Chapter Text
“Right, listen to this,” Louis mutters, squinting at his screen. “‘Energetic sales associate wanted for fast-paced environment. Commission-based. Limitless potential.’”
“Limitless potential to cry in the staff toilet,” Niall replies from the sofa, not bothering to look up.
Louis exhales through his nose and closes the tab with theatrical finality, as though he’s personally dismantling capitalism one click at a time. “You reckon they’d let me wear my dressing gown?”
“They’ll let you work yourself into the ground.”
He scrolls again, lips pursed. “Dog party planner.”
“Sounds like you.”
“Funeral celebrant.”
“Also sounds like you.”
Louis turns in his chair. “What does that say about me, exactly?”
Niall lifts his head just enough to maintain eye contact, the packet of crisps still balanced precariously on his chest. “It says you’re good with dogs and grief.”
“Cheers. Love that for me.”
Louis reaches for his tea, takes a sip, and immediately regrets it. Stone cold. He sets it down beside his laptop, the screen glowing with tabs titled IMMEDIATE START – URGENT! and LONDON SUMMER JOBS 2025. The wobbly table shifts under his elbow, threatening collapse in quiet solidarity with his bank account.
“I still can’t believe Mick actually sacked me,” he mutters.
“You told a customer to get fucked,” Niall says around a mouthful of crisps.
“He told me to fuck myself first.”
“Still.”
Louis drags a hand down his face, fingers catching on stubble. “It was a shit job anyway. Who wants to spend their days in a knock-off trainer shop being shouted at by lads called Dazza who think lying about their shoe size is a personality trait?”
He can still hear Mick’s voice sometimes, booming across cheap linoleum. You’ve got an attitude problem, Tomlinson. This from a man who once made a six-year-old cry because she couldn’t decide between pink and purple laces.
Five and a half weeks ago. Not that he’s counting.
The flat smells faintly of stale BO and stalled ambition. The windows are shut, because apparently pollen is public enemy number one, and the air has that dense, late-afternoon heaviness that comes from two unemployed men circling the same problem.
Louis clicks into another listing, expecting disappointment. Instead, he pauses.
“Wait,” he says slowly. “This one’s not completely awful.”
“Famous last words,” Niall replies, licking salt from his thumb.
“No, listen.” Louis leans closer to the screen. “Live-in nanny. Seven-week family holiday in Italy. Starts in June. Two kids. All expenses paid, private room, meals included. Pay’s average, but it’s basically a free trip. With childcare.”
Niall finally looks over. “You? As a nanny?”
“Yes, me.”
“You’ve never nannied a day in your life.”
Louis swivels to face him fully. “I’ve got four younger sisters. You think I survived adolescence without wiping noses and negotiating Polly Pocket ceasefires?”
Niall raises an eyebrow. “Changing a nappy in 2006 does not make you Mary bloody Poppins.”
“I’m great with kids,” Louis insists, a little sharper than he means to. “And I’m charming. Parents love me.”
“Do you speak Italian?”
“Enough to order gelato and yell at mopeds.”
“Brilliant.”
Louis scans the listing again, more carefully this time. “They sound posh,” he says. “But it’s vague. No red flags. Just dates, ages, contact details. Nothing about compulsory violin practice at sunrise.”
“They’re probably expecting a woman.”
“It doesn’t say that.”
“They’re thinking it.”
Louis shrugs, but there’s something stubborn underneath it. “Then I’ll change their minds. Childcare isn’t reserved for women called Chloe who cut sandwiches into stars and run Instagram accounts called Lunchbox Love.”
“At least a male nanny won’t try to sleep with the dad.”
Louis glances up. “I’m gay. I could still try to sleep with the dad.”
Niall points at him. “See? That’s the professionalism they’re after.”
Louis grins despite himself and clicks Apply.
The form is simple: CV upload, short paragraph, optional references. He hasn’t got formal ones, but he scrolls to a photo of himself with his niece on his shoulders at some sun-bleached fairground last August. They’re both laughing at something just out of frame, wind in their hair, all teeth and summer.
He uploads it before he can overthink it.
Then he types:
I’m the eldest of five, which means I’ve been unofficial childcare staff since I was ten. I’ve looked after children from newborn to teenagers. I can clean up sick without flinching, break up an argument with one look, and make spaghetti with hidden vegetables. I take care of children the way I’d want someone to take care of mine — with patience, humour, and a high tolerance for glitter. Full clean driving licence. Big heart. Decent negotiating skills.
He rereads it once. It sounds like him. That will have to be enough.
He hits send before doubt has time to gather momentum.
Niall doesn’t even look up. “Three days before you’re back to Dog Party Planner.”
“If I get this job,” Louis says, leaning back in the chair until it creaks in protest, “you have to call me Supernanny.”
The confirmation email lands almost immediately. Louis takes that as either the universe applauding him or laughing quietly into its sleeve.
He pushes the laptop away and stands, stretching until his back clicks. “Right,” he announces. “Victory snacks?”
“We have no food.”
“That’s why we’re getting snacks.”
“You have no money.”
Louis waves a hand. “I have enough for crisps and something chocolate-based. Probably.”
Niall studies him for a long, doubtful moment, then slowly peels himself off the sofa. “If we end up arguing with a Tesco self-checkout again, I’m leaving you there.”
“That self-checkout was mocking me,” Louis says, already hunting for his trainers. “It beeped in a sarcastic tone.”
They step out into the humid late-afternoon haze of Croydon, where the air hangs thick with the smell of someone burning toast and someone else attempting a barbecue in a space that absolutely should not qualify as a garden. The pavement radiates heat. Somewhere a dog is barking at nothing in particular.
They walk shoulder to shoulder in the easy silence of people who’ve been broke and stupid together for years.
After a while, Niall nudges him. “You really think you might get it?”
Louis shrugs, hands buried deep in his pockets. “It’s childcare, not neurosurgery. And I need something. Anything that isn’t retail or handing out leaflets for a gym no one wants to join.”
“Seven weeks in Italy,” Niall says thoughtfully. “Imagine the tan.”
“Oh, I’ll be burnt to fuck in the first hour. But I’ll look fantastic for the fifteen minutes before my skin starts to blister.”
“The parents will love that.”
“They’ll adore me. I’ll be charming and nurturing and pretend I absolutely meant to fall into the pool fully clothed.”
The supermarket doors slide open with visible reluctance. Inside, the lights are aggressively bright and the lino squeaks underfoot. Louis grabs a basket with the enthusiasm of a man who swears he is buying only necessities and absolutely will not.
Five minutes later, their basket contains:
– crisps
– iced coffee
– family-size chocolate buttons
– a reduced-price quiche
– jelly dinosaurs
They queue. Louis hums faintly under his breath, buoyed by the fragile possibility that he might, for once, be nudging his life somewhere useful.
He taps his phone against the card reader.
Beep.
Beep.
DECLINED.
“Payment not accepted,” the machine announces to the entire Tesco.
Louis stares at the card reader as if the word might rearrange itself into something kinder if he applies enough concentration.
He tries again.
DECLINED.
Niall inhales sharply, hand flying to his mouth in a valiant attempt not to laugh.
Louis offers the bored teenage cashier a tight smile. “Sorry. It does this sometimes.”
She does not respond.
He tries again.
DECLINED.
“Okay,” Niall murmurs, voice trembling. “This is just humiliating now.”
Louis shoots him a look before turning back to the machine. “I swear I have at least a tenner in there. At least.”
“That’s what you said when you tried to order McDonald’s at 2am.”
“That was different. I was drunk.”
“You’re drunk on denial now.”
Louis exhales, opens his banking app with all the dread of someone awaiting test results.
Balance: £4.21.
Niall rests a hand on his shoulder. “Mate.”
Louis closes his eyes. “I’m going to kill Mick.”
“For firing you five weeks ago?”
“Yes.”
The cashier clears her throat in a way that suggests she is two seconds from ejecting them from the premises. Louis begins sorting through the basket.
“Right. We don’t need the quiche.”
“We absolutely do,” Niall says.
“We do not have the funds for pastry, Niall.”
Niall points at the jelly dinosaurs. “We’re keeping those. They’re essentials.”
“Essentials?”
“They’re for babysitting tomorrow.”
Apparently nearly everything qualifies as essential. After the machine repeats please proceed with purchase for what feels like the tenth time, Niall gently shoves Louis aside and taps his own phone against the reader.
Accepted.
“You didn’t have to,” Louis protests, though without much conviction.
“I did,” Niall replies, gathering the bag in one sweeping motion. “Because you are a shambles and I am your keeper.”
Louis smiles, small and tired. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You’re cooking dinner.”
“I don’t have ingredients.”
“You do now.” Niall hands him the bag with a flourish. “Jelly dinosaur chocolate quiche.”
Louis laughs, shaky but real.
They step back out into the warm London evening, juggling their pathetic groceries. For a moment, Louis lets himself imagine actually getting the job in Italy. Sun-warm mornings. Long, uncomplicated days. Something that feels like forward motion.
No more declined payments.
⋆˚✿˖°
Louis turns up at Lottie’s flat with a bag of jelly dinosaurs, two cans of iced coffee, and the distinct sense that adulthood should have come with written instructions.
Lottie answers the door with one eyebrow raised, baby balanced on her hip, the living room already in a state of organised chaos. Blankets, crayons, tiny shoes in places shoes have no business being.
“You look rough,” she says.
“I’m thriving,” Louis replies, stepping inside. “This is the face of success.”
“Your hair says otherwise.”
He runs a hand through it and only makes things worse. “I’m babysitting, not attending the Met Gala.”
“You could’ve fooled me.” She transfers the baby into his arms with visible relief. “Right, I’ll be back around nine. Mum dropped Phoebe and Daisy earlier. They’ve eaten. Lucky’s got a cold so he might scream at you. Good luck.”
“Can’t wait.”
And he means it. Being here settles something in him immediately. The clutter. The tiny socks. The faint scent of baby wipes. This feels familiar in a way job boards never do.
Lottie pauses at the door. “Mum said you’ve been job hunting. How’s that going?”
Louis pulls a face. “I applied to be a dog party planner yesterday.”
She goes silent.
“That was the highlight.”
“Oh, babe.”
He adjusts the baby on his hip. “Actually… I did apply for something I kind of like. Might suit me.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s a nanny job. Summer holiday. In Italy.”
Her expression softens in that particular older-sister way that feels equal parts proud and protective. “You’d be brilliant at that.”
“You think?” He hates how small his voice sounds.
“I know. You’re basically a third parent to my lot already. You’ve been doing it since you were tiny.”
Louis shrugs, trying not to let the warmth of that settle too deep. “We’ll see. Probably a long shot.”
She squeezes his arm before slipping her shoes on. “Even if it is, you deserve something good, Lou.”
And then she’s gone, leaving Louis alone with two small people, two pre-teen sisters, and a living room that immediately senses weakness.
Half an hour later, Lucky has finally exhausted himself into sleep against Louis’ chest, damp lashes resting on flushed cheeks. Phoebe is on the rug sorting crayons by what she calls “colour vibes, not actual colours,” and Daisy is asking, for the third time, why adults have to work.
Louis leans back into the sofa cushions, gently bouncing the baby where he lies warm and heavy in his lap. “So they can buy food.”
“But can’t people just share food?” Daisy asks, flipping her dark ponytail with the gravity of someone about to dismantle society.
“You’d think so,” Louis murmurs, adjusting Lucky’s weight slightly. “But sadly capitalism disagrees.”
Phoebe pauses mid-sort, a coral crayon hovering in the air. “What’s capi… captal… cappo…”
“Terrible,” Louis says solemnly. “It’s terrible.”
Daisy tilts her head. “Are you terrible?”
“Every day.”
She accepts this without hesitation and returns to her philosophical pacing.
Louis checks his phone. Nothing from the nanny job.
He tells himself it’s absurd to feel anything about that yet. It has barely been twenty-four hours. They’re probably sifting through applicants named Arabella who speak seven languages and once went viral for constructing bento boxes shaped like endangered woodland creatures.
He exhales through his nose and tips the jelly dinosaurs onto the coffee table in a sticky, translucent spill. Their neon bodies wobble beneath the lamplight, small and luminous, like the aftermath of a very cheerful prehistoric disaster.
Chaos follows instantly.
“No, that one’s mine, I saw it first—”
“That’s not fair, you already had a red one!”
“The blue ones taste like sunshine!”
“They do not, they taste like someone spilled Ribena on the floor—”
Louis sinks deeper into the sofa, one ankle tucked beneath the pastel throw pooled across his lap, content to let the argument bloom and collapse without intervention.
“Right,” he says at last, raising both hands in surrender. “Clearly the only reasonable solution is that I taste-test every single one.”
“For science,” someone insists with grave sincerity.
“For science,” he agrees.
They feed them to him with ruthless efficiency. Lime. Cherry. Something aggressively tropical. He performs the role properly, chewing with exaggerated concentration, squinting up at the ceiling as though awaiting applause from a reality show panel.
“This one,” he announces thoughtfully, “is sunshine-adjacent. Early morning sunshine. Before it gets too hot and everyone regrets their choices.”
They dissolve into shrieks.
By the fifth dinosaur there’s a glossy smear of sugar at the corner of his mouth and a faint crescent of drool soaking into his shirt where Lucky sleeps on, breaths slow and warm against his collarbone. The baby’s weight has settled fully now, trust made physical, cheek slack, fingers curled in the fabric of Louis’ T-shirt.
He doesn’t move.
The room hums with low-level bickering and the soft flicker of the lamp. Feet tucked under a blanket. A baby asleep on him. Siblings arguing in the careless, safe way children do when they know the adult in the room will not let anything truly bad happen.
He hadn’t realised how much he needed this.
Eventually, carefully, he shifts.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Emergency cuddle transport in progress.”
He rises slowly, adjusting Lucky against his shoulder, palm firm and protective between his shoulder blades. Upstairs the air is cooler, dimmer, the noise reduced to a distant murmur. He lowers him into the cot and waits, hand resting lightly on the small rise and fall of his back until the rhythm deepens again. Only then does he withdraw.
Back downstairs, the energy has softened.
The girls have migrated from competitive outrage to sprawl-mode, blankets tangled, phones abandoned for once as a film murmurs in the background. Louis drops back into his corner with a quiet sigh, the sofa warm from where he left it.
“So,” one of them says eventually, nudging him with a socked foot. “Any love life updates we should know about?”
He huffs a laugh. “Absolutely none. It’s devastating.”
“When are you getting a boyfriend again?” the other asks, far too casually to be neutral.
Louis pretends to consider it. “When a mysterious stranger appears at my door. Ideally very rich. Extremely attractive. Emotionally available. Capable of cooking.”
They groan in synchronised despair.
“Your standards are unrealistic.”
“I refuse to apologise for wanting the bare minimum,” he says, grinning.
The conversation drifts, as it always does, into teachers they despise, boys who are apparently “the worst but also weirdly fit,” and elaborate analyses of who is texting whom despite publicly declaring they are over it. Louis listens more than he speaks, offering a well-timed eyebrow raise, the occasional dry aside, the kind of unruffled attention that makes it easy for them to keep talking.
They are still curled together when Lottie finally comes through the front door.
Her heels are kicked off in the hallway first. Then her keys land in the bowl with a tired, familiar clatter. The house shifts with her arrival, steadier, adult again. Louis looks up and smiles.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Her voice is soft but alert, eyes already scanning the room out of habit. “Everyone alive?”
“Barely,” someone mutters without lifting her head.
Lottie’s laugh is quiet as she disappears into the kitchen for water. When she returns, the film is nearly over and the girls are drifting, limbs tangled beneath the blankets.
It always ends like this.
After a few minutes, Louis eases himself free of the sofa pile, pulling on his hoodie and collecting his bag from the chair by the door. Lottie follows him into the hallway, lowering her voice.
“Heading off?”
“Yeah. Early start tomorrow. More applications. You know the routine.”
She studies him with that measured thoroughness she’s perfected over the years, not intrusive, just perceptive. Then she smiles.
“I’ve got a good feeling about your latest application,” she says lightly. “In more ways than one.”
He snorts. “That sounds ominous.”
She steps in anyway, wrapping him in a firm, familiar hug. “Just trust me.”
“You’re unsettling when you’re cryptic.”
“Only to people who refuse to listen to their intuition.”
He pulls back, fondly exasperated. “That’ll be me.”
She presses a quick kiss to his cheek. “Text me when you hear.”
“I will.”
Outside, the night air is cooler against his skin. The door closes softly behind him, sealing the warmth inside.
He isn’t sure why her words linger as he walks down the street, replaying themselves with quiet insistence.
Ominous, perhaps.
Or hopeful.
It’s two days later when Louis finally gets the call.
He’s halfway through a Pointless rerun, slouched so low on the sofa he’s almost horizontal, the room lit only by the pale flicker of the television and Richard Osman’s quietly judgemental face. A mug of tea sits abandoned on the coffee table, cold and steadily migrating toward biohazard. He considers reheating it for the third time, but even he has limits.
His phone buzzes against his thigh.
Unknown number.
Louis goes still.
Unknown numbers are dangerous. They can be job offers, debt collectors, accident-claim scams, or, worst of all, his mother attempting a surprise FaceTime so he can “see how big the twins are getting” while he pretends not to be wearing the same joggers for the third consecutive day.
He answers carefully. “Hello?”
“Good morning, is this Louis Tomlinson?”
The voice is crisp, composed, expensive without trying. He sits up straighter before he consciously decides to. Something about her tone suggests almond-milk flat whites, a golden retriever called Rupert, and a second freezer dedicated entirely to ice.
He slips into his Phone Voice at once, vowels rounding into something suspiciously Southern, invented years ago while arguing with British Gas. “Speaking.”
“This is Elizabeth Moore. You applied for the nannying position? I was wondering if you’d be available for an interview tomorrow, perhaps two o’clock?”
For a brief, alarming moment, his brain refuses to cooperate.
“Yes,” he says quickly. “Absolutely. That would be perfect. Not a problem at all.”
“Lovely. I’ll email you the address. It’s our apartment in Kensington.”
Of course it is.
“Brilliant,” he manages, catching the near-squeak just in time. “Thank you very much, Mrs Moore.”
“It’s Ms, actually. But that’s quite all right.”
The call ends with brisk efficiency. Louis remains seated, staring at his phone as though it might offer further instructions if he waits politely enough.
He exhales slowly and looks around the flat, at the scuffed coffee table, the leaning stack of post, the mug he’s already decided not to reheat.
“It’s in Kensington,” he says aloud, dazed.
Niall appears in the doorway mid–cereal bar, eyebrows raised. “You alright? You look like someone’s just asked you to fix climate change.”
“Her place,” Louis clarifies, gesturing weakly with the phone, “is in Kensington.”
Niall whistles. “Reckon she’s too posh for you, mate.”
Louis lets himself fall back against the cushions. “She sounds like the kind of person whose dishwasher has a WiFi password.”
“Or one of those boiling-water taps. Like a tiny metal volcano in the corner.”
“Bet her fridge lights up when you walk past.”
“Bet she’s never hoovered in her life,” Niall adds. “Probably has one of those robot things. Follows her around like a depressed Roomba butler.”
Louis drops his head into his hands. “I should iron something, shouldn’t I.”
“At minimum.” Niall steps over a shoe Louis has meant to move for three days. “Maybe get a haircut. Or a full personality overhaul. Possibly both.”
Louis flips him off without looking, which only makes Niall grin wider.
Under the panic, though, something steadier hums low in his stomach. Not dread. Not quite confidence either. Something warmer than both.
⋆˚✿˖°
The next afternoon finds Louis standing in front of his wardrobe while Niall lounges on the bed with a bowl of cereal balanced on his stomach, observing the crisis with the detached calm of a man whose future does not hinge on Kensington approval.
“What about this?” Louis asks, holding up a shirt he hasn’t worn since his cousin’s christening. It carries the faint authority of something that has strong opinions about classical music.
Niall chews, considering. “You look like you’re about to sell someone a questionable rooftop flat in Shoreditch.”
Louis tosses it onto the growing discard pile. “Right. Okay. What about this?”
He produces a short-sleeved button-down patterned with tiny lemons.
“Do you want her to think you moonlight as a children’s TV presenter?”
“Those are my nice shirts.”
“That is deeply concerning.”
Louis exhales sharply and turns back to the wardrobe, dragging a hand through his hair. He is already too warm. The flat hovers at a temperature that could incubate exotic wildlife. The landlord insists it is “excellent insulation.”
He pulls out a white T-shirt and a navy overshirt. Clean. Simple. Competent without desperation. Mary Poppins with a provisional licence.
Niall nods. “That’s it. Responsible young man. Heart of gold. No visible criminal record.”
“Perfect. Exactly the illusion I’m going for.”
He changes quickly, smoothing the shirt down his torso, adjusting the collar, checking the line of it in the mirror.
Then he hesitates.
“Does my hair look odd?”
Niall barely glances up. “It looks like your hair.”
“That’s not helpful.”
Louis leans closer to the mirror. His fringe has taken on a dramatic sweep that suggests emotional instability. One rogue curl sits at an angle that feels faintly accusatory.
“Should I wet it?”
“No,” Niall says immediately. “Every time you wet it, you come out looking like you’ve made several poor life choices.”
“That’s offensive to people who’ve made poor life choices,” Louis mutters. “I need to look competent. Calm. Capable of keeping small humans alive.”
“You do,” Niall says, pushing himself upright and brushing cereal crumbs from his shirt. “Better than that, actually. You look like you’re about to charm the posh trousers off this woman.”
Louis winces. “Please don’t reference anyone’s trousers.”
Niall steps forward and grips his shoulders, steadying him as though preparing to send him into battle. “You’ll be brilliant. Kids love you. Parents trust you. You once convinced my niece you were a real-life pop star.”
“I told her I was in a band,” Louis mutters.
“Yes. A band named ‘One Direction.’ Which, frankly, is a shit name for a band.”
Louis snorts despite himself.
“Just don’t swear,” Niall adds cheerfully.
“That’s like asking me not to breathe.”
“Then maybe take shallow breaths.”
Louis flips him off, grabs his bag, and heads out the door, nerves jangling faintly beneath his ribs like loose cutlery in a drawer.
The tube platform is already too warm, thick with commuters who look as though they’ve been awake since the Industrial Revolution. Louis tugs lightly at the collar of his overshirt, acutely aware of the slow creep of heat at the base of his neck. First impressions matter. Turning up looking as though he’s completed a triathlon through Zone One is probably not ideal.
He rehearses answers in his head, lips barely moving.
“Yes, I’m very patient.”
“I value structure and routine.”
“No, I absolutely do not teach children new swear words.”
The train screeches into the station, loud enough to rattle his spine. He squeezes inside and finds himself wedged between a man who smells decisively post-gym and a woman cradling what appears to be an emotional support fern.
He grips the pole and breathes slowly through his nose, trying not to picture Kensington in full intimidating clarity. The one time he delivered Uber Eats there, he’d genuinely thought he’d wandered onto the set of a Nancy Meyers film. Everything had been white and symmetrical and faintly smug.
Responsible.
Reliable.
Not getting fired this time.
A small tug on his overshirt pulls him from the spiral.
A boy of about three or four is staring up at him, solemn and wide-eyed, a dinosaur backpack clutched to his chest like flotation equipment.
“Are you tall?” the boy asks.
Louis glances down at himself, then around at the carriage as if someone taller might materialise. “Tall is… subjective.”
The boy studies him carefully. “Are you a giant?”
Louis presses his lips together to stop the smile spreading too fast. “I might be.”
The boy leans in. “Can you roar?”
His mother is already halfway through an apology, mortified and exhausted in equal measure, but Louis gives her a small shake of his head and obliges with a very contained, socially acceptable mini-roar.
The child gasps in delight. “Mummy! He’s a nice giant!”
Louis offers a small salute. “Only on weekends.”
The mother smiles at him with that particular blend of gratitude and fatigue that seems universal. Something loosens in Louis’ chest. He is good at this. He always has been. He hadn’t exaggerated on the application; children tend to like him immediately, without reservation.
The train slows. The mother and boy step off, the child twisting around to wave at him as though they have forged a lifelong bond in the space of two stops. Louis waves back just before the doors slide shut.
The carriage jolts forward.
He catches his reflection in the darkened window. Slightly flushed. Hair a bit unsettled from the heat. Nothing catastrophic. He smooths a hand over the front of his shirt and lets out a slow breath.
“Yes, I’m comfortable travelling.”
“Yes, I’ve managed multiple children at once.”
“Yes, I—”
The train pulls into High Street Kensington.
He steps onto the platform, wipes his palms discreetly against his trousers, and adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder. His pulse is steady enough. That will have to do.
Outside, the air feels different. Quieter.
He always forgets how hushed this part of London can be. No buskers, no brakes screeching, no tinny music leaking from someone’s phone. Just clipped hedges, pale façades, pavements that look as though they are pressure-washed for sport. It doesn’t smell like piss, which is disorienting in its own way.
The walk takes five minutes, maybe less, but he slows his pace deliberately, resisting the urge to rush. Casual. Unbothered. A man who frequently finds himself in Kensington and definitely belongs there.
Number 14 is tall and white-fronted, elegant without trying too hard. The sort of house that looks as though it always smells faintly of linen and books.
He pauses at the bottom of the steps to double-check the address, then climbs, smoothing his overshirt once more before pressing the bell.
The door opens almost immediately.
The woman standing there smiles with easy warmth. Early fifties, perhaps. Smart without stiffness. Linen blouse, hair pulled back simply, gold hoops catching the light in a way that suggests taste rather than trend. She does not look surprised to see him.
“Louis?” she asks, already stepping aside. “Come in. I hope you didn’t have trouble finding us.”
“No, it was straightforward,” he says, relieved by how normal his voice sounds. He steps inside and wipes his feet automatically.
The hallway is bright and inviting — white walls, warm floorboards, an old piano tucked neatly beneath the stairs. A basket of shoes by the door. It smells faintly of coffee and something lemony.
“I’m Elizabeth Moore,” she says, offering her hand. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
“Thank you for having me,” Louis replies, shaking her hand. Her grip is firm, efficient. “It’s a beautiful house.”
She laughs lightly as she leads him down the hall. “Bit drafty in winter, but we love it. My husband keeps threatening to fix the sash windows himself. We’ll see.”
The sitting room opens up ahead of them — high ceilings, tall windows pouring in soft afternoon light. It feels both spacious and lived-in. Ornate moulding tracing the ceiling. Deep sofas that look properly used.
A cast-iron fireplace anchors the far wall, its mantel lined with books and framed photographs, the odd Lego brick tucked among them. The detail makes him smile despite himself. The place is grand, yes, but not precious.
A well-thumbed copy of Paddington lies open on the coffee table. A half-finished mug rests on a coaster. Cushions sit slightly askew. Evidence of real life.
“Sit wherever you like,” she says, settling easily into a chair. “Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, juice… something stronger?”
He shakes his head with a small smile. “I’m alright, thanks. I had one on the way.”
She nods, folding her hands loosely in her lap, posture composed but not rigid. “I won’t take up too much of your afternoon. I just wanted to get a sense of you before we go any further.”
Louis lowers himself onto the sofa, one ankle hooking casually over his knee. The position feels deliberate, controlled, even if his pulse still ticks a shade faster than usual.
“Of course,” he says. “I was genuinely excited when I saw the ad. Even more when you got in touch.”
She laughs softly, studying him with an attentiveness that feels practised rather than intrusive. “It was a charming application. And the photo — is that a relative?”
“My niece,” he says, smiling before he can stop himself. “Taken at a fairground last summer. She won a frog the size of a small car and refused to put it down for three days.”
“She looked very pleased,” Elizabeth says, eyes crinkling. “As did you.”
There’s something in the way she holds herself — upright, measured — that suggests someone accustomed to assessing people quickly. Meetings. Decisions. She carries capability easily, without needing to advertise it.
“I’ll be honest,” she says, smoothing her thumb along the edge of her sleeve, “we weren’t expecting many male applicants. Any, actually.”
Louis smiles. He has the sense she’s offering that information as a measure, not to intimidate him but to see whether he startles easily.
“Yeah, I figured,” he says. “But I’ve got four younger sisters, so I’ve basically been crisis-managing chaos since I was ten. It’s not formal training, but I’m not new to mess, tantrums, or convincing a toddler that carrots are dessert.”
That earns a proper laugh — unguarded, unexpectedly bright.
“I have to say, you make a refreshing change,” she says. “The last applicant — Chloe, lovely girl — had an Instagram called lunchbox love. Everything cut into stars. I thought she’d be wonderful. Then Winnie showed her a slug and I genuinely thought she might pass out.”
Louis nearly chokes, disguising it as a cough.
“And you’d be comfortable travelling?” she continues. “It’s seven weeks in Tuscany, and you’d be working most of the time. Six days a week, realistically. Swimming, the occasional museum or market run, keeping the children entertained. We keep one full day entirely free for you to rest or explore. I know it’s a lot.”
“Honestly,” Louis says, and means it, “that sounds perfect.”
She smiles, and something shifts there — subtle, but real. A flicker of quiet approval, as though that was the answer she’d hoped for.
“You’ll meet my husband as well,” she adds. “Theo. He’s at work today — law, unfortunately, which means weekends aren’t particularly sacred. If this goes well, you’ll speak with him before we leave. He prefers to be involved, even if I tend to handle the hiring.”
“Makes sense,” Louis says.
Her smile turns wry. “Between us, he can look intimidating at first. He isn’t, really. He just forgets he has a face on.”
Louis laughs, and she does too, the brief shared moment softening the air between them.
“Do you have any questions?” she begins, but the words barely settle before the sound of thundering footsteps tears down the hallway, followed by a shriek that lands somewhere between delight and impending catastrophe.
“Max!” she calls, already rising. “Winnie! What did I say about—”
Too late.
The door bursts open.
A boy of about eight charges in, foam sword raised with the full conviction of someone in the final act of a fantasy epic. A curly-haired girl in a pink tutu and fairy wings follows, shrieking with laughter as she loops around the coffee table in dizzying circles.
Elizabeth presses a hand briefly to her forehead. When she opens her eyes again, the irritation has already softened into fondness.
“I did tell them to stay upstairs,” she says. “That lasted ten minutes.”
“It’s alright,” Louis replies, standing with an easy grin. “Looks like I’ve arrived mid-battle.”
“Max, Winnie,” she says, gentler now, “this is Mr Tomlinson. He’s here to—”
“Are you the babysitter?” Winnie interrupts, skidding to a halt. Her curls bounce as she peers up at him, eyes wide.
Louis crouches so they’re level, elbows resting on his knees. “I might be. Depends. Do I pass inspection?”
She tilts her head, grave and assessing. “Can you do a cartwheel?”
“I can attempt one,” he says solemnly. “But if I break my neck, you’re not allowed to post it online.”
Winnie nods with solemn authority. “Deal.”
Max steps forward, sword balanced dramatically on his shoulder. “Do you play Minecraft?”
“Survived three creeper ambushes,” Louis replies without missing a beat. “Fell into lava once in full diamond armour. Still recovering emotionally.”
Max studies him with the seriousness of a ruler evaluating a potential knight. “Nice.”
Elizabeth is watching with a softened expression now — something like relief, or perhaps recognition. Her hands fold together again, but this time it’s habit rather than tension.
“They’ll calm down once we’re away,” she murmurs. “This is actually… relatively calm.”
Louis smiles. “They’ve got good energy. You’d rather that than silence.”
“Sometimes,” she admits.
The children immediately pivot into a new argument, this time about the television.
“You picked last time.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Your shows are baby shows—”
Louis slips a coin from his pocket and lifts it between his fingers. “Right. High-stakes solution. Heads or tails?”
“What do we win?” Max demands.
“Eternal glory,” Louis replies gravely. “And the remote.”
“Tails,” Winnie declares, hands planted on her hips.
“Then you’re heads,” he tells Max, flicking the coin into the air. It spins cleanly and lands against his palm.
“Tails.”
Winnie shrieks in triumph. Max collapses onto the sofa with theatrical despair.
Louis glances at Elizabeth with a small, helpless grin.
“They always argue about the telly,” she says.
“Good thing I’m fluent in sibling,” he answers.
The children settle — or at least pause long enough to press play on something aggressively pastel. Elizabeth gestures for him to sit again, and he does, folding his hands loosely in his lap.
“So,” she says, returning to that calm, focused tone, “your CV mentions caring for your siblings, but I’d love to hear more in your own words. What made you apply?”
Louis takes a second before answering.
“I’ve always loved working with kids,” he says. “There’s something brilliant about how they see things. Everything’s still new. I started properly helping when I was… seven, probably. My mum was working constantly, and someone had to make sure the little ones made it to school in one piece.” He smiles faintly. “I don’t mind chaos. I’m good at it.”
“And discipline?” she asks.
“Fair but firm,” he replies. “Consistency matters. I’d rather explain something than just shut it down.”
Her eyes warm at that. “That’s very much our philosophy.”
A brief pause settles between them — not awkward, just weighted. Louis can feel the balance tipping, subtly but unmistakably.
“Well,” she says at last, rising, “I think that covers everything from my side.”
Louis stands too, pulse quickening despite himself. “Thank you. Really.”
Elizabeth smiles as she offers her hand again, firmer this time, as though she’s already reached a conclusion she isn’t quite ready to share.
“It’s been lovely to meet you. I’ll speak with Theo this evening and be in touch in the next couple of days. If that suits?”
His heart gives an involuntary jump. “Yeah — absolutely.”
“Great,” she says.
She walks him to the door and, as it swings open and catches the afternoon light, calls over her shoulder, “Max, Winnie — say goodbye to Mr Tomlinson!”
“Bye!” they shout from the sofa, slightly out of sync.
Louis lifts a hand in farewell, steps out into the Kensington sunlight, and closes the gate carefully behind him.
The street is quiet in that deliberate, curated way. Polished cars. Trimmed hedges. Birds that sound well-rested. For a moment he just stands there, letting the silence settle against his skin.
Then he exhales, long and steady, the breath loosening something tight in his chest.
He’s barely halfway down the pavement before he pulls out his phone. His hands are still faintly shaky — adrenaline, nerves, the strange unreality of the past hour — he’s not entirely sure.
Niall answers on the second ring.
“Well?” he demands. “Are you employed? Were you escorted out? Did you insult their posh furniture?”
Louis rolls his eyes, even though no one can see him. “Good afternoon to you too.”
“I’m emotionally preparing for whatever disaster you’ve engineered.”
Louis huffs a laugh, walking slowly down a tree-lined street where even the birds seem middle-class. White façades. Glossy black doors. Window boxes that look professionally arranged.
“Alright,” he says, slipping one hand into his pocket. “I think… I think it went well.”
There’s a brief, stunned silence.
“Well?” Niall repeats, suspicious. “Like well well? Or like ‘they didn’t actively shove me out the front door’ well?”
“Well as in she liked me. I think.” Louis catches himself smiling at a row of magnolia trees in full bloom. “The kids definitely did.”
“They sensed free labour. Children are basically wolves.”
Louis snorts. “I settled a TV argument with a coin toss.”
“Was it an expensive coin? Or, like, a penny? I feel that matters in Kensington.”
Louis steps aside to let a woman with an immaculate pram pass. Even the baby looks expensive. He lowers his voice instinctively. “Pretty sure it was ten pence. Anyway — her name’s Elizabeth. Proper lawyer energy, but nice about it. And the house…” He shakes his head, forgetting Niall can’t see him. “Ni, they’ve got a piano in the hallway. Just there. Casually.”
“No one normal has a hallway piano,” Niall says firmly. “It’s a trap. Next thing you know you’ll be kneeling on reclaimed oak floors helping with homework while they feed you ethically sourced olives.”
“Absolutely not,” Louis says, laughing. “You know how I feel about olives. She said if it goes well, I’ll meet the husband before they leave for Italy.”
“Oh, they’re definitely posh. No one says ‘meet the husband’ unless the husband’s name is something like Tarquin.”
“Theo,” Louis corrects.
“Short for Theodore. Even worse.”
Louis adjusts his overshirt as he passes a café with tiny metal tables and people drinking iced coffee like it’s a personality trait. He feels faintly misplaced, like he’s wandered into someone else’s life for the afternoon.
“She said she’d be in touch in a couple of days.”
“In a couple of days?” Niall groans. “You’re going to be unbearable. I’ll come home and find you lying on the floor listening to Italian opera and aggressively manifesting.”
“I won’t manifest,” Louis says, already half planning to. “I’ll just… hope.”
“Same thing.”
He stops at a crossing and waits for the light to change. A man in a cashmere coat nods at him politely. Louis nods back as though he, too, owns cashmere.
“Honestly, Ni,” he says, quieter now, “I think I might actually get this.”
There’s a fractional shift in Niall’s voice. “Good. You deserve something good.”
Louis swallows around the small knot that catches unexpectedly in his throat. “Thanks.”
“But,” Niall continues briskly, “if you do get it, I’m visiting. And if you don’t cook pasta for me in an apron, I’m telling the posh children you don’t believe in Santa.”
Louis grins. “You’re a dickhead.”
“A lovable one.”
The light changes. Louis crosses, sunlight flashing off the townhouse windows. His steps feel lighter than they did an hour ago.
“So,” Niall says, “are you walking back or floating?”
“Floating,” Louis admits.
“Thought so.”
He ends the call at the corner, phone slipping back into his pocket. The square ahead opens into a stretch of green trees and blue sky, and for once his thoughts aren’t racing ahead to what might go wrong.
He just walks, carrying the small, steady warmth of it with him.
⋆˚✿˖°
That evening, they end up out almost by accident.
It begins as one of those idle suggestions tossed into the air with no real intention behind it — the sort that usually dies quietly between episodes of whatever they’re half-watching.
“We could go for a walk,” Niall says, crumpling an empty crisp packet. “Stretch our legs. Pretend we’re functioning members of society.”
Louis narrows his eyes. “This feels like the beginning of something irresponsible.”
“I just don’t want to doom-scroll myself into another existential crisis.”
That, unfortunately, feels reasonable.
So they pull on jackets and head out into the cooling evening. The sky is that brief, bruised blue London does so well before it gives up entirely. Pavements hum with distant traffic, the air smelling faintly of chips and rain, neon blurring against damp concrete.
They wander without direction until they find themselves outside a pub neither of them recognises. Not one of their usual sticky-floored haunts. This one spills warm light onto the pavement and carries a low, easy murmur instead of bass that rattles your teeth.
“I’m not drinking,” Louis says automatically.
“Didn’t ask,” Niall replies. Then, after a beat, “But we could sit.”
They go in. They sit.
They do not order alcohol.
At first.
Louis has his phone out within seconds, thumbs moving before he can stop himself. Elizabeth Moore. International lawyer.
Her name appears everywhere — firm profiles, articles, award lists, professional headshots where she looks exactly as she did in person: composed, warm, self-possessed.
Niall leans across the table. “Bloody hell. She’s proper.”
“They both are,” Louis mutters.
Theo’s profile is worse. Sharper. All tailored suits and stern headlines and cases that sound like they belong in glossy legal dramas. Corporate disputes. International arbitration. European courts.
“No wonder they’re disappearing to Italy for seven weeks,” Niall says. “They’re probably arguing with billionaires across three time zones.”
Louis scrolls through a bio that reads like a list of achievements most people would need three lifetimes to accumulate. “They’re based here but work everywhere. Rome, Milan, Paris… Tuscany’s probably the relaxing bit.”
“These people,” Niall says, shaking his head, “are going to be paying you more than you’ve ever seen in one place.”
“The ad said average.”
“Average for them probably equals your annual salary per week.”
Louis locks his phone and sets it down. The scale of it settles slowly — the house, the travel, the expectation. The way the job suddenly feels less hypothetical and more like something that could rearrange his life.
A shadow falls across the table.
“Bought you a drink,” a stranger says, sliding a pint gently toward Louis.
He looks up.
The man is tall in a way that borders on theatrical, dark hair curling slightly at his temples, smile easy and deliberate. The sort of person who knows he’s being looked at and doesn’t mind.
Louis blinks at the glass. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t worry,” the man says lightly. “No obligation.”
Niall chokes on his water and becomes immediately unhelpful.
Politeness wins. “Alright,” Louis says. “Thanks.”
The man introduces himself as Alex and slides into the chair beside him as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“So,” Alex asks, “what do you do?”
Somewhere between the second drink and the third, Louis realises they’ve been talking for the better part of an hour. About nothing in particular. About everything. Alex’s job, described vaguely but with confidence. Music. Bad dates. London rents.
Alex holds eye contact. Laughs at Louis’ jokes like he actually finds them funny. Louis finds himself leaning in without meaning to.
Across the room, Niall has migrated toward a long-legged redhead and appears equally occupied.
By the fourth drink, something softer slips under Louis’ skin.
Hot Luke.
Two summers ago. Citrus shampoo and careful smiles. Three polite text messages that managed to dismantle him without ever raising their voice.
The last person he slept with.
It has been long enough now that the wanting lives quietly beneath the surface. In passing glances. In restless dreams he doesn’t unpack. In the sudden awareness that if he takes this job, seven weeks in Italy might mean pressing pause on whatever this is — on the possibility of someone like Alex.
Seven weeks of children and responsibility and not being the sort of person who makes questionable choices in pubs.
Alex’s fingers brush his forearm when he laughs. The contact is casual, warm, unremarkable.
It lands anyway.
By the time Louis realises how close they are, Alex is leaning in. The kiss is soft, a little clumsy, beer-sweet. The kind that exists entirely in the moment and nowhere beyond it.
Louis kisses him back.
It’s over almost as quickly as it begins.
They separate with matching, slightly sheepish smiles.
“Well,” Alex says. “That was pleasant.”
“Yeah,” Louis replies. “It was.”
Alex finishes his drink and drifts back into the crowd. No numbers exchanged. No promises made. Nothing that follows.
Niall reappears the second Alex disappears.
“You absolute menace.”
Louis lets out a breath that’s half laugh. “Didn’t even feel like me.”
“That’s called loneliness, Lou.”
“What happened to your redhead?”
“Oh, absolutely nothing. Let’s go.”
They leave a little quieter than they arrived, the alcohol thinning into something heavier at the edges. The air outside tastes like imminent rain.
Louis’ phone buzzes in his pocket — an email, nothing urgent. He ignores it.
As they walk, his thoughts slide back toward Tuscany. Seven weeks of something entirely different. If he gets the job, the rhythm of his life will tilt.
He isn’t sure whether that thought feels like relief or risk.
Maybe both.
⋆˚✿˖°
“Why does it look like that?” Louis asks, eyeing the pale green drink in Niall’s hand as though it might start fizzing or attempt escape.
“It’s a matcha latte,” Niall says, taking a slow, reverent sip. “Good for your gut.”
Louis leans in and sniffs once, then recoils on instinct. “It smells like grass.”
“You’ve never even tried it.”
“I don’t need to. I’ve mowed lawns. Same experience.”
They’re wedged into the window seat at Louis’ favourite café — the one near the Thames with cracked tiles, uneven little tables, and an aggressive number of hanging plants that look as though they’ve been watered with affection rather than science. Soft music hums somewhere overhead. The air carries burnt milk and sugar.
Officially, they’re here because Louis “needs caffeine.” Unofficially, he needs a witness in case he combusts.
He’s just lifting his cup when his phone buzzes sharply against his thigh.
Unknown number.
His stomach drops so abruptly he nearly sloshes coffee over his hand. “Wait — shut up. Might be her.”
Niall straightens at once, eyes bright with unhelpful delight. “Do the fancy voice again. I love the fancy voice.”
“Piss off,” Louis mutters, already standing and stepping away from the table. He turns slightly toward the window, condensation fogging the glass behind him. “Hello?”
“Hi, Louis, it’s Elizabeth Moore.”
His spine straightens before he can stop it. The voice that comes out of him is rounder, softer, faintly southern in a way that bears no resemblance to his actual accent.
“Ah — Ms Moore. Hello. Lovely to hear from you.”
He winces internally. Who is that?
“I’ve spoken to my husband, Theo,” she says, warm but precise. “We’d both like to move forward. Before we finalise anything, though, we wondered whether you’d be willing to spend an afternoon with us and the children. Something informal — the park, perhaps, or the museum. Just to see how everyone gets along.”
Louis nods enthusiastically before remembering she cannot see him. “Yes. Of course. That sounds great.”
“Wonderful. Would Thursday suit you?”
“Yeah,” he says, a fraction too quickly. “Absolutely. I’m free.”
She laughs softly, as if that confirms something she already suspected. “I’ll email the details. Thank you, Louis.”
The call ends.
For a moment he simply stands there, staring at his reflection in the glass, pulse thudding hard enough that he’s convinced it’s visible.
When he returns to the table, Niall is holding the matcha out toward him like a ceremonial offering.
“You did the voice again,” Niall says smugly.
“It’s beyond my control,” Louis mutters, dropping back into his seat and taking a reluctant sip of the green sludge. He grimaces immediately. “That’s horrific.”
“You’re going to fit right in,” Niall says. “So. What did she say?”
“They want to take me out.”
Niall’s eyebrows leap.
“With the kids,” Louis clarifies quickly. “Park or museum. Test run.”
“Ah,” Niall says gravely. “The Nanny Hunger Games.”
Louis stares out at the slow, silver sweep of the Thames beyond the glass. The city moves as it always does — buses grinding past, cyclists weaving — utterly indifferent to the fact that his life might be inching sideways.
“God,” he mutters. “I’m going to get beaten to death with a foam sword by an eight-year-old.”
“Probably,” Niall agrees. “At least it’ll be a culturally enriching death.”
⋆˚✿˖°
The entrance to the Natural History Museum is chaos.
Buggies jammed against barriers. School groups in fluorescent vests being herded by increasingly frayed teachers. Toddlers dissolving into spectacular public meltdowns beneath the looming stone dinosaurs. The air smells faintly of dust, sugar, and rising parental stress.
Louis arrives five minutes early — because of course he does — wearing what he hopes reads as responsible but approachable. Clean trainers instead of the battered ones. A denim jacket that hasn’t lived on the back of a chair all week. Hair only mildly disobedient today, rather than fully committed to mutiny.
He tugs lightly at his sleeves as he scans the crowd, nerves skittering under his skin.
Then he sees them.
Elizabeth stands near the gates in a long, elegant coat and ballet flats that look appropriate for either a museum outing or a literary festival. Theo is beside her in a navy jumper, one steady hand resting on Max’s shoulder as the boy drags a backpack that appears dangerously overfilled. Winnie bounces between them in a sunshine-yellow raincoat, entirely committed to the aesthetic despite the clear sky.
“Louis!” Elizabeth calls, waving him over with easy warmth. “Thank you for coming.”
“Nice to see you,” he says, stepping closer. He offers the children a small wave before turning to Theo. “Good morning, Mr Moore.”
Theo smiles and takes his hand. The grip is firm but not performative. “Just Theo.”
“Right. Theo.” Louis nods, then dips slightly to the children’s level. “Alright, you two?”
Winnie studies him for a long, serious second, curls framing her face. Then, without breaking eye contact, she thrusts a small fistful of raisins toward him.
Louis accepts one without hesitation. “Cheers,” he says solemnly, popping it into his mouth.
Apparently satisfied, she immediately grabs his hand as though this arrangement has always existed.
“Who’s this?” he asks, nodding toward the bright pink flamingo tucked under her arm.
She beams. “This is Rita. She has to come everywhere with me.”
Louis crouches and gently pinches one of Rita’s floppy feet between his fingers. “Hello, Rita. Absolute pleasure.”
Winnie giggles and tightens her grip on his hand, already dragging him toward the entrance.
Inside, the museum is exactly as overwhelming as promised.
The T. rex skeleton dominates the main hall, ribs arcing toward the vaulted ceiling like something mid-lunge. Sound ricochets off stone — footsteps, shrieking children, the mechanical whirr of interactive displays. It’s all movement and echo and bright informational chaos.
Max immediately rockets toward the nearest information board, firing off facts at alarming speed like an underpaid tour guide fuelled entirely by sugar. Theo follows at a measured pace, half amused, occasionally offering quiet corrections under his breath as though accuracy matters more than enthusiasm.
He doesn’t hover. He observes.
Elizabeth drifts toward a bench, already rummaging for snacks with the foresight of someone who has done this before.
Winnie stays attached to Louis’ side.
Her hand curls into his with surprising resolve, fingers firm, as though she’s chosen him deliberately. She doesn’t speak much. Instead she tugs gently when she wants to linger — at a shifting 3D globe of tectonic plates, a model volcano frozen mid-eruption, a quartz geode split clean down the centre and glittering under the lights like crushed sugar.
Louis crouches beside her at one display, explaining the difference between lava and magma in his most solemn educational tone. She listens without blinking, filing it away as if she might need it later. Every so often she presses another raisin into his palm in silent generosity.
They move through a dim corridor of taxidermied animals — glass cases, low lighting, softly glowing touchscreens.
Winnie presses her nose to the glass in front of a fox. “Looks like Rita,” she whispers.
“She does not,” Louis whispers back, scandalised. “Rita is a flamingo.”
Winnie tilts her head, unconvinced. “Still looks like her.”
By the time they reach the dinosaur exhibit — cavernous ceiling, skeletons lit from below, an animatronic velociraptor emitting a low mechanical growl — Max is vibrating with excitement. He drags Theo toward a towering display panel, launching into another avalanche of facts.
Theo listens, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp. Even when he smiles, he looks like he’s taking notes.
Elizabeth lingers near the benches again, watchful without appearing so.
Louis glances down, ready to make a joke about the brontosaurus looking slightly overworked —
And the hand in his is gone.
The absence registers before the panic does. A small, cold snap where warmth had been.
One second she’s beside him, humming faintly, fingers brushing his as they move between displays.
The next — nothing.
The room feels darker. Louder. The animatronic dinosaur growls again, vibration humming through the floor. A baby starts crying somewhere behind him.
Louis turns slowly at first, scanning.
Max is still at the barrier. Theo stands close, one hand steady on his shoulder. Elizabeth is a few feet away, focused on a touchscreen.
No yellow raincoat.
“Winnie?” Louis calls, keeping his tone light, almost playful. “Wins?”
Nothing.
Just movement. Other children weaving between adults. Too many legs. Too many coats.
His chest tightens.
He crouches quickly, checking beneath a nearby bench, then straightens, pulse starting to kick hard against his ribs.
“Winnie?” Louder now.
Elizabeth’s head snaps up instantly. Not panicked. Precise. “What’s happened?”
“I had her,” Louis says, too fast. “She was right beside me — she can’t have gone far—”
Theo is already moving.
“Max, stay with Mum,” he says calmly, voice low but firm. His eyes flick to Louis for half a second — assessing, unreadable — before he turns toward the aisle. “We’ll sweep the perimeter.”
There’s no accusation in his tone.
There doesn’t need to be.
Louis moves without waiting.
He exits the exhibit into the brighter corridor where the noise sharpens. A recorded voice announces a fossil workshop overhead. A toddler screams. A tour group in matching backpacks blocks half the passageway.
“Winnie?” he calls, weaving through bodies now, scanning frantically. Yellow raincoat. Curls. Pink flamingo.
A flash of yellow — wrong child.
A girl the right height — wrong coat.
His breathing shortens. The edges of his vision feel too bright.
She could have taken a wrong turn. Slipped into another gallery. Followed someone.
The thought lands heavy and immediate.
He has lost a child.
Not just any child. Their child.
And Theo’s face — controlled, observant — flashes in his mind. The quiet corrections. The sharp eyes. The kind of man who notices small failures and files them away.
Who hires someone who can’t hold onto a six-year-old for five minutes?
His throat dries.
He checks a side hallway lined with interactive screens, crouches to look behind a freestanding dinosaur tail, scans the buggy zone where strollers are parked in messy rows. A group of schoolchildren barrels past and he nearly calls her name again, but it catches in his chest.
Then he turns toward the escalators.
And sees it.
Just beyond a pillar, half-tucked against the edge of a bench — a strip of sunshine yellow.
And curls.
His knees weaken so abruptly he has to steady himself against the wall.
He exhales in one long, shaking breath and moves quickly, weaving past a cluster of teenagers.
“There you are,” he says, crouching in front of her.
Winnie sits curled on the bench, arms wrapped tight around her knees. Her nose is pink. She’s sniffling quietly, trying very hard not to cry properly.
“Hey,” he says, softer now. “You alright?”
She nods, barely.
“The dinosaurs are scary,” she whispers.
“I know, Wins,” Louis says gently. He lowers himself fully, bringing his voice down with him. “They can be loud.”
She looks up at him with damp eyes.
“Do you want to know something?” he asks quietly.
A small nod.
“They’re not real. Not even a little bit. Just big machines. Like puppets. They roar because someone pressed a button.”
She blinks at him.
He leans in slightly, steady and calm now, letting her breathe.
“Now,” Louis says seriously, lowering his voice, “you can’t tell Max. He still thinks they’re real. So do you reckon you can keep that secret for me?”
Winnie sniffles once, considering the gravity of this arrangement. Then, without speaking, she slides her hand back into his.
He squeezes gently. Her fingers are clammy but determined.
“Come on,” he says, rising. “Let’s go find your mum before she stages a full-scale rescue operation.”
They don’t have to.
Elizabeth, Theo and Max emerge from the exhibit at almost the same moment. Elizabeth’s gaze is sharp, searching the corridor with controlled urgency. The instant she spots Winnie, something shifts — relief hitting first, fear trailing just behind it.
Winnie is still holding Louis’ hand when Elizabeth reaches them and drops into a crouch. Her movements are efficient, practised. Hands at Winnie’s shoulders. A quick brush over her coat. Fingers to her cheeks. A silent assessment of breath, balance, temperature.
She is pale, but steady.
“I’m okay,” Winnie says quietly. “Louis found me.”
Elizabeth looks up then.
Her eyes meet Louis’ and hold there a beat longer than politeness requires. Relief is there, certainly. But beneath it, something else — evaluation settling into recognition. A recalibration.
Theo steps in beside them. His expression is calm, but his gaze flicks over Louis in a way that feels deliberate, measuring. Not accusatory. Not warm either. Simply attentive.
He claps Louis lightly on the shoulder, easy smile in place. “We always lose one,” he says. “Family tradition.”
“But I wasn’t done reading about the spiny one,” Max mutters, arms folded tight. “She disappeared right when it got interesting.”
“Stegosaurus,” Theo supplies automatically.
“That’s what I said.”
Louis nudges Max gently with his elbow. “Tell you what — once everyone’s recovered from the near-extinction event, you and I can go back and read every single plaque in that room. Properly. No rushing.”
Max tries to maintain the scowl, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Only if we do the shark fossils too.”
“Obviously,” Louis replies, as though this is a solemn contractual agreement.
Across the brief quiet that follows, Louis catches a glance passing between Elizabeth and Theo. It’s subtle, quick — something shared, wordless. He can’t decipher it. Approval? Caution? Both?
Theo’s eyes return to him for half a second longer than necessary.
The afternoon settles after that.
They sit outside in the sun with ice creams — bubblegum blue for Max, bright lemon for Winnie, already melting down their fingers. The children are sticky and loud and unbothered by the earlier fright.
Max offers Louis a bite of his.
Louis obliges and immediately pulls a face. “That tastes like shampoo.”
Max collapses into laughter.
Winnie offers hers in return. Louis studies it with exaggerated seriousness before nodding. “Superior choice.”
She beams.
Elizabeth and Theo slip inside for half an hour to see one of the exhibits less suited to small attention spans, asking Louis if he’s alright to stay with the kids. He says yes before they finish the question.
When they return, Elizabeth lowers herself cross-legged onto the grass, Winnie climbing straight into her lap. Max races leaves along the pavement, narrating every twist and turn. Theo lingers a few steps away, hands in his pockets, watching the scene unfold with that same measured stillness.
After a moment, he steps closer to Louis.
“Winnie really likes you,” he says quietly.
Louis glances over instinctively. Winnie is laughing at something Elizabeth’s whispered into her ear, cheeks flushed, curls escaping.
Theo continues, voice low and even. “And Elizabeth’s grateful. You found her quickly. You didn’t panic. That matters.”
There’s no embellishment in his tone. No overt warmth. Just a statement of fact.
Louis nods once. “She wasn’t far.”
Theo studies him for a brief second — not long enough to unsettle, but long enough to register. Then he gives a small, almost imperceptible nod of his own.
Elizabeth stands, brushing grass from her trousers. When she approaches, her expression is different from earlier — not assessing now, but settled.
She offers her hand.
“If you’re still willing,” she says, “we’d love for you to join us this summer.”
Louis takes it, steadying his grip so it doesn’t betray the surge under his ribs. “I’d love to.”
Theo steps forward. “We’ll send over the paperwork this week. Payment details, schedule, the practicalities. We’ll stay in touch before we leave.”
“Yeah,” Louis says, blinking once as the reality lands. “That sounds great. Thank you.”
Theo gives him a firmer clap on the shoulder this time. Not breezy now. Intentional.
“We’re looking forward to it,” he says.
And this time, it sounds like he means it.