"I hope she looks just like you."

"She's two hours old, she doesn't really look like anything. Besides a worm."

"Oi!" Louis wrinkles his nose at Mara, who, despite being in labour for thirteen hours and screaming her head off through most of it, looks beautiful. Is still glowing, despite not being pregnant anymore (Louis can barley fathom the fact that the baby in his arms has been inside her for nine months, and that he was so freaked out when he found out that there was, in fact, a baby inside her. This is bliss. This is everything he's ever wanted). "Be nice to my girl."

Mara pouts, eyebrows furrowed together as she rests her chin on Louis' shoulder. "I'm your girl," She argues, leaning up and gently biting his earlobe. Louis squirms, but just presses a kiss to the top of her head in retaliation, until she settles into his side.

"I can have two," He murmurs into her hair, pulled back into a loose bun. He usually would reach up, mess with the tendrils at the nape of her neck, but he can't bring himself to take a hand away from Clara.

Clara means clear. Bright. That's not why they had given her the name, he and Mara had just liked how it sounded, but upon looking it up as Mara fed her for the first time, there couldn't be a more fitting name.

Baby Clara makes a small, sniffling noise before yawning. Louis thinks there must be stars in her lungs. "D'you wanna hold her?" Louis asks, whispering as if he might startle her.

"No," Mara shakes her head against his shoulder, reaching up and resting her hand on his bicep. She gives it a squeeze. "I like watching you hold her."

It's not often Mara is soft with him like this. He basks in it, takes it all in while he can. "Hey," He says quietly, finally taking his eyes off the baby to look at his girlfriend. She looks back up at him, big, brown eyes sparkling. "I love you, Samara Jean."

Mara beams, big and bright and so fucking pretty, squeezing his bicep again. "Gay."

"Oh, piss off," Louis huffs, and Mara bursts into laughter, but she leans up and pecks his lips to reciprocate his words.

♛

Harry shows up at exactly one-twenty-eight. Louis opens the door to find him standing there in a green jumper, a big smile on his face as always. "Hi!"

"Hi," Louis gives him a small smile, stepping out of the way so Harry can enter. He peers over to the sofa, where Angelina is laying and watching some Disney movie. He usually lets her stay home on days she has chemo, so she can rest up. It always takes a lot out of her. Frankie is in a playpen on the carpet, the ear of a stuffed cat in her mouth.

"Um," He looks over to Angelina, her head resting against a throw pillow (which he finally found in the remaining piles of boxes), one of his beanies covering her head. "Ang, babe, this is Harry. He lives next door."

Angelina lifts her head, looking up at Harry. Louis sees his eyes soften when he looks at her. "Hi," She squeaks.

"He's the one who made you those yummy cookies, remember?" Louis steps towards the couch, resting his hand on top of the beanie on her head. Angelina's eyes light up. She looks back at Harry.

"Can you make more?!"

"Angelina," Louis says with a laugh.

"...Can you make more please?"

Harry's smile widens, giggling a little as Louis shakes his head. "Sure. Anytime," He says. Angelina seems pleased with that answer, resting her head back down on the pillow.

Louis looks back up to Harry. "Uh, c'mon," He nods to the kitchen. Harry follows him, glancing back at Angelina as he does. "Do you...want a cuppa?"

"Sure," Harry nods, before pegging on, "Decaf, please."

"Oh, right," Louis' eyes drift down to Harry's middle. There might be something there, a slight raise to his stomach, but it's impossible to see anything with how baggy his jumper is.

Harry sees where Louis' eyes travelled down to and blushes furiously, obviously uncomfortable, and Louis immediately looks away. He makes a mental note not to do that again, not to stare, anyways. "Um. Decaf. Got it."

"Thanks," Harry says, sounding a little less sure of himself. Louis busies himself with filling the kettle with water, and Harry sits at one of the stools at the counter. It's awkward now, Louis hates himself for making it awkward.

"Seems like those cookies were a big hit," He mentions, but he fiddles with the hem of his jumper nervously.

Harry gives him a small smile, wrinkling his nose a little. "I could give you the recipe," He offers. "You could learn to make them."

"Never ends well when I'm in the kitchen," Louis shakes his head, and Harry laughs, amused.

"You don't cook?" He asks, and Louis shakes his head. "What do these poor girls eat?"

"Lots and lots of dino chicken nuggets," Louis says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Harry laughs again. "Or cheese toasties."

"That's something!" Harry points out, big smile on his face. Louis forces a small smile, shrugging. "You don't burn them, at least, right?"

"Sometimes," Louis shrugs again.

"'S better than always," Harry says. Louis nods, agreeing. "At least we know you're not completely hopeless."

"Close to it," Louis wrinkles his nose.

"'S not that hard, once you get into it," Harry assures, looking up at Louis with kind eyes. Louis can't help but feel a little warm all over when he looks at him.

"Hm," He nods.

Harry's smile softens. "You're not much of a talker, huh?"

Louis' grin weakens, a little embarrassed. "I s'pose not," He admits. "I like to listen."

"That's alright, I like to talk, clearly," Harry's smile turns a little cheekier. The kettle starts to whistle, so Louis grabs a mug out of the cupboard. "What do the girls like to eat?"

"Clara likes pasta," He says. Harry nods, gazing up at him. His eyes invite Louis to elaborate, so he does. "But, I can never get it quite right. I always either under or over cook it, so she really only has it when my mum makes it."

"Does your mum make it a lot?" Harry asks, skillfully pulling conversation out of him. Louis, truly, hates opening up about anything, hates reliving it all and giving up these broken, ugly pieces of himself, but Harry's eyes are so earnest and kind, his dimpled smile genuine. He sighs a little.

"Yeah," Harry raises his eyebrows. "Clara's mother used to," He explains, eyes trained to the cuppa he's preparing. Harry is quiet, so Louis takes a deep breath and continues. "She's Italian. Her nan taught her how to make all the proper dishes, so she would make pasta n' stuff for dinner a lot."

Harry nods, keeping quiet for a moment. "But, after she, um–" He has to force the word out, "left, and we quickly realised I am a piss-poor pasta chef, my mum learned how to make all of her favourites."

"You have a good mum," Harry says softly. Louis smiles a little, nodding.

"The best," Louis agrees. He thinks about all the oversharing he just did, a dull, raw ache in his chest, and clears his throat. "Long story short, if y'can make pasta, you're in with Clara."

"Of course I can make pasta," Harry grins. "You're honestly the only person I've ever met who can't."

"Oi!" Louis protests. Harry's grin widens, laughing as Louis slides his cuppa across the counter. It's then Frankie starts to cry from the lounge, and Louis sighs. "That's the first thing I can teach you: 's always as soon as your cuppa's done, or as soon as you sit down, or get to the loo."

"That's parenting, though, huh?" Harry laughs, and Louis gives him a smile, humming in agreement as he takes the kettle off the stovetop and goes to get Frankie from the lounge.

short chapter bc i wanted to get one out next one will be longer & better i promise <3