Chapter Text
The conference room buzzed with anticipation as the staff of Modern Edge settled into their seats. The magazine was known for its daring editorials and industry-defining campaigns, but everyone knew the stakes were higher than ever. The upcoming issue wasn't just another glossy spread; it was their chance to cement their place as the top creative publication of the year.
At the head of the long glass table sat Eleanor Greene, the magazine's Creative Director. Her sharp bob framed a face of serene composure, her fingers lightly drumming against the armrest of her chair as she stared at the empty seat across from her.
The rest of the team sat quietly, stealing glances at each other as they waited. No one dared to speak, not when Eleanor was still as a statue, her thoughts imperceptible.
At the far end of the table, Harry Styles sat with his arms crossed, his expression carefully neutral. But anyone who knew him well enough could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his polished loafer tapped rhythmically against the floor. He hated waiting.
He hated it even more when they were all waiting for Louis Tomlinson.
Harry's eyes flicked to the clock for the third time in as many minutes. Late, as usual.
Of course, Eleanor didn't seem to mind. She sat there, completely unbothered, as if this was perfectly acceptable. Harry's grip tightened on the pen in his hand. If it was him, or anyone else, Eleanor wouldn't have tolerated this level of disrespect. But somehow, Louis got away with everything.
It had been like that since the first day Louis swaggered into the office six months ago, a tornado of chaos and contradictions. From day one, Harry knew they'd never get along.
Harry wasn't one to hold grudges—he preferred diplomacy, finding ways to outclass his opponents without stooping to their level. But Louis Tomlinson? He was the exception.
From the very first day Louis strolled into the office, Harry had felt his carefully structured world tilt off balance. While Harry had spent years building his reputation with discipline and professionalism, Louis had waltzed in with his irreverent attitude and a smirk that seemed permanently glued to his face.
It had started with the little things. Louis never respected deadlines. He turned in projects that looked like they'd been thrown together at the last minute, only for them to somehow become the most talked-about pieces of the month. Meanwhile, Harry's meticulously crafted campaigns, though undeniably polished, always seemed to sit just under the radar in comparison.
And then there was Louis' demeanor—too casual, too loud, and too... messy. It grated on Harry in ways he couldn't explain. Louis didn't take anything seriously, and yet he managed to charm the team with his quick wit and reckless creativity. It wasn't fair.
Harry's irritation had grown into something far more visceral during their first creative meeting. He had been explaining a concept—calmly, clearly, with graphs to support his points—when Louis had interrupted, claiming it was "boring" and "safe." The team had laughed, and Harry had felt his cheeks burn. Since then, every interaction with Louis had been a battle of pride, neither willing to back down.
Modern Edge wasn't just a magazine, it was the magazine. A powerhouse of fashion and culture, it shaped trends and set the tone for the industry. As senior creatives, Harry and Louis were at the forefront of its success—or failure.
Harry specialized in campaigns that exuded elegance and timelessness, while Louis thrived on disruptive, boundary-pushing ideas. Their clashing styles had led to several heated debates in meetings, but until now, they'd always managed to keep their projects separate.
What grated on Harry the most wasn't Louis' irreverence, though. It was the way everyone else seemed to love it. Eleanor, who was usually the first to reprimand anyone for stepping out of line, seemed to find Louis' antics charming. He could waltz into a meeting ten minutes late, coffee in hand, and no one batted an eye.
The door burst open, and there he was. Louis Tomlinson, five minutes late with no apology, a coffee cup in one hand and his leather jacket slung over the other.
"Morning," he said, his voice casual, as if he hadn't kept everyone waiting. He slid into the empty chair across from Harry, tipping it back slightly as he set his coffee down with a thud.
Harry's eyes narrowed. Louis' shirt was untucked, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoos snaking along his forearms. His hair was tousled, like he hadn't bothered to check a mirror, and his boots—scuffed beyond repair—clashed horribly with the pristine room.
Louis caught Harry's glare and smirked. "Relax, Styles. I'm here now."
Eleanor raised an eyebrow but said nothing, her silence somehow more cutting than words.
Harry bit back a retort and straightened his blazer.
"Right," Eleanor said finally. "Styles, you're up."
Harry rose first, walking to the front of the room with the poise of someone who knew he was about to impress. A sleek presentation loaded onto the large screen behind him, showcasing his concept for the upcoming issue.
"This," Harry began, gesturing to the bold, minimalist mock-up, "is what will take Modern Edge to the next level. Clean lines. Subtle luxury. A celebration of timeless sophistication." His voice was smooth, his delivery practiced. "It's about redefining elegance, making it relevant for a modern audience without losing the essence of what makes it iconic."
The room murmured approvingly as Harry flipped through slides, showcasing mood boards of muted tones, high-fashion photography, and minimalist typography.
"Boring," Louis muttered under his breath, loud enough for Harry to hear.
Harry's jaw tightened. "I'm sorry, did you have something to add?"
"Enough," Eleanor said sharply, silencing them both.
The room tensed, but Louis was already striding to the front, dragging his own chair behind him to sit casually by the screen. "My turn, yeah?" Without waiting for a response, he plugged in his own presentation, which exploded onto the screen in a riot of color and chaos.
"Here's the thing," Louis began, gesturing to his vision. "We've done polished. We've done clean. People don't want another ad for overpriced watches and cold architecture. They want impact. Something that slaps them in the face and makes them remember why Modern Edge is the best."
His slides were a whirlwind of graffiti-inspired graphics, unconventional layouts, and bold, unapologetic statements. "This issue should be loud. Provocative. The kind of thing that makes people stop scrolling and actually feel something."
Louis' energy was magnetic, even to those who found his ideas borderline chaotic. By the time he finished, the room was divided—half inspired, half horrified.
He smirked, turning to Harry. "Any questions?"
"Just one," Harry replied smoothly, his jaw tight. "Do you actually plan these ideas, or do they just spill out of your brain like that mess you call a desk?"
"Enough," Eleanor cut in sharply, silencing the brewing argument."I've seen enough. Both of your ideas are..." She paused, searching for the right word. "Flawed. But also brilliant. And therein lies the problem."
Harry frowned. "How so?"
"Harry, your concept is beautiful but sterile. It's predictable. Louis, yours is bold but borderline manic. It risks alienating our audience."
Eleanor leaned back in her chair, her eyes closed, and raised a single finger. The room fell silent.
It was her ritual—her moment of clarity before delivering a decision. It didn't happen often but the times it did it was always a guaranteed success.
Finally, "Got it!" She clapped her hands once, as if the matter was settled. "So here's what we're going to do: we're mixing them."
"Mixing them?" Harry echoed, incredulous. "You can't mix minimalism with whatever this is."
"Watch me," Eleanor said, her sharp smile daring him to argue. "You two are going to work together. Combine your strengths. Take the best of both ideas and turn it into something that redefines this magazine."
Harry and Louis exchanged horrified glances.
"You're joking," Harry said.
"Oh, I'm dead serious," Eleanor replied. "You have until Friday to bring me a concept that works. If you fail, neither of you will have to worry about working here anymore."
The room was silent as Eleanor left, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.
***
The Modern Edge café was nestled on the building's third floor, a chic space with marble countertops and baristas who served oat-milk lattes with intricate foam art. Harry sat at his usual corner table, nursing a coffee that had gone cold while he fumed. Across from him, Niall Horan, the magazine's Marketing Manager, leaned back in his chair, sipping his iced Americano with infuriating calmness.
"I can't believe this," Harry snapped, breaking the silence. "She expects me to work with him. Do you know how impossible that is?"
Niall's brow lifted lazily as he stirred his drink. "You mean Louis?"
"Of course, I mean Louis!" Harry's voice rose slightly, earning a curious glance from a nearby intern. He lowered it again, hissing, "He's late to every meeting. He never plans anything. His ideas are half-baked at best, and somehow, somehow, Eleanor thinks this is a good idea."
"Well," Niall said, his tone measured, "it's not the worst idea."
Harry froze mid-rant, glaring at his friend like he'd just suggested he marry Louis. "Not the worst idea? Have you completely lost your mind?"
Niall chuckled, unbothered by Harry's outburst. "I'm just saying. You two might balance each other out. You're all precision and polish, and he's... y'know..."
"A mess?" Harry supplied, crossing his arms.
"I was going to say 'creative,' but sure, let's go with that," Niall said, grinning.
Harry shot him a withering look, but Niall only shrugged, unrepentant.
"Look, mate," Niall continued, "you're both good at what you do. Eleanor's not stupid. If she thinks this'll work, maybe it's worth a shot."
"Worth a shot?" Harry echoed incredulously. "You weren't in that meeting, Niall. He—he smirked at my presentation. He actually muttered 'boring' under his breath. In front of Eleanor!"
Niall's grin widened. "Classic Louis."
"It's not funny."
"It's a little funny."
Harry sighed dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't get it."
Niall leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I get it. Trust me, I've been through worse."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Have you?"
"Of course! Remember that time Eleanor made me rework the entire marketing plan for Verve in three days because she thought the tagline didn't 'sing'?"
"That's not the same thing."
"Isn't it? She's always pushing people to work outside their comfort zones. It's her thing."
"This isn't about comfort zones," Harry argued. "This is about..." He trailed off, struggling to find the words.
"This is about you hating Louis," Niall finished for him.
"I don't hate him. Hating him would require me thinking about him and I don't."
Niall gave him a look.
"I don't!" Harry insisted.
"Alright," Niall said, clearly unconvinced. "But you're stuck with him, so maybe try to make it work. Who knows? You might actually come up with something brilliant."
Harry stared at his coffee, mulling over Niall's words.
"Besides," Niall added, his grin returning, "I'd love to see the two of you try to survive two weeks without killing each other. It'll be entertaining, if nothing else."
"Glad I can provide you with amusement," Harry muttered darkly.
Niall raised his cup in a mock toast. "Always, mate."
***
Louis had known he wasn't Harry's favorite person from the moment they met. The feeling was mutual.
It wasn't that Harry wasn't talented—Louis could admit, begrudgingly, that the guy knew how to create a slick campaign. But everything about Harry screamed privilege. The designer suits, the pristine work desk, the way he carried himself like he was destined to succeed. Louis hated that. He'd fought tooth and nail for every inch of ground he'd gained in his career. Harry? He looked like he'd been handed it all on a silver platter.
Their first meeting had sealed the deal. Harry had walked in with his folder full of neat ideas, his tone dripping with condescension as he talked about "streamlining the brand's aesthetic." Louis had barely lasted five minutes before calling him out on his pretentious nonsense. From the way Harry's jaw had clenched, Louis knew he'd hit a nerve.
But it wasn't just the work. Harry's entire existence seemed engineered to clash with Louis'. Where Louis was instinctive and chaotic, Harry was calculated and rigid. It was like oil and water, and being forced to share the same airspace with him every day was enough to make Louis want to scream.
Louis' office was a riot of color and creativity, a reflection of the man himself. The walls were covered in mood boards and sketches, pinned haphazardly alongside cutouts from magazines and snippets of fabric. A rolling rack of clothes stood by the window, bursting with garments in every imaginable shade and texture. The desk at the center of the room was a chaotic masterpiece, piled high with notebooks, half-empty coffee cups, and a tangle of pens and markers that spilled over onto the floor.
Despite the disorder, it wasn't an ugly mess—it was purposeful, alive with the energy of ideas in motion. The room felt like a canvas mid-painting, full of possibility.
Louis sat at his desk, leaning back in his chair as he studied the sketches in his hand. He'd been working on this project—a capsule collection inspired by 1970s glam—for two months now, and it was finally starting to come together. But the rookie designer standing a few feet away seemed more nervous than inspired.
"Okay," the young woman, Emily, said as she gestured to the mannequin in front of her. She was petite and earnest, her ponytail swinging as she adjusted the dress she'd designed. It was a bold piece—structured and avant-garde, with exaggerated shoulders and an asymmetrical hemline.
Louis watched her quietly, his blue eyes sharp but kind. He could see the effort she'd put into it, even if the execution wasn't quite there.
Emily hesitated under his gaze, then smiled nervously. "So... what don't you like about it?"
Louis tilted his head, considering the question. "Alright," he said, setting the sketches aside and sitting forward. "Picture yourself wearing this dress."
Emily blinked, startled. "Me?"
"Yeah," Louis said, motioning to the mannequin. "Imagine it's for an event, or a gala. You're wearing this. How do you feel?"
"I... I think it's a statement," she said, her voice uncertain but hopeful.
Louis nodded, rising from his chair. "It's definitely a statement," he agreed, stepping closer to the mannequin. He ran his fingers lightly over the structured fabric of the dress. "But here's the thing—are you wearing the dress, or is the dress wearing you?"
Emily's brow furrowed, but she didn't speak, her gaze locked on Louis as he gestured to the dress's silhouette.
"There's a fine line," Louis said, his tone warm but professional, "between making a statement and overdoing it. This—" he motioned again to the sharp angles and boxy fit "—has structure. It's bold. It's different. But it's also boxy. It's never going to compliment anyone's body type. It's eye-catching on a mannequin, sure, but think about real people."
He stepped back, hands in his pockets, and looked at her. "It would make a statement on the runway, but would anyone buy it? Would anyone want to wear it?"
Emily swallowed, looking between Louis and the dress. "I... I guess not," she admitted sheepishly.
Louis smiled gently. "Good. Now, don't take it personally. This is how you learn. The idea's there—it just needs refining. Play with the silhouette. Think about how it moves, how it feels on the body. Then come back to me on Thursday."
Emily let out a small, relieved laugh. "Okay. Thanks, Louis."
"No problem, love," he said, giving her a wink as he returned to his desk. "Now, go. And bring me something that'll knock my socks off next time."
As she left, Louis leaned back in his chair, glancing once more at the sketches on his desk. It wasn't perfect yet, but he knew she'd get there. After all, making something brilliant always required a little chaos first.
The peace was shattered the moment Louis turned and saw those green eyes glaring at him from the doorway.
"Am I late for another scolding, or are we here to admire my brilliance?" Louis drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Harry scowled, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him with an air of finality. "Guess we're serious then," Louis muttered, tilting his head with mock solemnity.
Harry ignored the jab, his eyes scanning the room with barely veiled distaste. His lips pressed into a thin line as he took in the chaotic desk, the overflowing shelves, and the mismatched mood boards. "How can anyone work in this..." He gestured vaguely. "Mess?"
Louis snapped his fingers, pulling Harry's attention back to him. "Alright, Prince Perfect. What do you want?"
"We need to start on the project," Harry said, his tone clipped, his posture rigid as always.
"I can't now," Louis said simply, turning back to the board he'd been working on. He adjusted a fabric swatch pinned to it, the soft crinkle of paper filling the silence. "I've got another project I'm working on."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Do it later. I only have time now."
Louis raised an eyebrow, pivoting to face him fully. "And why does my schedule have to revolve around yours?"
"Because I'm here," Harry said, as though it were obvious. "Stop being difficult."
Louis smirked, his voice dripping with faux innocence. "Oh, I'm the difficult one?"
"Fine," Harry snapped, exhaling sharply. "When are you free?"
Louis turned away from him, brushing him off entirely as he straightened a crooked corner on his board. "Not now."
Harry, undeterred, took a few steps closer, his gaze catching on the project Louis had been immersed in. Swatches of white fabric formed the base of the board, accented by slivers of silver that reflected the overhead light.
"What else do you want?" Louis demanded, sensing Harry behind him and glaring over his shoulder.
Harry didn't answer right away. His eyes remained on the board, his head tilted in silent critique. Finally, he said, "It needs gold."
Louis blinked, caught off guard. "Excuse me?"
"The silver," Harry said, gesturing to the board. "It's fine, but it's predictable. White and gold would make the whole thing pop. Using silver is amateur."
Louis' irritation flared. "Amateur?" He spun fully toward Harry, arms crossed defensively. "I didn't ask for your opinion, did I? This is my project, and I can handle it on my own, thank you."
Harry rolled his eyes, stepping back toward the door. "Fine. Just a suggestion. If you're done being defensive, I'm only free in two hours. Come by then." He pulled the door open, pausing briefly to glance back at Louis. "And maybe clean this place up while you're at it."
The door shut with a firm click, leaving Louis seething. "Fucking pretentious," he muttered, turning back to his desk with a huff.
But as he stared at his board, his irritation refused to settle. "Gold," he scoffed under his breath. "What does he know?"
Still, his gaze lingered on the silver accents. His fingers hesitated over the swatches before reaching into the drawer where he kept scraps of gold string. For the benefit of the doubt—and definitely not because of Harry—he swapped the silver threads for gold, stepping back to take a look.
The result made his stomach sink.
"Fuck," Louis muttered, biting his lip.
It looked better. Not just better—brilliant. The gold caught the light in a way the silver never could, adding depth and warmth to the design.
He cursed under his breath again, glaring at the board like it had betrayed him. "Stupid suit," he grumbled, tossing the discarded silver into the bin. "Stupid shoes. Stupid face. Stupid Harry Styles."
Louis sat back down, muttering to himself as he jotted notes on the adjustments he'd have to make. He wouldn't admit it to anyone—not even himself—but Harry Styles was annoyingly, infuriatingly, always right.
.
Harry glanced at the clock for the third time in ten minutes, his jaw tightening with each passing second. Two hours and thirty minutes had come and gone, and Louis hadn't shown up.
With a frustrated sigh, Harry pushed back from his desk, gathering his neatly arranged portfolio and supplies. Of course Louis wanted him to come to his office. Normally, Harry wouldn't give in so easily—his pride wouldn't allow it. But Louis was annoyingly clever, and if there was one thing Harry loved more than his pride, it was punctuality. The wait was unbearable, so he grabbed his things and strode down the hall, determined to end this game.
When he entered Louis' office, the sight that greeted him only made his blood boil further. Louis was sprawled in his chair, feet propped up on the edge of his cluttered desk, a smug grin plastered on his face.
"Oh, you're here," Louis drawled, his voice sickly sweet. "I thought I was supposed to come to you."
Harry grunted, ignoring the comment, and gestured sharply toward the disaster of a desk. "Clean this up and take it away. We need space to work."
Louis arched an eyebrow but slid his feet off the desk, still smirking as he lazily began clearing the surface. He dumped everything into a large tote bag and set it aside, giving Harry just enough room to spread out his pristine materials.
Harry took a moment to arrange his things precisely before starting. "Alright, here's the concept I've developed. The project is for a luxury brand campaign—something timeless but with a contemporary twist. Classy, but avant-garde. The focus is on sleek tailoring, monochrome palettes, and understated embellishments that catch the eye without overwhelming it."
He gestured to the board he'd brought, displaying elegant sketches of structured silhouettes, flowing satin fabrics, and intricate embroidery.
Louis leaned forward, squinting at the designs, and immediately grimaced. "And where, exactly, is the avant-garde part? Did you forget to add it, or is it hiding somewhere in the back?"
Harry's lips thinned, but he didn't answer. He didn't need to—Louis wasn't finished.
"Honestly," Louis continued, tossing a hand in the air, "this feels less like fashion and more like... funeral couture. Very Morticia Addams Goes to a Gala."
Harry scowled, pulling his board back protectively. Then he glanced at Louis' board. "Absolutely not. This isn't some circus show, Louis. People don't want ridiculous. They want sleek, sophisticated, and wearable."
"Wearable," Louis repeated with a scoff, rolling his eyes. "What they want are clothes that feel alive. Yours are dead. Dull. Uninspired."
"There's a difference between alive and ridiculous," Harry snapped.
They locked eyes, the tension crackling between them. Finally, Harry groaned and ran a hand through his hair. "Fine. We'll settle this with vetoes. We each get three per board. Once it's vetoed, it's off the table, no arguments."
Louis tilted his head, reluctant to admit it, but the idea wasn't terrible. "Fine," he huffed, sitting back in his chair. "Let's do it."
They placed their boards side by side, and Harry started, his sharp green eyes scanning Louis' chaotic design.
"Veto on the metallic vinyl," Harry said, pointing to a shiny fabric swatch. "It's gaudy and impractical."
Louis hesitated, glancing at the fabric. He liked it, but he could admit it might be a bit much. Reluctantly, he nodded. "Fine. Veto on..." He turned to Harry's board and tapped on a swatch of muted gray wool. "That dull fabric. Whatever it is."
Harry's eyes widened in offence. "What?! That's Harris Tweed. It's classic, it's versatile—"
"No comment," Louis cut in, his voice smug. "I used my veto."
Harry gritted his teeth but bit back a retort. Instead, he focused on Louis' board again. "Veto on the shoulder patterns," he declared, pointing to the exaggerated, angular designs.
Louis gasped, clutching his chest theatrically. "You can't veto the shoulders! That's the whole point! If we don't give them form, how are people supposed to feel it's different?"
Harry crossed his arms. "I don't care. It's plain ugly. I'm not putting my name on anything that looks like that."
Louis glared but eventually sighed. "Fine."
"My turn," Louis said, looking back at Harry's board. His finger hovered over a sketch before landing decisively. "Veto on the straight-cut silhouettes. They're lifeless."
Harry paused, considered it for a moment, and then gave a curt nod. "Alright. I can work with that."
They stepped back, eyeing each other's projects with what could only be described as mutual disdain.
"No more vetoes?" Louis asked, glancing at Harry's thoughtful expression.
Harry shook his head, satisfied for now. "I'll think my last one over."
With that, they begrudgingly began stripping away elements from their boards, their earlier irritation morphing into begrudging focus. If nothing else, they both knew this project wouldn't succeed without compromise.
But that didn't mean they'd make it easy for each other.
Harry stepped back from their boards, eyes narrowing as he scrutinized them. Something was missing. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but the separate designs didn't quite sing. There was no harmony, no spark.
He looked up, ready to voice his concern, but paused when his eyes landed on Louis.
For once, Louis wasn't smirking or throwing around snide remarks. Instead, his brow was furrowed, and his eyes darted rapidly between the two boards. His fingers twitched as though already itching to move something.
Before Harry could say anything, Louis let out a quiet hum and, with a surprising amount of decisiveness, started tearing apart his own board.
"Wait—what are you—" Harry began, but Louis ignored him.
Carefully, Louis peeled off swatches of fabric, sketches, and small metallic embellishments, laying them down next to Harry's designs. His hands moved quickly, pinning, shifting, and rearranging the pieces into something entirely new.
Harry watched in stunned silence, unsure whether to stop him or let him work. It was Louis, after all—his ideas were always chaotic and loud. But as Louis took a step back, Harry's breath caught in his throat.
He would never admit it. Never. Not in a million years. But what Louis had done was... incredible.
The board was transformed. It captured everything Harry had been trying to achieve but had somehow fallen short of, infused with Louis' signature flair.
The sleek, tailored lines of Harry's minimalist designs remained, but Louis had softened their starkness with unexpected details: shimmering metallic accents, bold pops of color, and intricate textures that played against the clean silhouettes. The blend created an aesthetic that screamed old money elegance but with an avant-garde edge.
The fabrics told the story. Harry's structured wool and silk blends were paired with Louis's playful touches of velvet and organza. A hint of gold threading wove through an otherwise monochrome palette, subtle but unmistakably luxurious. The result was timeless yet daring—a juxtaposition that felt fresh, modern, and undeniably striking.
"Hmm," Louis said, tilting his head as he assessed the final product. He tapped his chin, then nodded to himself. "Yeah. That'll do."
Harry bit his lip, forcing himself to look away from the board before Louis could see the faint awe in his expression. Instead, he focused on the ground, schooling his features into indifference.
"It's... acceptable," Harry muttered, but his voice lacked its usual sharpness.
Louis turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "Acceptable?" he echoed, clearly unimpressed. "You're welcome, Styles. Admit it—it's better now."
Harry met his gaze, lips pressed together in stubborn defiance. "I'm not admitting anything."
Louis smirked, stepping closer and crossing his arms. "Oh, come on. Don't hurt yourself trying to deny it. You were missing this," he gestured to the board, "and you know it."
Harry didn't reply, his gaze flicking back to the board despite himself. Damn it. He hated that Louis was right. But he hated even more how effortlessly Louis had taken his carefully crafted work and elevated it into something extraordinary.
Louis seemed to sense his hesitation, his smirk growing wider. "Don't worry," he said, patting Harry's shoulder as he walked past him. "You'll get used to working with brilliance."
Harry glared at him, but his retort died on his tongue.
Because, deep down, he knew this was only the beginning.
***
Louis exhaled slowly, lowering himself into a deep forward fold as the serene tones of the yoga playlist filled the studio. Sunlight streamed through the wide windows, catching on the faint sheen of sweat across his arms. Next to him, Zayn stretched lazily, his movements fluid yet deliberately unhurried.
"Let me get this straight," Zayn said, his voice casual as he twisted into a lunge. "This Harry guy is successful, right? Like, in the industry?"
Louis straightened, reaching his arms high above his head before bending sideways, his tone clipped. "What's that got to do with anything?"
"I'm just saying," Zayn continued, dropping to the mat and extending one leg, "if he's good at what he does, why's it so bad working with him? It's not like he's an incompetent. Not like Marcel."
Louis snorted, pushing himself upright. "Your Marcel, not mine. And that's not a fair comparison. Marcel's harmless—clumsy as hell, but harmless. Harry? He's a nightmare wrapped in an expensive suit."
At that, Zayn rolled his eyes, the mere mention of Marcel prompting a groan. "Marcel is a disaster. The man trips over his own feet trying to carry coffee." He bent down, stretching toward his toes. "Jeremy assigning him to me was some sort of punishment, I'm sure."
When Louis didn't answer, Zayn resumed, switching sides. "Besides this, I thought you were the one who said you like a challenge."
"Not that kind of challenge."
Louis let the silence stretch as they both shifted into another pose. It wasn't until Zayn sighed, sitting back to stretch his arms, that Louis broke the quiet.
"You don't get it," Louis said, his voice quieter now. "It's not about whether or not Harry's good at what he does. It's about how insufferable he is while doing it. He's uptight, condescending, and thinks his way is the only way." He paused, then added, "It's like working with a robot programmed for perfection."
Zayn raised an eyebrow, not bothering to hide his amusement. "Sounds like you."
Louis shot him a glare, but Zayn chuckled, unfazed.
"Fine," Zayn said, standing to stretch his back. "But it still sounds like you're making it worse than it is. Harry's clearly good at his job. And it's not like you've never had to deal with difficult people before. You're acting like it's the end of the world."
Louis blinked at him, incredulous. "Are you my friend or his?"
Chuckling, Zayn dropped into a seated stretch. "Sorry. I'm just saying—it doesn't sound like the end of the world. Maybe you're overreacting a bit?"
"Overreacting?" Louis parroted, a hand on his hip as he bent to one side. "You weren't there, Zayn. He's so... precise. So controlled. Everything has to fit into his perfect little box. He's impossible to work with because he has no flexibility."
"Well," Zayn teased, smirking as he pulled himself into a downward dog pose, "sounds like he should join us for yoga."
Louis huffed but let it slide, twisting into a plank. "Whatever. You wouldn't get it."
"Seems to me," Zayn said lightly, "that you're making it worse than it is. He can't be that bad if he's as good as you say."
"I never said he was good," Louis shot back quickly.
Zayn just gave him a look.
Ignoring it, Louis focused on his stretches, biting back a smile.
After a few moments, Zayn sank into a seated stretch and sighed. "I'm so tense. Tomorrow's show is stressing me out."
Louis softened. "Do you want to come over after? We can grab food, hang out. You need to unwind."
Zayn frowned, glancing at him. "Don't you have a date? Marco, was it?"
"Matthew," Louis corrected, his voice dipping slightly. "And no. He cancelled."
Zayn propped himself up on one elbow, giving Louis a look. Louis avoided it, pretending to focus on rolling up his mat.
"Said something came up."
It wasn't unusual—men canceling, pulling away. At first, Louis thought it was bad timing, work schedules, or life getting in the way. But eventually, the pattern became too obvious to ignore.
Even his longest relationship, with Adam—a man he'd loved fiercely for four years—had ended with the same bitter truth.
Louis still remembered the fight like it was yesterday. Adam standing in their shared flat, his face red with anger and frustration, shouting things Louis hadn't realized he'd been holding back for years.
"You're exhausting, Louis," Adam had said, his voice breaking in places that made it hurt even more. "You're loud, and impulsive, and you never stop. God, it's like being with you is a full-time job."
The words had hit harder than Louis wanted to admit. He'd argued back, of course—yelling, pleading, trying to salvage what little was left of their relationship. But it was already too late.
Adam had been his first real love, the kind of love that Louis thought could survive anything. But somewhere along the way, it had withered. Adam had grown tired of him, of everything that made Louis... Louis.
It was after Adam walked out that Louis started to notice the pattern. He was good at catching someone's eye, good at flirting, good at first dates. But it never lasted. Men were drawn to his confidence, his humor, his spark. But a month in, two months in, and the charm wore off.
His luck with men had always been... complicated. Sure, he was good-looking—he knew that much—but his personality seemed to wear people out. He was loud, bold, and unapologetically himself.
It was never direct. They never said, "You're too much." But Louis heard it anyway. In their excuses, their hesitations, their sudden disinterest. He was exhausting to love, and the older he got, the more it stung.
He was too much. Too loud. Too overwhelming.
"Hey," Zayn said softly, pulling Louis out of his thoughts. "Mexican food sound good?"
Louis glanced at him, grateful for the distraction. "Perfect."
"Good," Zayn said, standing and offering him a hand. "Because I'm not in the mood to argue about it."
Louis laughed lightly, letting Zayn pull him to his feet. For now, he shoved the lingering ache of the past aside.
.
.
.