Chapter Text
Mid-spring in the Peak District means rain.
Or, well, to be fair, Mother Nature rarely cares about the season, and rain is basically a year-round blessing.
Sometimes a curse, but mostly a blessing.
Louis Tomlinson doesn't mind it, though. In fact, he prefers it. It keeps the tourists away, those thrill-seeking hikers with their overpriced trainers and their complete lack of respect for gate hinges.
Louis leans against the rusted fender of his Land Rover Defender and shoves a hand into his pocket, retrieving a box of cigarettes and a lighter.
His eyes narrow, drifting over the horizon. It's filled with shades of pinks and purples and greens. It's beautiful to anyone who thinks a tree planted in the city somewhere constitutes nature.
To Louis, it's just work.
He is forty, although the lines around his eyes could easily fool you into believing that he has spent the last sixty years squinting into the wind.
According to the locals, he is 'closed off,' a hermit, so to speak.
He doesn't blame them for thinking that. It's not necessarily a lie. He has not spoken more than three consecutive sentences to anyone in the village of Bakewell since the pub quiz in 2016, and even then, it was only to argue about a sheep-shearing statistic.
"Now, then," he rasps. "Let's get you lot moved," he says, fidgeting with the cigarette packet, retrieving one and bringing it to his lips.
He covers it with one hand and lights it with the other, inhaling deeply, followed by a slow exhale.
He whistles, a sharp and piercing sound that has a Border Collie shooting out from behind the rear tyre of his truck.
"Away to me, Jessy," he commands and watches on as the dog starts working the flock.
He sighs, feeling that familiar dull ache just behind his right shoulder. It's been bothering him since he slipped in one of the paddocks a few days ago. He tries reaching for it, but fails.
He grimaces, knowing it will be pestering him until he gets to soak in a warm bath, and then rolls his eyes, thinking about how his mum would have told him that he needs someone who could give him a much-needed shoulder massage after a long day's work.
Louis does not need that, thank you very much.
He enjoys living a quiet life, albeit lonely at times. That's the way he prefers it, though. This way, there's no one to disappoint. No one he will end up losing, because God knows that shit hurts like hell.
The sound of a struggling engine in the distance breaks the silence surrounding him, drawing him from his thoughts.
It's not the low, rhythmic chug of a tractor or the confident rumble of a local's 4×4. This was a high-pitched, frantic whine. It is the sound of a city car, no doubt being driven by someone who has no knowledge of the tracks.
Truth be told, it is the sound of Louis' worst nightmare.
Furrowing his brow, Louis straightens his posture. He watches as a tiny, baby-blue Fiat 500 rounds the bend of the single-track road, splashing through puddles with terrifying enthusiasm.
"Idiot," Louis hisses. "You'll bottom out on that ridge."
As if on cue, there is a sickening thud-crunch. The Fiat lurches, its front wheels spinning uselessly in a patch of soft verge while steam starts huffing from the radiator. It sits there, dead in the mud, and to Louis' great annoyance, blocking the only access to the lower pasture.
Fuck sake.
Louis exhales a long, weary breath. He whistles Jessy to a halt and begins the long, trudging walk down the slope. Annoyed beyond comprehension, he prepares his 'grumpy local' face, the one that usually sends Jehovah's Witnesses running for the hills, and when he reaches the car, raps a knuckle against the driver's side window. The glass rolls down, and for a second, Louis forgets his opening line about 'obstructing the roadway.'
The interior of the car looks like a florist threw up in it. There's a potted succulent plant strapped into the passenger seat, a straw hat on the dashboard, and the smell of something sweet wafting out into the damp air.
And then, there is the driver.
He is younger than Louis. Maybe in his mid-twenties and has a head full of chestnut curls that seem to have a life of their own. He's wearing a soft, oversized yellow sweater that looks entirely too clean for the North of England.
"Oh, hello," the man says. His voice is bright, melodic to be honest, and his Cheshire accent does not go unnoticed by Louis.
He beams at Louis as if they are old friends meeting for tea rather than a stranded motorist and a very annoyed farmer.
"You're exactly the person I was hoping to see!" the man exclaims, and Louis arches his brows, unimpressed.
Louis most certainly does not share the sentiment.
"Well," the man starts talking again. "Not specifically you, but someone with-" he pauses, peeking out of his window down at Louis' shoes. "Sturdy boots?" he finishes, making it sound like a question when looking back up.
Louis stares at him. Doesn't even blink. "You're stuck," he deadpans, leaning against the stonewall pillar.
"I've noticed," the man laughs, letting his head fall back against the headrest. "I think I tried to hug the hedge too closely. I'm Harry, by the way, I'm looking for the Styles' farm? They're my grandparents. I'm staying with them until the end of summer to 'find my roots,'" he blabbers, using air quotes around the phrase, and Louis wonders if he's managed to take a breath somewhere in between all of that word vomit. "Or something equally poetic," he adds, softly giggling.
Louis feels a headache brewing.
The Styles' are his neighbours. They're lovely people, but notoriously chatty. Of course, this blathering creature belongs to them.
"You're a mile off, Styles," Louis says, his voice flat. "I've got fifty sheep in the wrong field, and you've done your sump. You're not going anywhere until I tow you."
Harry's smile widens then. He leans forward, gauging the field behind Louis. "Fifty?" he starts blabbering again. "That's loads. Do they have names? Also, you have a very dramatic way of leaning against things. It's giving Wuthering Heights."
Louis has to actively stop himself from rolling his eyes, and he's just about to start speaking when Harry starts rambling again.
"You're Louis, right? My Nan mentioned a Louis. Said he was a bit of a tough nut to crack."
"I'm Tomlinson," Louis corrects him firmly. "And I'm not a nut. I'm a person with things to do."
"Nice to meet you, Tomlinson," Harry says, reaching out a hand through the window.
Louis looks at the hand. It's pale. Manicured. Three fingers decorated with rings.
He ignores it, looking back at Harry's face. He sighs and turns toward his truck.
"Stay in the car. Don't touch nothing. 'Specially not the sheep," he calls over his shoulder.
"I wouldn't dream of it," Harry calls out after him, his cheerful voice echoing off the stone walls. "I'm more of a goat person anyway. They have those cute rectangular pupils."
Louis groans under his breath. The summer has not even started yet, and he's already hating it.
His boots crunch heavily against the gravel as he stomps back to the truck. He can feel Harry's eyes on him, wide, green, and probably far too curious.
Climbing into the driver's seat, he shoves the gearstick into reverse with more force than necessary and backs the vehicle down the narrow track. He stops just inches from the Fiat's bumper, and in the rearview mirror, sees Harry waving enthusiastically.
"I'm not a fucking parade float, lad," Louis grumbles to himself.
He hops out and grabs the heavy-duty tow strap from behind the driver's seat and walks towards the front of the tiny car.
Harry is already out of the car, standing in a deep puddle. He's wearing leather loafers, paired with what is possibly the shortest denim shorts known to mankind and a t-shirt that looks like it’s been cut in half.
Be that as it may, Louis could understand the clothes. It's almost summer after all. But loafers? In a Peak District ditch? That's completely unheard of.
"Need a hand?" Harry asks, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. The rain causes his hair to stick to his forehead.
"No. Stay back," Louis orders. "And watch your feet. You're ruining those shoes."
Harry looks down, then back at Louis. A soft, lopsided grin settles on his lips. "They were a gift from a friend in Soho. He said they were rugged, but I think his definition of rugged involves slightly cracked pavement outside a coffee shop, not-" he pauses, briefly gesturing towards their surroundings. "Whatever this is."
"This is mud," Louis deadpans, dropping to one knee in it. He doesn't care about his trousers; they were already dirty. He reaches under the Fiat's bumper, feeling around for the tow eye. "And this is a mistake. You shouldn't have been on this road. This is a farm track, not a bypass."
"I got a bit turned around," Harry admits, crouching down next to Louis. He is so close that Louis can smell that sweet scent again.
It's vanilla. It has to be.
"The GPS told me to turn left, and I thought, well, the GPS obviously knows more about the world than I do, so I listened," Harry explains, pursing his lips and shaking his head. "Turns out the GPS is a filthy little liar."
Louis grunts, finally hooking the strap into place. He stands up, wiping his hands on his thighs, and finds Harry standing much closer than anticipated. Harry is only a little taller than him, but he carries himself with a softness that makes him feel less imposing and more… intrusive.
"Right," Louis says, stepping back. "I'm gonna pull you out. When I start moving, you need to be in the car, steering. Make sure to take it out of gear. Don't touch the brakes unless I stop, or you'll snap the line. Understand?"
Harry gives him a mock-solemn salute. "Aye-aye, Captain. Or is it Gaffer? What's the local term?"
"The local term is 'get in the car,'" Louis snaps.
He walks back to the Defender, his heart doing a strange, fluttering thud against his ribs.
It's irritation, he tells himself. Pure, unadulterated annoyance at having his workday interrupted by a city boy who looks like he’s been plucked off a godforsaken billboard.
He engages the low-range gears. The engine groans as he slowly starts moving forward. He watches the mirror, waiting for the strap to go taut.
Harry is back in the Fiat, gripping the steering wheel like it is a life raft. He looks terrified and exhilarated all at once.
Louis eases off the clutch, the strap snapping tight. For a second, the Fiat resists. Its tyres skid sideways in the muck, and then, with a wet, sucking sound, the earth gives way, and the tiny car pops out of the ditch.
He doesn't stop until they are both on the hard-packed gravel of the main track. He kills the engine, and the silence he so desperately craves surrounds him again.
Not for long, though, because in the rearview mirror he spots Harry scrambling out of the Fiat. His long, naked legs are splattered with brown droplets, and his expensive loafers are unrecognisable. He looks like a mess, but he’s beaming.
"That was incredible!" Harry exclaims, jogging over, as Louis gets out of the truck. "The power!" Harry continues. "The tension! Oh my God! You are like a modern-day knight," he pauses, looking between Louis and the Land Rover. "In a very loud, very oily suit of armour."
Louis rolls his eyes. "Your car is leaking oil, Styles. You've cracked the sump guard. You're lucky it's even running.
Harry's face falls, but only for a fraction of a second. "Oh," he says, taking a few steps back, wearily eyeing the car. "Does that mean it might explode? That would be a very dramatic end to my first day."
"It won't explode," Louis sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But you're not driving another mile. I'll tow you the rest of the way to your grandparents'. It's on my way to the top of the pasture.
Harry's eyes light up again. "Truly?" he asks, and before Louis can answer, continues his blabbering. "You're a lifesaver, Louis. Really. I was prepared to spend my night out here, eating my emergency supply of organic kale chips and talking to your dog."
Louis wants to correct him. Tell him that he should call him Tomlinson, like he introduced himself, but ends up looking at Jessy instead. She's sitting by the front wheel of Harry's car, watching him with an expression that looks suspiciously like betrayal.
"Get back in," Louis says, his voice softer, but still gruff. "And for God's sake, keep the wheels straight this time."
As Louis climbs back into his cab, he catches his reflection in the rearview mirror. He is frowning, as usual. But there is a flush on his neck that wasn't there minutes ago, before this man with the too-short denim shorts showed up.
The tow to the Styles farm is slow, as Louis takes the corners with a precision he usually doesn't bother with, suddenly hyper-aware of the small car trailing behind him.
He keeps glancing at the mirror, seeing Harry through the Fiat's windshield. He's not only steering, but singing, too. Louis can't hear him, but he can see the wide movements of his mouth, and the way he occasionally takes one hand off the steering wheel to conduct an invisible orchestra.
It's infuriating.
It's distracting.
It's, quite honestly, the most life Louis has seen on this road in a decade.
As they reach their destination, Louis notices that the house in front of him complements the inside of Harry's car perfectly. It's covered in climbing roses that haven't quite bloomed yet, surrounded by a chaotic garden.
It's colourful.
Too colourful.
Louis is positive that it would cause him to have a headache if he were to see it every day.
He gets drawn from his thoughts when the front door flies open before he's even had time to cut the engine.
"Harry! Oh, my darling boy!" Betty Styles exclaims as she comes rushing out. Behind her is Jasper, sporting a grin just as wide as his grandson's.
Louis stays seated for a moment and watches the reunion. He sees Harry leaping out of the car, folding his arms around his grandmother, wrapping her in a massive, spinning hug.
Jasper is next, though his feet stayed planted solidly on the ground.
He sees the way they look at him, with a terrifying amount of affection that leaves Louis' chest feeling tight. He feels like an intruder.
Sighing, he opens the door and steps out, intending to unhook the car and disappear as quickly as possible.
If only.
"Louis," Betty calls out when spotting him. "Did you find him in a hedge?" she asks, and then just like Harry, continues before Louis even has a chance to reply. "I told Jasper, I said, 'Harry will get lost before he hits the county line.'"
"Found him in the ditch on the lower track," Louis replies, keeping his distance. He makes quick work of unhooking the tow strap before standing back up and looking at Jasper. "Sump's gone. He'll need a mechanic from the village."
"You're a star, Louis," Jasper says, walking towards him and patting his shoulder.
Louis has to actively stop himself from pulling away.
"Come in for a brew," the older man continues. "Betty's just put the kettle on, and she's made those lemon squares you like."
Louis feels Harry's gaze shift to him. Heavy. Expectant.
"I can't," Louis finally says, his voice coming out a bit sharper than intended. "Got the ewes to move. Rain's setting in proper now, like."
"Oh rubbish," Betty chimes, though she is smiling. "Five minutes won't hurt the sheep. They're used to the rain."
"Maybe another time," Louis lies, and walks toward the driver's side, opening the door. He looks at Harry, who watches him, his head tilted in curiosity, as if Louis is some kind of puzzle he's determined to solve.
He's not.
"Thank you, Louis," Harry finally says when stepping out of their little family circle and taking a few steps towards him. He stops just over a foot away.
"It's Tomlinson," Louis grits in reply.
Harry scrunches his nose, and Louis hates how something in his chest reacts to the gesture.
"Sorry," Harry whispers, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "But seriously. I'd have been a very cold, very miserable little city boy without you," he says, pausing for a beat before winking when he adds what Louis feels is a very cheeky "Tomlinson."
Louis shifts his weight and grips the door handle of his truck. "Just stay off the farm tracks, Styles, and stick to the tarmac."
Harry's still smiling. "I'll try," he promises.
Louis nods and finally climbs in.
"See you around," Harry says when taking a step back, waving while smiling like a whimsical fool.
Not if I can help it, Louis thinks to himself when starting the engine. He starts pulling out of the driveway without looking back, but as he makes his way over to his own farm, he finds himself thinking about Harry calling him by his first name, and he hates that, for some reason, he enjoyed how nice it sounded.
The drive back home feels longer than usual as Louis keeps his eyes fixed on the road. He watches the stone walls blur into a monotonous grey, but his mind truly is a treacherous thing as it keeps replaying the way Harry had looked in that ditch.
Helpless.
Clueless.
Entirely out of place.
When Louis finally pulls into the yard of Stonehaven Farm, he's again surrounded by familiar silence.
He welcomes it.
Stonehaven is nothing like the Styles' cottage. There are no climbing roses here, nor colourful curtains in the windows. It is a stark, functional building; a house built for survival, not for 'finding one's roots.'
Louis climbs out, his boots sinking into the mud of his own yard. He holds the door, and Jessy hops out after him, shaking herself vigorously, her tail wagging as if asking if the excitement is over.
"Aye, he's gone now, Jessy," Louis mutters, though whether he was attempting to reassure the dog or himself remains unclear. He clears his throat. "Back to work," he tells her, closing the door.
Louis spends the next three hours in the fading light, finishing the move he started earlier. The ewes, sensing a drop in temperature, are stubborn, and by the time he finally latches the last gate, the golden hour starts setting in.
Usually, this was the part of the day Louis liked best. When the sun starts setting, the world feels devoid of other people's expectations.
He likes this solitude.
He likes knowing that for miles in every direction, there is nothing but him, the livestock and the land.
But as he walks back to the farmhouse, his eyes catch something - a flash of colour.
He focuses on it, narrowing his eyes. When he's close enough to make it out, he sees it's a brown paper bag tied with a piece of bright orange twine.
Louis stares at it for longer than is probably necessary, as if it might be a trap. He looks around the yard, but there is no sign of anyone. Sighing, he picks it up, and the citrus smell of Betty's infamous lemon square cakes wafts through the tiny opening.
Inside the house, Louis turns on the main light and tosses his keys on the wooden table in the kitchen before opening the bag.
Inside, there are four lemon squares, wrapped carefully in parchment paper and a small hand-drawn card.
The card features a very bad doodle of a sheep wearing a yellow sweater, and underneath, in a posh handwriting, it reads:
For my knight in oily armour.
Thank you for not leaving me to become part of the landscape.
P.S. My nan says if you don't eat these, she'll come over and feed them to you herself.
CONSIDER THIS YOUR WARNING.
Harry xx
Louis stares at the drawing of the sheep again and feels a strange, uncomfortable heat rising in his chest. It's not anger, because he knows how to handle it. This is something else. This boy has been here less than five hours, and he's already managed to breach the perimeter of Louis' life, leaving behind sugary treats, jokes and written kisses.
He should toss them. He does not need the sugar, and he most certainly does not need the sentiment.
Instead, Louis pulls out a chair and sits down. Taking out a lemon square, he ignores the powdered sugar that gets on his hands. He takes a bite, humming lowly. It is tart, and sweet, and still slightly warm from Betty's oven.
He chews slowly, looking out the window at the distant lights of the village. One of those lights is the Styles' place.
He sighs.
Louis spent years making sure he was the only master of the silence that surrounds him. He's convinced himself that a closed heart is a protected one. But, as he sits in the quiet, with the taste of lemon lingering on his tongue and a drawing of a ridiculous sheep on his table, the silence doesn't feel peaceful anymore. It just feels… quiet.
"Stupid," Louis whispers to the empty room.
He finishes the lemon squares, dusts his hands and stands up to head to the shower.
While lying in bed that night, Louis listens to the rain hammering against the window. Somewhere, down the road, Harry Styles is probably tucked under a thick duvet, safe and warm.
Louis tells himself he doesn't care. He tells himself that tomorrow, he'll go back to being the hermit who doesn't talk. He'll go back to being the farmer who lives for nothing but the grit and the sheep.
But as he lies there, staring at the darkness, the last thing he sees before closing his eyes is not the rain or the mud, but rather a flash of yellow wool and a pair of dimples that seems determined to ruin his peace.
***
The following morning does not bring the kind of peace Louis had hoped for. Instead, it brings biting wind and a breach in the fencing of the north paddock.
By 6 AM, Louis is already knee-deep in mud, and by noon, the sky turns a shade of blue that Louis just knows is a sign that the late spring air is about to turn nasty.
And boy does it. At the worst time imaginable as well.
Lambing season is practically over, but Mother Nature rarely checks the calendar, and as luck would have it, one of his younger ewes has gone into labour.
Louis finds her huddled in the lee of a stone wall, her breath coming in ragged, shallow heaves. His heart sinks while kneeling beside her. This isn't a standard birth. The lamb is stuck, positioned wrong, and the ewe is losing strength by the second.
"Come on, lass," Louis murmurs, his voice strained. "Don't do this now. At least not out here."
He needs to get her back to the barn, but she's a dead weight and terrified. He's mid-manoeuvre, trying to shift her onto a canvas sling when the sound of whistling reaches his ears.
It's juanty, melodic, and entirely out of place in a life-or-death situation.
He looks up, squinting, and there, trudging down the hill with the grace of a newborn giraffe, is Harry.
He's wearing a bright red raincoat that thankfully covers his thighs today. He's paired it with a pair of shiny green wellingtons that were clearly three sizes too big, causing him to walk with a peculiar waddle.
"Hello," Harry shouts, waving a Tupperware. "Nan made scones, so I thought I'd bring you some," he says. "I also brought you some coffee, but I think I spilt most of it on my way here," he adds, holding out a half-full thermal mug.
Louis ignores him, turning his focus to the ewe again. "Not now, Styles," he grits out. "Get back! Go home!" he practically roars when Harry takes a step closer.
Harry stops. His smile falters as he takes in the scene in front of him. The mud. The struggling animal. Louis, who, quite frankly, looks like a man possessed. He doesn't run away, though. He drops the Tupperware and the mug to the ground before dropping to his knees right next to Louis.
"Oh my God," he gasps, his eyes widening as he focuses on the ewe. "Is she… is the baby coming?" he asks, shuffling closer in the mud.
"The lamb is stuck," Louis snaps, his hands covered in a mixture of birth fluid and cold mud. "I need to turn it, but I can't hold her still and work at the same time. She's too panicked."
"Tell me what to do," Harry says without a hint of hesitation.
Louis looks at him. His face is pale. His curls plastered to his forehead by the rain again, but his eyes are steady. "Sit by her head," he instructs, and watches as Harry scrambles to sit in front of her. "Stroke her. Keep her from thrashing. You're good at talking, so talk to her. Keep her calm."
Harry nods, his eyes wide again when he tucks the ewe's head into his lap, his long fingers buried in her wool.
"Okay, okay," he whispers, his voice dropping to a soothing hum. "It's alright, sweetheart. You're doing so well. We've got you. Louis is here, and he's basically a wizard when it comes to baby- um- lamb births. Just breathe, okay? Look at the grass, yeah? Think of… I don’t know, Clover? Do you like clover? Do sheep even like clover? If you don't, then try thinking of um- high quality oats?"
Louis does not have time to be amused. He moves with clinical, desperate precision. He has to reach in to find the tiny, tangled limbs and guide them into the right position. It's a brutal, delicate task.
The ewe lets out a pained bleat and tries to kick, but Harry is there, his weight grounding her, and his voice never wavering.
"Easy girl, easy," he murmurs, his hand moving in slow circles behind her ears. "You're okay. You're okay. You're okay. You're okay," he repeats, and Louis can't help but wonder if he's trying to convince himself or the ewe.
"I've got a leg," Louis grunts. "Almost there."
"Did you hear that, sweetheart, you're almost there. It's almost over," Harry tells her, his voice almost a whisper when he leans down.
With a final, wet heave and a low groan from the ewe, the lamb slides out into Louis' waiting hands. It is small, dangerously still, and covered in a slick, yellow-tinted film.
Harry gasps, leaning forward, and a shocked expression settles on his face when he realises. "Is it… Is it dead?"
Louis doesn't answer. He grabs a handful of straw and starts rubbing the lamb vigorously, clearing its nose and stimulating its lungs. Seconds tick by, and his movements turn frantic.
Five.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Tears spring to Harry's eyes, and with a muddy hand, he wipes them away. "Is it, why is it not-" he starts asking, but gets cut off by a tiny, sneezing sound.
They wait a second, and relief washes over Louis the moment the lamb lets out a soft, wavering baaaa.
"It's alive!" Harry exclaims, leaning down to tell the ewe the good news. "It's alive, sweetheart. It's actually alive."
The lamb begins to struggle, kicking out its legs, and Louis hands it to the mother, who immediately begins the frantic, instinctive licking.
Louis breathes another sigh of relief and lifts his head to look at Harry. He’s a right mess. His expensive-looking red coat is smeared with muck, and the muddy streak on his cheek from wiping away his tears earlier is still there, but he is looking at the lamb with such raw, unfiltered joy that Louis finds it hard to look away.
"You're covered with filth," Louis says, his voice soft, quiet.
Harry looks down at himself, then back at Louis. He lets out a breathless, shaky laugh before wiping over his forehead, unknowingly adding yet another muddy stripe. "I think it's an improvement, don't you think? Makes me look rugged, innit?" he asks, his dimples appearing as a soft smile settles on his lips.
Louis looks at his own hands, then back at the man who was still sitting in a ditch after helping a stranger save a sheep.
He feels that strange feeling in his chest again, and he presses his lips together when looking away.
"You did alright, Styles," Louis says. It's the highest praise he's given anyone in years.
Harry beams at him.
Like a literal ray of sunshine.
The stupid feeling in his chest does not falter one bit. He's not used to this. People don't smile at him, and he does not smile at them. They don't look at him like he's some kind of hero, and make him feel uncomfortable in his own skin.
"Does- does this mean I get to name it?" Harry suddenly asks, drawing Louis from his thoughts. His brows are arched in expectation, and his smile stretches from ear to ear while waiting for Louis' answer.
"Don't push your luck, city boy," Louis grumbles instead, but for the first time, his grumpiness feels like a mask they both know he is wearing. "Come on," he says, getting up. "Let's get them to the barn before the real storm hits," he adds, watching Harry carefully stand to his feet, not wanting to startle the new mother. The feeling that's been settling in his chest quickly spreads to his tummy then, and he needs it to stop. "And pick up your damn Tupperware," he says, lifting the lamb into his arms before making his way to the barn.
Harry trails behind. "You called me city boy, and not Styles."
There's a teasing lilt in his voice that does not go unnoticed by Louis.
"You like me."
Louis snorts indignantly. "Don't confuse my gratitude for affection, Styles."
"It's okay to like me, Louis," he hears Harry saying from where he's still trailing a few steps behind him. "Everyone does."
This time, Louis rolls his eyes. "Shut up, Styles."