The Impending Doom of Neighbours (Stylinson)

Climax {28}

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The hallway was alive with noise—laughs, the clatter of lockers, and the hum of overlapping conversations. Louis moved through it all like a ghost, head low, eyes trained on the scuffed toes of his Converse. He adjusted the strap of his bag and clutched his books tighter as if they were a shield.

Every corner, every shadow felt like a threat. Because Harry was there somewhere. Watching. Waiting.

The bell had rung ten minutes ago, and the crowd had thinned. Louis had ducked into an empty side corridor, taking the long way to class just to avoid running into him. But he hadn't made it far before he heard the heavy, deliberate tread of boots behind him.

"Louis."

The voice stopped him in his tracks. Low, familiar. Too close.

He turned slowly, his heart thudding. Harry stood there, just a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. His hair was a mess, his jaw set tight, and his green eyes—usually so calm—were burning with something Louis couldn't name.

"What?" Louis croaked. He hated how small his voice sounded, hated that he couldn't seem to meet Harry's gaze.

Harry didn't answer right away. He took a step closer, his brow furrowed like he was trying to figure something out.

"Are you okay?" he asked finally. His voice was quiet but firm. "I need to know you're okay."

Louis blinked, startled. "What—what are you talking about?"

Harry sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. "I've barely seen you since...that night. You're dodging me, baby. And if it's about Jack..." his jaw tightened, his tone sharpening. "Please tell me you and him are done."

Louis flushed, his stomach twisting. "It's really none of your business."

"It is when—" Harry stopped himself, exhaling through his nose. He shook his head like he was trying to stay calm. "You don't owe me anything, Louis, but..." he trailed off. "If you're still dating him—"

"I'm not," Louis interrupted, his voice barely above a whisper. He felt a rush of shame even admitting it. "I need to...I need to talk to him about it, but it's over."

Relief flickered in Harry's eyes, but it didn't last long. "It's taking everything in me not to—" he cut himself off again, shaking his head.

"I don't need you to fight my battles," Louis muttered, looking away.

"Maybe not," Harry said. "But he needs to back off," he hesitated, his voice softening. "And if you're not okay, you can tell me. I won't...I don't know, push or whatever. Just say something, anything."

Louis' cheeks burned, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. "I'm fine," he mumbled. He tried to step around Harry, but Harry shifted, blocking his path.

"Louis," Harry said again, softer this time. He reached out, his fingertips brushing the collar of Louis' shirt where it gaped slightly. His thumb ghosted over the faint, faded mark on Louis' neck—the last remnant of what had happened with Jack.

Louis flinched like he'd been burned. His hand shot up, smacking Harry's away. "Don't!" he snapped, his voice louder than he'd meant. His heart pounded in his ears as he stumbled back a step, hugging his arms to his chest.

Harry froze, his hand still hovering in the air. His expression flickered—confusion, hurt, and then something unreadable. He lowered his hand slowly, his jaw tightening.