Habit

Chapter 4: Just Hold On

Y/n tossed and turned in bed, staring up at the ceiling, her mind a storm of tangled thoughts. It was three a.m. and her nerves felt as frayed as the loose threads on her hotel robe. She had shown up on this tour thinking she could handle anything, that her job was just hair, but she wasn't so sure anymore. Every day, the tension mounted—the long hours, the constant noise, and now, whatever this thing was with Louis. Her mind raced, too exhausted to sleep but too unsettled to rest. Her mouth felt dry. Maybe water would help.

She wrapped herself in her robe, stepping softly into the hallway, hoping not to run into anyone. The hotel was eerily quiet, save for a low hum of air conditioning and distant voices echoing from somewhere deep down the corridor. But as she reached the kitchen area, something made her freeze.

A figure slumped against the wall, head back, mouth slightly open. The shape was unmistakable. Louis.

Y/n's stomach tightened as she took in the scene. He was sprawled on the cold floor, one leg stretched out, the other awkwardly bent beneath him. His shirt was askew, barely tucked in, and his shoes were nowhere to be seen. The smell of alcohol clung to him, thick and sharp in the air, almost as overpowering as the sight of him like this—so different from the Louis who'd mocked her just hours ago, alive and animated in a room filled with laughter. She felt a twist of anger, almost betrayal, at seeing him like this. Had he really done this to himself?

"Louis!" she whispered sharply, stepping closer, her pulse quickening with a mix of frustration and something she couldn't quite name. She knelt down, gripping his shoulder and shaking him harder than she needed to. "Louis, wake up. What the hell are you doing?"

He stirred, a faint groan escaping his lips, though he didn't open his eyes. His head lolled, his hand twitching as if to brush her off, but missing by inches.

"Y/n?" he muttered, his voice thick and slurred. "I'm... fine... really..."

Her heart pounded, anger sparking through her. Fine? He was lying sprawled in a hotel hallway, too drunk to stand, barely aware of her presence. There was nothing fine about this. A surge of irritation bubbled up, masking the worry creeping in behind it.

"No, you're not fine," she snapped, shaking him again, her fingers digging into his shoulder. "You're a mess, Louis. This is not fine."

His eyes opened just a fraction, unfocused and glassy, struggling to make sense of her face in the dim light. "Needed... a drink," he mumbled, his words slipping into a faint, bitter laugh. "Or two... or... ten..."

Y/n's jaw clenched as she took in his words. He wasn't just a little drunk. He was wasted. Why would he do this to himself? She'd heard rumors, seen glimpses of his careless streak, but this—this was different. Reckless. Destructive. Just plain stupid.

"I don't know why I'm even doing this," she muttered under her breath, barely realizing she'd said it out loud. She felt her frustration build, pressing against her ribs like a pressure she couldn't release. Why did it have to be her dealing with this? Why did he have to make this her problem?

Louis's eyes fluttered closed again, and he slumped even more against her, his weight heavy and uncooperative. Great. Just great. She sighed, running a hand through her hair, glancing down the empty hall. "You don't get to do this, Louis," she said, more to herself than him. "You don't get to treat your life like some joke and drag everyone else into your mess."

With a deep breath, she bent down, hooking her arm under his shoulder and half-lifting him. He was dead weight, and for a moment, she almost wanted to just let go, to let him handle the consequences of his own choices. But instead, she gritted her teeth, shifting her grip as he swayed dangerously in her grasp.