes, a kiss so gentle it steals the air from Louis’ lungs. His fingers tighten just slightly, anchoring Louis in place.
Harry’s lips part, just enough for Louis to feel the faintest brush of breath—hot and damp—and then his tongue, a slow, maddening flick over the pad of his big toe.
Louis chokes on a breath. His fingers clutch the duvet, desperate for something to hold onto as his entire body coils tighter, threatening to burst.
Harry doesn’t rush. His mouth moves with deliberate care, kissing over each toe, tongue flicking delicate, wet trails as he goes. Then, slowly he parts his lips and sucks one into his mouth, gentle and wet and completely unhurried.
Louis gasps, hips twitching, toes curling against Harry’s tongue.
Harry doesn’t stop. Just shifts his grip, mouth moving down to the next toe, then the next, giving each the same slow attention—sucking, licking, warm breath dragging across damp skin.
Louis can’t take his eyes off him.
Harry watches him the whole time, eyes dark and steady. Louis feels raw under it—exposed and strung out, every nerve burning, every part of him aching.
Harry hums against his skin, the soft vibration sending another bolt of heat straight through Louis. His whole body trembles.
Then, with maddening care, Harry’s mouth leaves his toes, trailing a hot, open-mouthed kiss along the side of his foot—slow, deliberate, devastating. Louis shudders, heat pooling low in his belly, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his ears.
He doesn’t know if he’s shaking from the intensity or from the way Harry’s looking at him—like he’s something to be savoured. Like he’s already undone, and Harry knows exactly how he got him there.
And just when Louis thinks he might actually beg and fall apart completely, Harry’s touch slows.
One last kiss, light as a breath, presses to the arch of his foot. A barely-there caress. Then Harry pulls back.
Still silent, he reaches for the sock. His touch is maddeningly gentle as he rolls it back over Louis’ foot, the fabric dragging across damp, overheated skin. Louis shudders, teeth clenching against the sharp spark of sensation.
Harry’s fingers give a final, grounding squeeze around his calf before he stands—leaving Louis cold in the absence, skin hypersensitive and whole body buzzing.
“Looks good to me,” Harry says, tone slipping into something meant to sound breezy and unbothered, but Louis doesn’t miss the raspy edge. “Minimal bruising.”
Louis tries to answer, but all that escapes is a strangled sound, somewhere between a hum and a whimper.
His whole body is coiled tight, joggers unforgiving, pulse hammering at the base of his throat. He feels stripped bare, every nerve lit up and aching.
Harry doesn’t move away.
His hand lifts again, but this time it finds Louis’ face—fingertips grazing along his jaw before settling at his chin. The touch is gentle but firm, laced with quiet control and it sends a fresh spike of heat through Louis.
He’s forced to look up to meet Harry’s gaze—and once he does, it holds him there. Harry’s looking at him like he’s hoping for something. There’s a question in it, quiet and unspoken, hanging between them like a breath not yet taken. Harry finally breaks the silence.
“When the cat finally comes out of hiding…” Harry murmurs, voice low and molten.
His thumb brushes the swell of Louis’ bottom lip, and, his lips part without thought, drawn open.
“You’ll call me again, yeah?” Harry’s voice dips further. “Alright, Trouble?”
Louis swallows hard, tongue flicking out to wet his lips—catching the faint, earthy taste of Harry’s skin. “Y–Yeah. I—”
But then Harry’s thumb dips.
Just a little. Just enough.
It presses just barely inside, and Louis goes still.
His lips close around it instinctively, his tongue brushing the callused pad. The taste is dizzying—clean skin, the faintest hint of salt—and heat floods his cheeks, his heart slamming against his ribs.
When Harry pulls back, the sound is obscene—a wet, perfect pop that breaks the silence like a firecracker.
Harry watches him, gaze heavy-lidded, mouth curling into a slow, devastating smile.
Louis feels like he might actually melt.
“Catch you later, Trouble.”
He turns and walks out.The door clicks shut behind him.
Louis doesn’t move.
He’s left staring at the space Harry left, chest heaving, his whole body wound tight with need. Heat still thrums through him. His joggers are unbearably snug. His skin tingles everywhere Harry touched.
He’s wrecked.
⊹₊ ঌ⋆｡°✩
Lottie is sprawled sideways across Louis’ bed like she owns the place, his phone held above her face, thumbs moving lazily while her legs swing over the edge in a slow, aimless rhythm.
Louis stands half-dressed in front of the mirror, shirt hanging open with a bottle of cologne in one hand, squinting critically at his reflection.
“D’you think this shirt says ‘I’m casual and chill,’ or ‘I’ll be crying into my pint by nine’?”
“It says you spent twenty minutes on your hair and now need me to tell you it was worth it,” Lottie replies, not even glancing up.
He points at her in the mirror. “Correct. Say nice things to me.”
“You look hot,” she says, bored. “Like a man desperately pretending he doesn’t check his phone every time it buzzes.”
Louis makes a face, turning back to the mirror. “I’m going out with Niall. I’ll literally be with him. There’s nothing to check because no one else messages me apart from you.”
Lottie hums, unconvinced. “Sure. Not like you’re hoping a certain tall firefighter might send you a smoke signal or something.”
“Lottie” He groans, dragging a hand through his fringe.
“I found him, by the way.”
She sits up suddenly, the smugness already in place like it’s been waiting in the wings.
Louis freezes mid-sleeve-roll. “Found who?”
She turns her phone toward him like she’s revealing the final twist in a mystery novel. “Your government-issued crush. Harry. Hot Harry. The human fire hazard.”
Louis steps closer on instinct, then flinches like the screen might bite him. “No. No, I told you not to—”
“He’s got a public profile, actually,” Lottie says, scrolling with a smug little flick of her thumb. “Only ten posts, though. Two of them are selfies. Bio just says ‘Station Officer. Views my own.’ Which is code for ‘yes, I have muscles and no digital footprint.’”
Louis frowns. “How did you find it?”
“Because I’m not useless,” she says sweetly. “His handle is hazardsandhose. I mean, come on. It’s literally a fireman pun. You couldn’t connect those dots?”
Louis stares. “I hate that that’s actually clever.”
She turns the phone so he can see. The grid is sparse—one blurry photo of a bonfire night event, some photos of the firestation, and a rare selfie where he looks unfairly good. Of course he does.
“God,” Louis mutters. “He’s not even trying.”
“Exactly. That’s the worst part,” Lottie agrees. “Effortless thirst trap. You should DM him. Something casual, like ‘hello, I’ve been thinking about the way your mouth felt on my—’”
“I will throw you out the window,” Louis warns.
“Worth it,” she grins. “Also, he follows the local community centre and an account that only posts fire truck memes. So, obviously, the bar is low.”
Louis groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Why are you like this?”
“Because you are obsessed with a man who kissed your toes and then ghosted like some mythical foot god, and I am merely trying to honour that journey.”
“I’m going out,” Louis mutters, grabbing his jacket. “I’m going to drink aggressively and pretend none of this ever happened.”
Lottie lifts her phone again. “Should I message him from your account and say you’ve got another curtain emergency?”
“Blocked. You’re blocked in real life.”
She sighs, still scrolling through hazardsandhose. “You know what gets me? He probably doesn’t even know he’s sexy. That’s the most dangerous kind of hot.”
Louis, halfway through lacing his boots, shoots her a look. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m helping your narrative arc,” Lottie says, completely serious. “This is vital character development. Yearning. Pining. Forbidden toe-sucking.”
Louis pegs a sock at her head.
She catches it one-handed without even flinching. “You’re literally blushing. It’s been six days and you’re still walking funny.”
“I am not—”
The door swings open without warning.
“Alright, lads!” Niall’s voice arrives first, bright and booming, like he’s kicking off a gig and not just barging into someone else’s flat. “You ready, Lou? Or are you still choosing between shirts that all look the exact same?”
Louis groans, long-suffering. “You’ve got to start knocking, mate.”
“I did. With the key you gave me.”
Lottie lights up. “Niall! Come sit. I found Louis’ future husband on Instagram.”
“Oh, is this the fireman?” Niall kicks the door shut with his heel and drops onto the bed like it’s his own. “Let’s have a look. Is he fit?”
“Painfully,” Lottie says, already turning the phone so Niall can see. “Username’s hazardsandhose. Has like ten posts. Two selfies. Both criminally hot.”
Louis lunges forward, nearly tripping over his boots in the rush. “Give that back. Both of you—out. Go play darts in traffic or set something on fire, I don’t care.”
Niall lets out a low whistle. “Jesus. He’s got dimples and forearms. No wonder you're feral.”
“I am not feral,” Louis huffs, snatching the phone. “You’re just easily impressed.”
“You’re literally trembling,” Lottie says, delighted. “Oh my god. What if he’s married? Or worse—straight.”
Niall recoils like she’s said something truly vile. “Don’t curse it. Let the man have his toe-sucking prince.”
“That’s it,” Louis mutters, grabbing the nearest pillow and hurling it squarely at Niall’s head.
It lands with a satisfying whump. Niall collapses backward, howling with laughter. Lottie is beside herself.
“I hate this,” Louis declares, trying and failing to sound annoyed as he shrugs into his jacket. “I hate both of you. I hope the pub runs out of lager.”
From the bed, Niall grins like he’s already half-cut. “You say that now, but pint three is when you start waxing poetic about how you want the firefighter to ignite your loins.”
Louis flips him off without hesitation, but he’s grinning too—biting the inside of his cheek trying not to think about dimples and forearms and the infuriating, knowing way Harry had looked at him like he absolutely knew what he was doing.
Lottie finally peels herself off the bed with a yawn and a dramatic stretch. "Right. I'm off. Good luck surviving him," she tells Niall, jerking her thumb at Louis.
"I'm delightful," Louis mutters, holding the door open as she kisses his cheek on the way out.
"Text me if he ends up climbing the walls of the fire station!" she calls, already halfway down the hall.
Louis groans and shuts the door, but Niall just laughs, slapping a hand on his back. "She's got a point. You've got the look of a man who's been toe-sucked into submission."
"Please never say that again," Louis says, grabbing his jacket. "Let's go."
⊹₊ ঌ⋆｡°✩
The pub is already buzzing when they get there—warm light spilling out onto the pavement, the sound of pint glasses clinking and low music vibrating through the walls. It’s familiar. Easy. Somewhere they’ve both been so many times that Louis doesn’t even have to look at the menu when they reach the bar.
Niall orders two pints and a basket of chips like he’s on autopilot. “Table by the window?”
“Obviously.”
They settle into the corner booth, Louis pulling his sleeves down against the slightly sticky tabletop. Outside, the streetlights blur through condensation on the glass.
Niall takes a long sip of his pint and eyes Louis over the rim. “Alright. So what’s the plan?”
Louis frowns. “What plan?”
Niall kicks his ankle under the table. “Don’t play dumb. The plan to get Toe Sucker to suck something else.”
Louis nearly chokes on his drink, pulling a face as he swallows. “Jesus Christ.”
Niall grins, unbothered. “C’mon. You can’t drop a toe-sucking fireman bomb and then go quiet.”
Louis sighs and leans back, cradling his pint. “I tried calling. Legitimate reason this time, too—my plug socket sparked when I was plugging in the hoover.”
Niall leans forward, eager. “And?”
“And Harry wasn’t there,” Louis grumbles. “Some other guy answered and started yelling down the phone about non-emergencies. I panicked.”
“Oh no,” Niall says, delighted. “What did you say?”
Louis lifts his pint again. “I panicked in Italian. Told him—” He clears his throat, then puts on an exaggerated accent, “‘Non parlo inglese!’”
Niall snorts beer through his nose. “You absolute freak.”
Louis shrugs. “It worked. He hung up.”
“There’s no way you’re giving up that easily,” Niall says, shaking his head like he’s disappointed in humanity. “Not after the toe incident. We’ll think of something, mate. Operation Get Dicked Down By Fireman is not over.”
Louis groans and sinks lower in his seat, but he’s smiling. “Please never say that again either.”
Niall slaps Louis on the back with the force of someone who’s already had one too many. “Right. I’m getting us shots.”
“Famous last words,” Louis mutters, but Niall’s already weaving back toward the bar like a man on a mission.
⊹₊ ঌ⋆｡°✩
They barely make it through the front door without falling over each other.
Louis fumbles with his keys for what feels like an eternity, swaying with laughter as Niall leans heavily on his shoulder, mumbling something about how the hallway is spinning.
By the time they’re inside, both of them are breathless and giggly, flushed from evening air and tequila.
Niall immediately collapses face-first onto the sofa with a dramatic groan. “I’m never drinking again. Unless it’s tomorrow.”
Louis kicks his shoes off and drops his jacket somewhere near the wall, wobbling slightly as he makes for the kitchen. “You want water?”
“No. I want a new liver.”
Louis returns a moment later and plops down beside him with two glasses and a grin. “Right. Be honest—how stupid would it be if I called the fire station right now and said my toaster’s been making suspicious noises?”
Niall cracks one eye open. “Odds on?”
Louis smirks. “One in ten.”
They count down together—“Three, two, one—”
“Four,” Louis says.
“Seven,” Niall slurs.
They stare at each other for a beat—then both burst out laughing.
“You were ready,” Niall wheezes.
Louis hides his face behind his glass, cheeks burning. “I’m not proud of it.”
“You should be,” Niall says, lifting a throw pillow and chucking it at him. “You’ve got it bad, mate.”
Louis grins into his drink. “Don’t remind me.”
⊹₊ ঌ⋆｡°✩
Louis wakes up with one arm flung dramatically across his eyes and the taste of tequila still clinging to the back of his throat.
His head pounds. His mouth is dry. His jeans are somehow still halfway on.
“Morning, sunshine,” Niall chirps from somewhere annoyingly bright and nearby.
Louis cracks one eye open. Niall is already dressed and scrolling through something on his phone with a cup of tea in hand like he didn’t inhale three rounds of shots and half a basket of chips six hours ago.
“How are you fine?” Louis rasps, voice rough with sleep and regret.
“Superior genes,” Niall says cheerfully, pocketing his phone. “Anyway, I’m off. Remember the Very Important Plan .”
Louis shifts just enough to squint up at him. “What plan?”
Niall just grins, backing toward the door. “The plan, mate. From last night. Do it.”
And then he’s gone, whistling down the hallway before Louis can pry more context out of his aching brain.
Louis groans and throws his arm over his face again. “I hate you,” he mutters in Niall’s direction, even though the flat is now dead quiet.
He spends both an indeterminate and unproductive stretch of time analyzing the ceiling and questioning last night’s decisions—none of which yield answers—before finally hauling himself out of bed.
The shower is both too hot and not hot enough, the water alternating between punishment and mercy as Louis stands there, head bowed like he’s waiting for absolution. It drums against the back of his neck, and he lets it, hoping it might pound loose whatever fragments of last night are still rattling around in his skull.
So far, all he's got is Niall’s unholy cackle, the sense of having made a Very Important Plan™, and a mental image of tequila and a sticky bar floor.
He groans, tilting his face into the spray. It stings his eyes, but he welcomes it—something sharp to cut through the residual tequila haze in his brain. The steam helps. Sort of. His headache downgrades from jackhammer to mild construction site, and the fog behind his eyes starts to thin.
He drags a hand through his hair and exhales like it might dislodge a memory. Everything aches.
"Stupid," he mutters to no one, thunking his forehead gently against the tiles.
He stays like that for a minute. Maybe two. Then finally reaches for the shampoo and gets on with pretending he's a functioning adult.
Coffee helps. So does toast, though he drops one slice butter-side down and stares at it for a solid thirty seconds like it personally offended him.
He feels marginally more human again by the time he’s staring at the heap of clothes in the corner of the bedroom.
“…Right,” he mutters to no one, begrudgingly dragging the laundry basket out with the air of someone preparing to go to war.
It’s mostly t-shirts, mismatched socks, and a pair of jeans that may or may not have salsa on them. He starts tossing everything into the machine, head still foggy but settling into a rhythm.
It isn’t until he’s pressing the buttons on the washer that it hits him—The elusive “Very Important Plan” Niall mentioned might have had something to do with this.
And by this, he means the washing machine.
Louis freezes, finger hovering over the start cycle.
“…Fuck.”
Louis hovers for a long moment, staring into the dark metallic mouth of the washing machine like it might shout at him.
He exhales. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, before tugging all the clothes back out in one crumpled armful and dumping them unceremoniously onto the floor.
He kneels in front of the drum, peering inside. It smells faintly of lavender softener and guilt.
“Alright, let’s do this,” he says to his washing machine.
He leans forward, sticking his head inside. It's a tight fit with his shoulders bunching and knees digging into the hard tile. The drum echoes with the sound of his sigh. For a second, he just stays there, face pressed against the cool metal, considering his life.
Would Harry even be the one to show up? Probably wouldn’t even answer. And if not—what? Nothing, really. He could hang up again. Or pretend he was cleaning lint out of the pipes. Or say he’d been temporarily possessed by a spirit who was deeply fascinated with frontline workers.
No real loss. Just a bit of pride. Which, at this point, was hanging by a thread anyway.
With a small grunt, Louis wriggles further in and lifts one arm, wedging it awkwardly into the drum alongside his head. It's a squeeze. He shuffles, twisting a bit for dramatic effect, when—
“Oh, fuck.”
He freezes. His shoulder is jammed. His elbow’s caught on something. He tries to pull back, but the angle is all wrong. His arm is actually stuck.
He goes very still. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Awkwardly, he reaches behind himself with his free arm, fumbling around in his back pocket for his phone. He wiggles it out, flips it in his hand, then—because he can’t actually see—slides it carefully into the washer drum so his trapped hand can reach it.
It takes a few tries. The phone clatters loudly against the metal. Louis winces as the sound bounces around the tight space, an unpleasant reminder of his lingering headache.
He finally gets a grip on it and unlocks the screen with his face—bless Face ID—and hovers over the keypad.
He closes his eyes and takes a breath.
Calls the fire station.
“Greater Manchester Fire Station, how can I help?”
Louis freezes.
It’s him.
That voice—deep and low and sinfully slow—wraps around Louis’ spine like a coil. He knows it immediately. No mistaking it. It's Harry. Hot, toe-sucking, arm-gripping, smug-as-anything Harry.
Of course it’s Harry.
Louis forgets how to speak for a second.
“...Hello?” Harry prompts, a touch more alert now. “You alright?”
“Uh—yeah. Hello. Hi,” Louis says, voice a little higher than usual. He winces. “I’ve got like a… a semi-emergency thing?”
There’s a pause.
“A semi-emergency, Trouble?”
Louis rolls his eyes and decides to ignore Harry’s emphasis on the word semi. “How did you know it was me?”
Harry huffs a low laugh. “We’ve got caller ID. And I’ve got your number memorised by now.”
Louis scoffs, shifting just slightly—enough to make the phone clatter a little deeper into the drum. “Well, that’s not even slightly embarrassing.”
Harry doesn’t say anything for a beat, and neither does Louis. The silence crackles, just faint static and breath between them.
Then, wryly, Harry says, “Why does it sound like you’re stuck inside something?”
Louis huffs again, pressed sideways and mildly regretting all of his life choices. “Because I am, alright?”
“…What are you stuck in?”
Louis sighs like it pains him to admit it. “The washing machine.”
He hears Harry choke on a laugh.
“Unbelievable,” Harry mutters, clearly grinning. “Is this some new tactic or just recreational chaos?”
“This is actually like a real emergency,” Louis says, wriggling in the narrow drum. “I think the blood to my arm is being cut off—fuck.” He shifts again and knocks the top of his head against the inside with a hollow clang. “Ow.”
There’s a sigh on the other end of the line. “Alright, alright. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll come over.”
Louis opens his mouth—“Obviously I can’t go anywhere, I’m stuck”—but the line’s already gone dead.
It takes about twenty minutes. Long enough for Louis to deeply regret every decision that’s led him here. He’s just started entertaining the idea of dying this way—wedged into a washing machine with one arm folded awkwardly behind him and an actual ache setting into his hip—when he hears the knock at the door. Then the creak of it opening.
“In here!” he calls, his voice echoing slightly off the drum walls.
There’s a beat of silence. Then footsteps, and then—
A loud laugh. A full, surprised cackle that bounces off the tiles and makes Louis groan.
“Oh my God,” Harry wheezes. “You weren’t kidding. You’re actually—Jesus, Trouble.”
Louis shifts on his knees a little. “Are you here to rescue me or are you going to roast me to death first?”
Harry is practically wheezing, the kind of laugh that makes his breaths come in stutters. Louis scowls into the drum of the washing machine, cheeks burning.
“This—this actually looks like one of those videos you find online,” Harry chokes out between gasps.
“What?” Louis twists slightly, but all he gets for his effort is a sharper angle of stuck and the thunk of his head against the side again. “What did you say?”
“Nothing,” Harry says, all faux innocence now. Louis hears a bag drop to the floor, then the soft thump of shoes being kicked off. “Alright, let’s see what we can do about this then.”
There’s a rustle, and then Harry’s dropping to one knee behind him, steady and close. Louis jolts slightly as he feels Harry’s knee settle between his thighs, firm and warm through the fabric of his joggers, his foot braced just outside Louis’ left knee.
“Bit intimate, this,” Louis mumbles, voice muffled slightly by the drum.
“Think you forfeited your right to complain when you crawled headfirst into a home appliance,” Harry replies, and Louis can hear the grin, smug and far too pleased.
A warm hand grazes his lower back—just a brief, grounding touch at first—before settling more firmly to steady him. The contact sends a ripple of heat through Louis’ skin, even though Harry’s just trying to help.
“Okay, talk me through it. Which part is stuck?”
“My dignity,” Louis says flatly.
Harry snorts. “Already a lost cause, that. Try again.”
“My right arm’s wedged past the drum opening,” Louis mutters. “And my shoulder’s—like—catching on something, I think. But if I move to my left too much I drop my phone again, and I’ve only just got it back.”
There’s a pause—longer this time. Then, a quiet, amused: “God, you’re really stuck in there, aren’t you?”
“Just get me out,” Louis groans, trying not to think about how close Harry feels behind him.
Harry's hands return, more deliberate now—one bracing just above his hip, the other pressing lightly at the base of his spine. The heat of them sinks through the thin fabric of Louis’ t-shirt, fingers spreading, thumbs brushing skin where it’s ridden up.
“Alright, I’ve got you. Gonna pull a bit,” Harry murmurs. The way he says it makes Louis' stomach flutter.
Then Harry gives a tentative tug—gentle, coaxing—and the movement rocks Louis backward.
His arse bumps into Harry’s front.
Louis freezes. So does Harry.
There’s a heartbeat of stillness, heavy and electric.
Harry’s cock—Jesus Christ—is pressing into him, not hard, not exactly, but definitely there. Thick and unmistakable through the soft cotton of Louis’ joggers.
Louis can feel it. Really feel it. And he knows Harry can feel him too.
A rush of heat floods his face, spreading hot and traitorous down his neck. His whole body goes tense, breath catching embarrassingly in his throat.
“Hmm,” Harry hums eventually, voice thoughtful, smug. “I don’t know, Trouble. I think you’re stuck in there for good.”
Louis makes a strangled noise. “You’ve barely even tried.”
“Oh, I’m trying,” Harry says, and it’s lower now, silkier. Teasing. His hand slides lower, curling firm around the curve of Louis’ hip. “Just assessing the situation. Tight squeeze.”
He gives another slow rock—barely a pull at all—and this time, Louis shudders. There’s no pretending it’s accidental now, not with the way Harry’s cock presses more firmly against him, unmistakably thick and getting harder.
Louis makes a helpless, wrecked sound in the back of his throat.
“You alright in there?” Harry murmurs, breath warm, hands unmoving but heavy now with intent. “Need me to… loosen you up?”
“Loosen…? What?” Louis stammers, blinking into the dark curve of the washer drum. His brain’s lagging behind his body, which is already keenly aware of Harry’s thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles into his bare skin.
And then it clicks—obvious, sudden.
Harry’s not trying to get him unstuck.
Not really.
Which means Niall’s idiotic, drunken matchmaking plan might actually be working.
Still, Louis plays dumb. Just enough to keep the upper hand.
“Maybe just like… pull me back a bit?” he suggests, injecting a breezy, innocent lilt into his voice. As if he doesn’t feel his pulse skittering. As if his face isn’t burning hot against the cold metal.
“Sure,” Harry says, a little too easily. His grip tightens—steady hands sliding from Louis’ waist down to his hips. He pulls, and Louis jolts backward, arse fitting snug against the front of Harry’s trousers.
Louis bites back a sound, rolls his hips up just slightly from his awkward angle. Subtle. Testing.
Behind him, Harry’s breath catches. Audible.
“I think that’s working,” Harry murmurs, lower now, voice frayed at the edges with something warmer.
“Yeah?” Louis asks, light as anything. “Try it again, then.”
There’s a beat. A shift.
Then Harry hums low in his throat, bracing one hand against the small of Louis’ back, the other firming around the curve of his hip. This time, the pull is slower—more of a drag than a tug—and Louis feels it, unmistakable now, the thick press of Harry’s cock hardening against him through soft cotton, sliding up the swell of his arse.
The heat of it floods through him. His breath stutters out.
Louis laughs—quiet, shaky. “You sure this is part of the rescue protocol?”
“I’m improvising,” Harry says, voice rough and dark with suggestion. His hands settle again, lower this time, thumbs slipping just under the waistband of Louis’ joggers. “It’s a delicate procedure. Requires… finesse.”
Louis shifts again, adjusting in the drum just enough to change the angle—and when Harry pulls this time, Louis meets it deliberately, pressing back, grinding into the line of Harry’s cock with purpose.
Harry groans—quiet and wrecked, caught off guard. It’s a needy, broken sound that sends a shiver straight down Louis’ spine.
Cheek resting against cool metal, Louis smirks to himself. “Does it feel like it’s working?”
Harry’s hands clench at his hips, fingers digging in, clearly affected.
“Yeah,” he says, hoarse now, almost reverent. “It’s working real fucking well.”
There’s a shift in the air—subtle but undeniable. Heavier and charged.
Louis doesn’t move. Barely breathes. Just stays there, still and braced, as Harry’s fingers trace slowly down from his hips and hook into the sides of his joggers. They hesitate for a moment—like a question asked in silence—then begin to ease the fabric down, inch by careful inch.
The cotton drags over the curve of Louis’ arse, soft and maddening. The elastic catches briefly, stretching over the swell before slipping past, baring him fully to the cool air and the heat of Harry’s body behind him.
Louis says nothing. He doesn’t need to.
Behind him, there’s a quiet, involuntary sound—something between a gasp and a whimper, punched out of Harry’s throat like he didn’t mean for it to escape.
Louis smirks against the drum. “You alright back there?”
A beat of silence. Then a ragged breath, followed by a husky, broken, “Yeah. Just—fuck.”
Harry’s hands return, slower this time, dragging up bare skin with reverent intent. His thumbs stroke the newly revealed flesh, still pretending—barely—that this is all about leverage. Like Louis isn’t bent in half, exposed and burning, with Harry’s cock firm against his bare arse.
Louis bites his lip. He lets the stillness settle around them like static. His heart is pounding so hard it feels like the drum is echoing it back at him, metal humming with tension.
He’s flushed everywhere. Neck to thighs. His joggers are tangled low, thighs half-spread, cock trapped awkwardly against the lip of the washer. Every time Harry’s hands explore—palming, kneading, dragging slowly across the crease of him—his hips jerk forward, seeking more pressure, more contact, more anything.
It’s not clinical. Not even close.
It’s reverent. Filthy. Like Harry’s trying to commit every inch to memory with just his hands.
“Fuck,” Louis breathes, barely recognising his own voice—cracked and rough with want. His forehead bumps the metal again, and he winces.
Behind him, Harry laughs—quiet and wrecked. “Careful.”
Then, without warning, Harry’s hand lands with a light smack—sharp enough to sting, not enough to hurt. Louis jolts forward, a strangled sound escaping him. Part gasp, part moan, wholly unintentional.
“Oh my god,” he groans, mortified, pressing his forehead harder into the drum like he can melt into it. “What was that for?”
“Just testing something,” Harry replies, maddeningly calm. His fingers are already there again, rubbing over the spot he struck—slow, soothing. Like checking for damage. Like claiming it.
Louis doesn’t say anything. He can’t. His brain is static, his cock leaking against the drum, every nerve ending lit up with heat and helpless tension. The position, the pressure, the not-knowing—being unable to see, to predict, to plan—it’s unravelling him one twitch at a time.
And then he feels Harry’s thumbs, slow and deliberate, parting him.
A moan breaks loose—raw and unguarded. Loud in the small space. It echoes off the metal like hearing it once wasn’t enough.
Harry goes still behind him.
“You alright?” Harry asks, voice rough now—husky and tight with restraint.
Louis breathes out, barely a whisper, “Yeah.”
A pause stretches between them, electric and fragile. And then Harry moves.
His hands ease Louis open with slow insistence, thumbs spreading him wide, and then there’s a sound—low and wrecked—punched from Harry’s throat like he’s just seen something holy.
Then warmth. Wet and slow and impossibly deliberate, a slick drag of Harry’s tongue from where Louis is spread to the base of his spine.
Louis jolts violently, a choked moan ripping from his throat, reverberating off the drum around him. The heat of it, the wet glide, the unbearable tenderness—it all fuses together into something that steals the breath from his lungs.
Harry doesn’t stop.
His mouth moves with purpose now—careful, focused—tongue teasing and circling, licking back down with maddening precision. His hands are firm where they hold Louis open, keeping him spread wide and utterly helpless to the rhythm of Harry’s tongue.
Louis braces against the inside of the drum, fingers scrabbling for purchase. His hips jerk with each pass, trying to push back, to chase the sensation, but he can’t—he’s too folded in, too pinned. Caught between metal and heat and the devastating exploration of Harry’s mouth.
“Oh—” he gasps, voice breaking, as Harry goes slower this time, dragging his tongue like he’s tasting something expensive. Like he’s savouring it.
The not-seeing of it is driving him mad. Every breath, every flicker, every pause—it’s a mystery, a surprise that rolls through his body like thunder. His joggers are still caught low around his thighs, cock pressed against the cotton and leaking freely, the pressure unbearable. Every glide of Harry’s tongue sends a fresh spike of need pulsing through him, making him ache in ways he didn’t know he could.
Harry hums low—pleased, maybe—vibration sinking straight into him. His grip tightens, thumbs digging in now, holding Louis steady as his mouth travels lower.
Hot, slick pressure. The tip of Harry’s tongue pressing in.
Louis gasps, sharp and broken. His whole body tenses, spine arching as much as it can, and then he melts into it—into the stretch and the heat and the foreign, filthy perfection of it. It’s nothing like he’s ever felt before, every nerve ending wired directly to the pulse in his cock, to the breathless tension winding tighter in his gut.
He groans, deep and guttural, forehead knocking against the drum again. He’s trapped—pinned and wrecked and desperate—and he can’t do anything but feel. This is single-handedly the most intimate and the most vulnerable position Louis has ever found himself in. He certainly no longer has the upper hand, but he finds he’s never trusted anyone with his safety the way he trusts Harry right now. He’s seconds from begging for more when Harry finally pulls back, just a fraction. Louis whines without meaning to, but he regrets nothing. He needs more. He’s ready for Harry to take him apart piece by piece.
Then—click. The unmistakable snap of a cap, followed by a soft squeeze.
A heartbeat later, a slick finger replaces Harry’s tongue. It drags down slowly, warm and purposeful, tracing the seam of him with practiced control.
“Harry,” Louis breathes, barely forming the word. It’s not a question. It’s a plea.
The finger teases, circles lazily, barely-there pressure making Louis tremble. Then—just the tip—pressing in, tentative and warm, breaching him gently before easing back out again.
Louis moans, head falling forward. He tries to push back, to chase it, to take it, but there’s no room, not like this. Just friction and tension and a body that’s begging to be touched.
“You’re so—” Harry’s voice cuts off, ragged with want. One hand spreads Louis wider while the other returns to teasing, pushing in a little deeper this time, then pulling back again, maddeningly slow. “Still alright?”
“Yeah,” Louis pants, voice frayed at the edges. “Just—God, just do it.”
Harry hums, low and indulgent, a sound that rolls straight through Louis’ chest. The finger slides back in, smoother now, deliberate and steady—but still so slow. Like Harry’s savouring every inch, every clench of muscle, every broken sound Louis makes.
Louis’ forehead knocks gently against the drum. His cock is throbbing, painfully trapped against the soaked cotton of his joggers and steadily leaking still.. Every thrust of Harry’s finger sends a fresh ripple through him, sharp and sparking and somehow still not enough.
Harry presses in deeper, finger sinking all the way now, while his other hand steadies on Louis’ hip, thumb stroking lazy, grounding circles into his skin. The contrast makes Louis dizzy—gentle and filthy all at once, like he’s being claimed and comforted in the same breath.
A loud moan escapes him, echoing into the drum. His breath hitches as Harry withdraws and pushes back in again, slower, deeper, hitting something that makes Louis see stars.
“God,” Louis gasps, pressing his forehead harder to the side. “That—fuck.”
Harry keeps going, unhurried and relentless. A few more slow thrusts and then a second finger joins the first, stretching him further. He twists them as he pushes in, and Louis jerks—sharp and involuntary—his jaw falling open around a broken sound he doesn’t even try to swallow.
“Look at you,” Harry murmurs behind him, voice rough and close. “So desperate for it. Doing all this just to get me here. Fuck, Louis—getting yourself stuck just so I’d find you like this.”
Louis groans, the sound caught somewhere between mortification and arousal. His hips shift automatically, pressing back into Harry’s hand, silently begging for more.
And Harry gives it—curls his fingers just right and Louis nearly sobs.
“Whatever I was expecting on my way over here, it definitely wasn’t as nice as this.” Harry’s lips skim the base of Louis’ spine, voice a whisper now, full of heat and fondness. “Bet you were imagining me walking in, finding you bent over like this though. Fucking hell.”
Louis gasps, knuckles white where he clings to the edge of the drum. He can feel everything—every twist of Harry’s wrist, every stroke, every pause—and it’s getting harder and harder not to unravel completely.
“Please,” he breathes. It’s not even a full thought anymore. Just raw need. Just more.
Harry laughs, soft, dark, and confident. Like he already knew this would happen. “Yeah,” he says, satisfied. “That’s what I thought.”
Then his fingers pull out, and Louis makes a wounded sound, hips rolling back instinctively. The sudden absence is unbearable.
There’s movement behind him, rustling fabric, the faint crinkle of foil. Then the slick pop of a cap being opened again, and the unmistakable feel of lube being squeezed directly over his hole—cool and wet, a fresh rush of sensation that makes Louis suck in a breath of anticipation .
Harry’s fingers return, slick and sure, gliding down the cleft of Louis’ arse with more intention now. One teases around the edge, circling, dipping in shallowly, again and again, relentless but still not enough.
Harry leans in, his voice a rough murmur right behind him. “You hear that?” he breathes. “That sound? That’s how bad you want it.”
Harry’s fingers slip free again, and then Louis feels the sudden tug — his joggers yanked the rest of the way down in a swift, efficient motion, fabric bunching uselessly around his knees.
He gasps, breath catching as cool air hits his flushed skin. His cock, aching and leaking, slaps against the curved drum with a wet, desperate sound that makes heat spike through him all over again.
Behind him, more rustling. A foil packet tears open. The unmistakable stretch of latex.
A sharp snap.
Louis shivers, skin prickling.
Then Harry exhales — rough and hungry. “Gonna fuck you right here,” he murmurs. “Just like this. Bent in half.”
There’s a pause — a moment of suspended tension — and then pressure. Firm, hot pressure. The heat of Harry’s body right up against him, crowding in close. One hand braces against Louis’ lower back, grounding him, while the other settles tight at his waist. He feels the tip of Harry’s cock, slick and hot, nudging slowly against him, deliberate and careful.
Louis swears under his breath, forehead pressing into the inside of the drum. Every part of him feels stretched tight, vibrating with need.
Harry laughs softly, breath catching. “You’ve got no idea how good you look right now.”
Louis groans, rolling his hips back as much as the drum allows. “Then stop looking and—”
But he doesn’t get to finish.
Because Harry pushes in, slow and steady, and Louis’ voice cuts off in a ragged exhale as he’s filled, the stretch slow and accommodating. His jaw drops open. His body tenses, then trembles, thighs burning with the effort of holding still. The angle is tight, nearly folded in on himself, but the way it hits—fuck, the way Harry slides deeper with each thrust—makes his vision white out.
The air inside the washer is thick with heat and want. Louis braces one hand on the curved metal drum, the other scrabbling for purchase. He lets out a helpless sound when Harry draws back and thrusts forward again, hips meeting the backs of Louis’ thighs with a muted slap.
Each movement rocks him forward, the machine unyielding against his chest, the cold bite of it a sharp contrast to his burning skin.
And then—Harry’s hand wraps around his cock.
Louis chokes on a gasp, hips jerking helplessly. Harry’s grip is tight and slick, the rhythm matching the steady drive of his hips. Every stroke pulls another sound from Louis’ throat, every drag of skin on skin driving him closer to the edge.
“Been thinking about this, haven’t you?” Harry says, voice wrecked, close behind him. “All those nonsense calls. Just wanted me to come over and fuck you like this.”
Louis moans, body clenching down around him, unable to speak. He pushes back greedily into each thrust, forward into the tight pump of Harry’s fist. He’s burning up, dizzy with it, the pressure behind his ribs unbearable.
It’s too much. Not enough. His thoughts are fragmented and splintering around the edges.
He pants out a breath, hips caught in a frantic rhythm now. Somehow, he finds his voice—raw but instigating.
“Yeah,” he gasps. “Yeah, that what you think? That I did all this just to get you here?”
Harry lets out a broken, breathless laugh. “You tell me, Trouble. Bent over like this… stuffed full and shaking. What else was I meant to think?”
Louis groans, his hand slipping against the slick curve of the drum as Harry thrusts harder—deeper—his whole body rocked forward with it. Every breath is a gasp now, every second dragging him closer to the edge.
“Maybe I wanted you to fuck me stupid,” Louis spits out, voice sharp, breathless. “So I’d stop thinking about it all the fucking time.”
It pulls a sound from Harry — rough and wrecked, half-swallowed — followed by a sharper roll of his hips. His hand tightens around Louis’ cock, just slightly, twisting on the upstroke, and Louis chokes on a moan, his whole body jerking.
“Shit,” Harry breathes. “You feel unreal. Can’t believe I waited this long.”
Louis wants to reply — something smug, or maybe something about how Harry could’ve had this ages ago — but the words die in his throat, thoughts scattering like ashes in the wind. Harry’s pace has quickened, driving in with focused precision, and Louis can feel the pleasure mounting inside him — a hot, coiled ache low in his belly, winding tighter with every pulse of Harry’s hand.
“Harry—” he gasps. “I’m— I can’t—”
“I know,” Harry murmurs, lips at the base of his spine. “I’ve got you.”
Louis braces both hands somewhere against the machine, shoulders shaking. He meets every thrust now, the rhythm desperate and filthy, the slap of skin loud in the confined space. He feels ruined, stripped down, overwhelmed in the best possible way. His body burns with it — Harry’s cock deep inside, his hand slick and sure around him, every touch dragging him closer to the edge.
Then Harry leans in, kisses the small of his back, voice low and hoarse as he groans, “Come for me.”
Louis breaks.
His orgasm hits fast and hard, tearing through him like a live wire. He cries out — loud, wrecked — the sound echoing in the drum as his body locks up and trembles. His release paints the inside of the washer and Harry’s hand in hot, messy spurts. He shudders through it, barely able to breathe.
Behind him, Harry swears as Louis tightens around him. “Fuck, Louis—”
Two more thrusts, hard and deep, and then Harry’s hips still as he spills inside the condom with a sharp exhale, like he’d been holding his breath. His body is pressed tight to Louis’ back, chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. He stays there for a second as they both come down from the high, his forehead bowed—pressed into the curve of Louis’ spine.
For a long beat, everything is quiet. Only the sound of their pounding hearts and the quickened breaths they’re trying to catch. The soft creak of strained muscles trying to remember how to relax.
Eventually, Harry shifts, pressing a kiss to the bottom of Louis’ spine before pulling out slowly, carefully. Louis makes a soft noise—nothing more than breath—but it’s enough to make Harry’s hand sweep soothingly along his side.
There’s the rustle of movement, the crinkle of foil, and a wet snap as the condom is removed and tossed into the bin. Louis doesn’t move, still catching his breath, blinking at the gleam of the metal interior when he feels fingers brushing lightly over his back.
Then, still folded over, forehead resting on the cool drum, Louis says faintly, “You’re gonna have to help me out of here eventually, you know.”
Harry laughs, warm and rough. “Eventually.”
Harry’s hand slips inside the washer, careful and gentle, fingertips hooking beneath Louis’ shoulder where it had caught on the edge of the door.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, soft and quiet now.
“Ah—fuck, ow,” Louis winces, voice muffled as Harry tries to ease him out of the washer. “You trying to dislocate me as a parting gift?”
“Sorry, sorry,” Harry says quickly, laughing a little as he shifts tactics, tugging Louis back by the waist instead. “Emergency extractions are always a little rough. Comes with the territory.”
Louis makes a face, muttering something under his breath as he’s finally pulled free, limbs wobbly and sore in ways he’ll absolutely feel tomorrow. He straightens slowly, rubbing his shoulder with a wince and trying to blink the haze from his eyes.
They stand there for a beat, shoulders brushing, both of them flushed and breathing unevenly in the bathroom. The air feels quieter now, warm and humming with afterglow — until Louis glances down.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters.
Harry follows his gaze.
Louis’ cock is still half-hard, flushed and messy, his release dripping down the front of his joggers, soaked into the waistband.
Harry doesn’t say anything—just steps forward, eyes still a little dark, and carefully tucks Louis back into his joggers with surprising delicacy. His fingers linger at Louis’ stomach for a moment — a soft graze, barely there — then fall away.
Louis blinks at him, lazy and half-gone, hair a mess and cheek red from where it had been pressed to the drum. “You’re weirdly gentle for someone who just—”
“I know,” Harry says, sheepish but not regretful. Then, after a breath “Can I…”
He trails off. Doesn’t finish the question. Just leans in, slow and tentative, giving Louis the space to pull away — but Louis doesn’t. He meets him halfway, and their lips press together, soft and unhurried. It’s warm and slow. Nothing like the frantic mess of minutes ago.
Louis laughs quietly against Harry’s mouth. “Bit backwards, this.”
Harry smiles. “Yeah. But worth the wait.”
They linger there for another beat before Harry steps back. He bends to grab his jacket off the floor, rummaging in the pocket until he pulls out a pen. Without a word, he takes Louis’ wrist gently and begins to scrawl something across the inside of his forearm, the ink warm against skin.
“You could’ve just asked for my number, you know,” Harry murmurs as he writes. “Didn’t have to keep making up ridiculous emergencies.”
Louis lets out a huff of laughter, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t mak—”
“In case of your next emergency…” Harry cuts in, meeting his gaze. “Or, you know. Any other time you just feel like it.”
Louis looks down at the digits now sprawled across his arm — slightly smudged from the heat of his skin, but unmistakably there — and then up at Harry again.
He grins.
“God, I’m so glad I don’t have to set fire to the microwave just to get your attention next time.”