Chapter Text
Manchester rain had a way of making everything look dramatic, streets shimmering silver, cars moving like ghosts through the blur, people rushing with hunched shoulders and umbrellas turning inside out.
Louis wasn’t usually one for dramatics. He’d had enough of that in Doncaster, thank you very much. But here he was, twenty-seven, or close enough, trudging through another grey morning, his shoes already soaked, muttering at himself about why the hell he’d moved to this bloody city in the first place. That’s when he saw it.
Coffee Style.
Louis stopped dead on the pavement, rain dripping off his fringe as he squinted at the glass storefront. Golden letters curled across the window like they thought they were clever. Inside, warm amber light spilled out, a world away from the dreary street. Hanging plants, wooden tables, soft lamps glowing against the fogged glass, it looked like a bloody Pinterest board had exploded inside.
He huffed a laugh under his breath. Coffee Style? What kind of name is that? Catchy though. Annoyingly catchy.
His stomach gave a low growl. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, shifts at the hospital had a way of swallowing hours whole and honestly, he was tired of vending machine crisps. And maybe… just maybe… he was tired of feeling like Manchester was nothing but concrete and corridors. So he pushed the door open.
A bell chimed overhead, soft and inviting, and suddenly he was wrapped in the smell of espresso and cinnamon. Warmth pressed against his skin like a blanket. The space buzzed with quiet chatter, cups clinking, chairs scraping against scuffed floorboards. Plants trailed from beams above, flowers brightened tabletops, the kind of little touches that made the place feel lived in, cared for. Safe.
Louis wasn’t sentimental not anymore. But the atmosphere tugged at something buried deep. Something he didn’t let himself think about too often.
He joined the short line, eyes flicking lazily over the counter. A young woman worked the till, smiling at the couple ahead of him. She couldn’t have been far along, maybe five months pregnant if Louis had to guess. He was a doctor, after all his brain clocked details like that automatically. She radiated calm, laughing as she handed over their change.
And then Louis saw him.
Behind the espresso machine, curls spilling loose around his face, was a man wearing a floral shirt that was unbuttoned just enough to make Louis’ pulse stutter. His black jeans looked practically painted on, hugging every line of his hips and thighs as he leaned casually against the counter.
Louis’ first thought was not appropriate for public consumption. His second thought was even worse.
The man. Hipster, Louis caught from the way the girl at the till called his laughed at something a customer said, his dimples flashing like they were lethal weapons. He flirted easily, tossing charm around like confetti, and the older woman working beside him just shook her head fondly. His mum, maybe? Hard to tell.
Louis rolled his eyes, lips twitching despite himself. Of course. Flirts with anything that’s got legs. Figures.
When it was his turn, the pregnant girl smiled warmly at him. He ordered a flat white, trying not to glance at the floral shirt stretching over broad shoulders, the curls falling forward as Hipster bent to adjust something under the counter.
He told himself it was just coffee. Just a new café. Just a decent spot in a city that still didn’t feel like home.
But when he left a few minutes later, rain still pelting down outside, Louis found himself glancing back through the glass at the man behind the counter, laughing at something with those ridiculous dimples on full display.
And despite himself, he made a mental note: Come back.
Not for the name.
Not even for the coffee.
For the eye candy Hipster in the floral shirt and painted-on jeans.
A week later, Louis was buried in charts, halfway through a shift that felt like it would never end. His brain was fried, his scrubs wrinkled, and he’d already downed two cups of hospital sludge he wouldn’t dare call coffee. He was looking forward to nothing more than the sandwich waiting in his locker.
His next patient’s name was Gemma Styles. Familiar, somehow, though he couldn’t place it.
He straightened as the door opened and a tall brunette walked in, glowing in that particular way expectant mothers did. Then he remembered the girl from the Hipster looking café. Louis offered his practiced doctor smile, professional and warm. Right. Just another appointment. Just another day. Except then someone else followed her in. Louis’ heart lurched like it had been drop kicked.
It was him.
The bloody hipster barista. The one with curls and a floral shirt burned into Louis’ retinas. Dimples. Black jeans. Painted-on bloody jeans.
Louis blinked hard, schooling his features into something neutral as jealousy spiked sharp in his chest. Of course. Of course the gorgeous bastard had a girlfriend. Wife? Pregnant, even. It stung more than he cared to admit. Anger too directed at the Hipster.
Hipster, who apparently had this woman, girlfriend? wife? partner? — pregnant, yet still flirted shamelessly with anyone and everyone in front of her. Louis had seen it with his own eyes at the café, and now the memory stung all over again.
Louis nodded stiffly as they settled into the chairs.
“So, Gemma,” he began, flipping open her file, “twenty-eight weeks, is that right?”
She smiled, resting a hand on her stomach. “That’s right.”
Meanwhile, Louis could feel the heat of that Hipster’s gaze, even as he pretended to scribble notes. It was infuriating the nerve of the man, checking him out right there, in front of his pregnant girlfriend. Louis’ jaw tightened. His blood boiled with words he knew he shouldn’t say but was two seconds away from spitting out anyway.
And then Gemma asked.
She pointed at the man, who was smirking at something on the floor tiles like he had a secret. “My brother here can’t wait to find out if it’s a boy or a girl so he can start shopping properly. When can we find out, doctor?”
Louis blinked. The words hung in the air like a lifeline.
Brother. Not boyfriend. Not husband. Brother.
Relief hit him so hard he almost laughed. Almost. He caught man’s eye then, and the dimpled grin that spread across his face was downright sinful. Louis’ stomach twisted traitorously.
“Well,” Louis said, clearing his throat, “we should be able to confirm at your next scan. Patience is a virtue.”
Gemma rolled her eyes, man snorted, and Louis busied himself with the file before his mouth betrayed him.
Louis told himself that was the end of it. Just another patient, just another day. Except it wasn’t.
Because a few days later, he found himself back at Coffee Style. Once, then twice, then again each time telling himself it was for the coffee, though the vending machines at work had never seemed quite so offensive until now.
And every time, there he was.
Harry Styles. Was his name. Long hair, floral shirts, jeans clinging indecently to long legs, dimples flashing at Louis every chance he got. The man flirted like it was a reflex, tossing compliments and cheeky remarks like sugar packets, and somehow Louis was always the one catching them.
Sometimes Gemma was there too, laughing at their back-and-forth, stirring the pot. Louis couldn’t decide if she was an accomplice or an instigator. Probably both.
Either way, it was trouble. The kind Louis knew he should avoid. The kind that made him keep coming back for more.
If there was one thing Niall loved more than food, it was dragging Louis into trouble. And if there was one thing Liam loved, it was enabling him. Which was how Louis, exhausted from a double shift, found himself shoved through the door of a pub instead of into his flat like he’d planned.
“Oi, don’t look at me like that,” Niall grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’re celebrating. New city, new job, new life. You’re practically thriving.”
“Thriving?” Louis snorted, loosening his coat. “I’m knackered, my social life is non-existent, and my flat still smells like paint. That’s not thriving, Niall. That’s surviving.”
“Semantics,” Liam said smoothly, sliding into the booth with a pint already in hand.
Louis narrowed his eyes at both of them. “Traitors, the pair of you.”
But as the evening wore on, the pub’s chatter and clinking glasses wrapped around him, softening the sharp edges of his mood. He was almost relaxed when it happened. When he walked in.
Harry bloody Styles.
Louis’ pint paused halfway to his mouth, his breath catching. Harry looked… different out of the café. His curls were looser, shirt tighter, jeans still offensively perfect. And of course, he was draped across some bloke who looked like he’d just stepped off a Gucci runway, all sharp cheekbones and perfect.
Louis’ jaw clenched. His stomach twisted. He had no right absolutely no reason to feel anything, but jealousy burned hot and fast in his chest anyway. Again. He tried to tune back into Liam’s story about a nightmare patient, but his eyes betrayed him, darting again and again across the pub.
Harry leaned in close to runway-boy, dimples flashing, lips brushing his ear as he laughed at something. Louis’ pint hit the table harder than necessary.
“Uh-oh,” Niall said, noticing. His grin was wicked. “Lou’s got his eye on someone.”
“I do not,” Louis shot back instantly, too quickly, too defensive.
Liam smirked, following his gaze with embarrassing ease. “Oh, you definitely do. And—hang on—” he tilted his head, squinting, then broke into a knowing grin. “Oh my god. You mean Harry?”
Louis froze. “You know him?”
Niall barked a laugh loud enough to turn heads. “Course we do! Everyone knows Harry. Half the hospital staff lives in his café. Flirts with the nurses, remembers everyone’s order, walks around like he’s God’s gift in floral shirts.”
Louis flushed hot, dragging a hand down his face. Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.
“Didn’t think you’d be the type to fall for him, though,” Liam added, smirking over his pint.
“I’m not,” Louis snapped. Too fast again. Too sharp.
Both of them just laughed, clinking their glasses together while Louis sat there fuming with jealousy, with frustration, with himself. He had no claim, no reason, and yet he couldn’t stop staring across the pub, couldn’t stop watching Harry’s dimples light up at someone else’s smile.
And when Harry’s eyes flicked up catching his, lingering for a beat too long Louis felt it like a spark straight down his spine.
Bloody hell. He was in trouble.
Louis’ jaw was still tight, eyes locked on Harry across the pub, when Niall leaned back in the booth with the kind of grin that spelled trouble.
“Y’know what’d be fuckin’ brilliant?” Niall said, his Irish lilt dripping with mischief. “We should invite them over. Kill two birds with one stone. Lou gets eye candy up close, and we get front row seats to the circus.”
Louis nearly choked on his pint. “You can absolutely fuck off, Niall. That’s not happening.”
Liam smirked over the rim of his glass. “Why not? Would save you the trouble of staring like you’re about to commit a crime.”
“I’m not staring,” Louis snapped, too quick, too sharp. He dropped his pint onto the table with a thud. “And even if I was, there’s fuck all to talk about. Far as I can see, he’s clearly taken. Swanning around with Mr. Gucci Runway, dimples flashing like he’s God’s bloody gift. Good for him.”
Niall raised a brow, still grinning. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Tommo.”
“Jealous? Don’t be a twat. I’m not fucking jealous. I don’t even want a boyfriend. Not now, not ever again. You two know that better than anyone. After Bailey? No, thanks. I’ll die happily alone, cheers.”
Liam exchanged a look with Niall, smug bastards that they were. “Uh-huh,” he said slowly, dragging the syllables out like he was speaking to a toddler. “And yet you’re about two seconds away from storming over there and demanding to know his entire romantic history.”
Louis glared. “I’m not—” He cut himself off, teeth grinding. “You’re both wankers.”
Niall leaned in, eyes sparkling with evil delight. “So that’s a yes to inviting him over then?”
Louis groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “If you so much as wave in his direction, I’ll strangle you with your own fucking shoelaces.”
“Jesus, someone’s touchy.” Niall’s grin only widened. “Alright, alright. No strangling. But admit it, Lou. You’d fuck him.”
Louis’ cheeks burned hot. “I would not!” he hissed, even though his brain was already screaming I absolutely fucking would. And across the pub, as if the universe itself was mocking him, Harry Styles looked up again dimples on full display, eyes catching Louis’ and lingering just long enough to make his stomach flip.
Liam let out a low whistle. “Oh yeah. He’d fuck you too.”
Louis wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Louis should’ve known. He should’ve bloody known. The second Niall stood up from the booth, announcing he was off to the loo with a grin far too smug for a man needing a piss, Louis felt it in his bones. Trouble. Pure, unfiltered trouble.
“Niall,” Louis warned, eyes narrowing. “Don’t you dare—”
But Niall was already weaving through the crowd, whistling like butter wouldn’t melt in his gob.
Liam chuckled into his pint. “He’s gonna do something stupid.”
“No shit,” Louis muttered, dragging a hand down his face. His stomach twisted, a cocktail of dread and anticipation. “That gobshite’s got betrayal written all over him.”
And right on cue, when Niall reappeared, he wasn’t alone.Louis’ pint nearly slipped out of his hand.There he was. Harry bloody Styles, curls messy and shining under the pub lights, floral shirt open just enough to make Louis’ throat dry, dimples flashing as if he knew exactly how much damage they could do. And beside him, Mr. Fucking Jawline sharp enough to cut grass, or glass, or Louis’ last shred of sanity.
“Alright, lads!” Niall sang, sliding back into the booth with the self-satisfaction of a cat that had brought home a dead bird. “Look who I found loitering’ by the bar.”
Harry’s eyes locked on Louis instantly, grin widening. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Doc.”
Louis’ brain short circuited. Oh for fuck’s sake, the man remembered him. His chest warmed and his hackles rose all at once.
“Small city,” Louis muttered, trying for casual, failing miserably
.
Niall elbowed him under the table, whispering far too loudly, “Smooth, Tommo. Real fuckin’ smooth.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Louis hissed.
Harry laughed, dimples deepening. Of course he bloody laughed. “Mind if we join you?” he asked, already half-sliding into the booth. Mr. Jawline followed, looking like he’d stepped straight off a Gucci catwalk and into Louis’ personal nightmare.
Liam raised a brow, smirking knowingly. “Plenty of room.”
Louis wanted to throttle both of his best mates. Instead, he plastered on his most neutral doctor face, ignoring the heat creeping up his neck.
This was hell. Absolute hell.Hell with dimples.
Harry slid into the booth like he owned it, curls bouncing, grin devastating. Mr. Jawline up close, even worse followed right after, cool as you like.
“I’m Zayn,” the man said, voice smooth, accent rich. He held out a hand across the table.
Louis shook it, trying not to look like he was silently calculating how sharp Zayn’s jaw could slice bread.
“Liam,” Liam said with a polite nod. “That’s Niall, and you already know our Louis.”
Harry’s smirk deepened at that. Louis shot Niall a death glare across the table.
Conversation stumbled at first, the awkward shuffle of strangers thrown together. But Zayn leaned back, sipping his pint with ease. “So, what kind of doctors are you lot?”
“Cardiology,” Liam replied smoothly. “Heart doctor.”
“Paediatrics,” Niall said proudly. “Kid wrangler.”
Louis lifted a brow, resigned. “Obstetrics and gynaecology.”
Zayn’s lips curved. “So… you’re the baby doctor, then.”
Louis rolled his eyes. “Cheers. That’s me.”
Zayn chuckled. “Good man. I’m a music teacher. Bit less blood and screaming in my day.”
Before Louis could answer, Liam tilted his head, the smuggest look on his face. “And how long have you two been dating?” He nodded toward Harry and Zayn, innocent as a bloody vicar.Louis nearly choked on his pint, heat flooding his neck.But instead of nodding or confirming Louis’ worst nightmare, both Harry and Zayn burst into laughter loud, unfiltered, nearly doubling over.
Zayn wiped at his eyes. “Mate, you think us? Nah.”
Harry leaned forward, dimples carved deep, eyes sparkling as they caught Louis’. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Z’s fit as fuck. But not my type. And besides—” he threw an arm around Zayn’s shoulders, “—we’ve been best mates since nappies. He’s practically my brother.”
Relief shot through Louis so quick it nearly made him dizzy. He masked it with a scoff, taking a long drink from his pint.
Niall, of course, was grinning like Christmas had come early. “So what is your type then, Harry boy?”
Harry’s eyes slid back to Louis, deliberate, slow, lingering just long enough to make Louis shift in his seat. His grin widened. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Louis muttered under his breath, “For fuck’s sake,” and stared into his pint like it might save his life.
Louis’ stomach had been grumbling since 10 a.m., and by the time his lunch break rolled around, he was ready to eat the hospital curtains. Which, apparently, was why Liam physically hauled him out of the building with a lecture about “real food” and “not living off vending machine crisps.”
So of course, where did they end up?
Coffee Style.
Louis sighed as they joined the queue, the warm buzz of the café wrapping around him whether he liked it or not. Plants, cinnamon all of it softening the edges of his exhaustion. He hated how much he didn’t hate it.From behind the counter came the inevitable soundtrack: Harry Styles, king of flirtation, turning the charm dial up to eleven for the couple ordering lattes. His laugh carried, smooth and easy, dimples flashing as if they had their own gravitational pull.
Louis scoffed, leaning toward Liam. “See what I mean? Even if Harry is single as fuck, that’s exactly why I want nothing to do with him. He flirts with everyone. Whole bloody room could be on fire and he’d still be asking someone about their star sign.”
Liam smirked. “Mhm.”
When their turn came, Liam ordered for both of them, claiming Louis would just pick the least nutritious thing on the menu. The woman at the till, kind smile and sharp eyes, wrote it down and handed them their number.
“That’s Anne,” Liam muttered as they stepped aside.
“Anne?” Louis frowned.
“Harry’s mum.” Liam’s grin widened. “Help around sometimes .”
“Of course she does,” Louis muttered, feeling his ears heat for no goddamn reason.
They sat in a corner booth, and when the food came, Louis practically inhaled his sandwich and fries. It was good. Too good. The kind of good that made him forget, briefly, to be annoyed about anything else.
He was licking salt from his fingers when Harry appeared at their table, leaning against the edge like he owned the entire café which, annoyingly, he did.
“How was it then?” Harry asked, voice lilting, eyes flicking to Louis with a grin.
Louis swallowed, wiped his mouth on a napkin. “It’s really good, actually. What’s in it?”
Harry rattled off a list of ingredients, ending with a casual, “...and avocado.”
Louis froze, narrowing his eyes. “Are you fucking with me?”
Harry blinked, caught off guard. “...What?”
From across the table, Liam completely lost it, collapsing into laughter loud enough to turn heads.
“Jesus Christ,” Louis muttered, glaring at him.
Harry’s brows knit, dimples twitching like he was holding back his own laugh. “Are you allergic to avocado, Doc? Should I be worried you’re about to go into anaphylactic shock in my café?”
“Not allergic,” Liam finally wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. “Our Lou just fucking hates it. Won’t touch the stuff. We’ve been mocking him about it for years.”
Louis threw his hands up, already exasperated. “Because it’s fucking vile, that’s why! It’s slimy as hell, like someone mashed up soap and called it food. And don’t even get me started on how it’s the trendiest shit of all time. Everyone and their nan wants it on toast, in smoothies, smeared on their bloody face like it’s some miracle cure. It’s a con, Liam. A green, mushy, tasteless con!”
For a second, Harry just stared at him curls messy, dimples twitching like he was holding back a laugh. Then he leaned closer, grin slow and devastating.
“God, Doc… if you can feel that strongly about avocado, what else are you holding back on? Makes me wonder about all your other life choices.”
Louis blinked, thrown completely off guard. His brain short-circuited, warmth curling treacherously in his chest even as he tried to scowl.He stabbed the last fry like it had personally offended him. “Fuck me.”
Harry’s smirk sharpened, dimples in full effect. “That’s one life choice I could get behind.”
Louis choked. Liam wheezed so hard he nearly slid under the table. like it wasn’t, and just as Harry straightened to leave, Louis swore he heard it soft, almost muttered under Harry’s breath meant for anyone but himself.
“Prefer the other way round better ”
Louis froze. His ears burned. His pulse crashed.Harry winked, sauntering back to the counter like he hadn’t just casually announced he’d rather be fucked than do the fucking.
Liam was still laughing, clueless. But Louis? Louis was fucked. Royally, absolutely, irreversibly fucked.
That night, Louis lay flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers. The hum of the city outside seeped through the cracked window car horns, distant laughter, Manchester never bloody sleeping.
He should’ve been asleep hours ago. He had rounds in the morning, charts waiting for him, patients who deserved his full brain and not the half-wreck he currently was. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw him.
The curls, the painted-on jeans, the smirk that somehow made Louis feel like he was the punchline and the secret all at once. The way his voice dipped soft when he teased. And fuck, the casual little slip Prefer the other way round better like Harry Styles hadn’t just shattered every wall Louis had built around himself with few careless words.
Louis groaned, dragging a hand over his face. It’s just flirting. It’s just banter. He’s like that with everyone. That was what he told himself. That was what he wanted to believe.
But when Harry’s eyes had lingered on him across the pub, when he’d leaned in close at the café, when his mum had smiled at them like they weren’t strangers… it hadn’t felt like nothing.
It had felt like the beginning of something Louis wasn’t sure he had the guts to let himself want.
His mind drifted back, unbidden, to hospital corridors in Doncaster too bright lights, the antiseptic sting in the air, the weight of exhaustion that never really left. He remembered the way his mum had looked after treatment, fragile but fighting, how he’d sat by her bed for hours because the thought of leaving her side felt unbearable.
And then… coming home.
Louis swallowed hard, turning onto his side, sheets twisting around him. He could still see the light spilling down the hallway, hear the laugh he knew too well, feel that sick drop in his stomach as reality snapped in half. His home. Their home.
Louis shut his eyes against it, jaw tightening. Even now, years later, it still clawed at him in the dark.
The world had dropped out from under him in that moment. His mum was ill, his dad was crumbling, Louis had been giving every ounce of himself to hold it all together and apparently it hadn’t been enough.
He told himself it was why he’d stopped believing in forever. Why he kept his heart buried under work and sarcasm. Safer that way. Cleaner.And yet.
Harry Styles, with his curls and painted-on jeans and stupid, devastating dimples, had already slipped through a crack in the Armor.
Louis groaned, rolling onto his side. Would it really be so bad to give himself one last chance at being happy? Just one?
When he falls asleep that night The curly-haired hipster was not far off his mind.