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Louis leaned forward, eyes cutting sideways. “Missed you,” Louis said, casual but deliberate. “Didn’t get one insult yesterday from you.”
Harry’s fingers curled tighter around the edge of the counter, the laminate biting into his palms.
He turned his head, just enough to meet Louis’s gaze. “Well, you’ll survive. Might even do you good not having me around to bruise your ego for once.”
Louis smirked, slow and cutting. “Mmm, but then who else would keep me humble?”
———or———-
Harry and Louis hate each other. They hate each other through the bruising kisses and the sharp-edged laughter. Every “I hate you” is a punctuation mark—spat between clenched teeth, swallowed against skin, silenced by a desperate kiss. And every fight ends the same: not with an apology, but with a blowjob. A crude kind of truce.
But this time is different. This time, a warm mouth can’t patch the cracks. Eager hands can’t hold together what’s already splintered. For once, the body isn’t enough—because the wound isn’t in the flesh, it’s in the heart. And the only thing that could heal it is the one thing they’ve never learned to give each other.
Words.
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