Louis x Reader
Requested
Genre: angst ( fluff towards the end )
Summary: Louis has a rough day in the studio and doubts himself, but you come over to his dorm and remind him he’s not alone.
MASTERLIST
Requests are open!!
By the time you knock on the dorm door, it’s already past midnight.
You wouldn’t be here this late if Ryul hadn’t texted you.
Can you come over?
Louis had a rough studio day.
Like… really rough.
He won’t say it, but he’s beating himself up.
We think he needs you.
When the door opens, it’s Ohyul who greets you, socked feet shuffling against the floor. The dorm lights are dimmed, the air heavy with that tired silence that only settles in after a long day of schedules.
“He’s in his room,” Ohyul says quietly, already stepping aside to let you in. “Hasn’t come out since he got back.”
Ryul leans against the counter nearby, arms crossed. “He didn’t even complain,” he adds, which somehow makes it worse. “Just went straight in and shut the door.”
You nod, slipping your shoes off. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Thank you,” Ryul murmurs, relief obvious.
The hallway feels longer than usual as you walk down it. Louis’s door is closed, light leaking faintly from the bottom. You pause for a second, hand hovering over the wood. You can almost picture him on the other side—hoodie pulled up, shoulders hunched, headphones tossed somewhere after being ripped off in frustration.
You knock softly.
“Louis?” you call. “It’s me.”
There’s a beat. Then another.
“…Yeah,” he finally answers, voice muffled. “Door’s open.”
You push it open slowly.
His room is dim except for the desk lamp by his bed. Louis is sitting on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His hair is still slightly damp like he showered and hoped the day would rinse off with the water. He looks smaller like this somehow—tired in a way sleep won’t fix.
He glances up when you step inside.
“Oh,” he says softly, like he didn’t actually expect you to come. “Hey.”
You close the door behind you and walk over, sitting beside him. The bed dips under your weight, but he doesn’t move away.
“Your members told me you had a hard day,” you say gently.
Louis exhales through his nose, shoulders rising and falling. “They always do that,” he mutters.
“And they’re always right,” you reply.
That earns a quiet huff of a laugh, but it dies quickly.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. You wait. You’ve learned that Louis opens up on his own terms—when the pressure’s gone, when he knows you’re not going anywhere.
Finally, he speaks.
“The recording today…” He trails off, jaw tightening. “It was bad.”
You turn toward him fully. “Bad how?”
He rubs his hands together, like he’s trying to warm them. “I couldn’t get it right. Same line, over and over. Producer kept saying it was ‘almost there,’ which is honestly worse than saying it sucks.”
You don’t interrupt.
“I must’ve done it, like… I don’t know. Fifteen times?” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Everyone else got theirs in three. Five, max.”
He finally looks at you then, eyes dull with exhaustion. “I know it’s stupid. I know it’s part of the job. But at some point it just felt like… maybe I’m the problem.”
Your chest tightens.
“Louis—”
“I kept hearing it in my head,” he continues, words spilling faster now. “Every mistake. Every tiny thing I couldn’t fix. I tried to push through, but the more takes we did, the worse it got.”
His shoulders slump. “I walked out of the studio feeling like I wasted everyone’s time.”
You reach for his hand without thinking, fingers threading through his. He freezes for half a second, then grips back like he needs the contact to stay upright.
“Look at me,” you say softly.
He hesitates, then lifts his gaze.
“You did not waste anyone’s time,” you tell him firmly. “You cared. That’s the difference.”
His lips part, but nothing comes out.
“You’ve always cared,” you continue. “About the sound. About getting it right. About giving people something real. That’s not a flaw.”
He swallows. “It feels like one today.”
You shift closer, knees touching. “Bad days don’t erase who you are. One rough recording doesn’t cancel out everything you’ve done.”
Louis shakes his head slightly. “I just hate that I couldn’t be better. I hate feeling like I let the group down.”
You squeeze his hand. “You didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they sent me to cheer you up instead of yelling at you,” you say gently. “Because they trust you. Because I trust you.”
His eyes flicker, emotion breaking through the tired haze.
“You’re allowed to struggle,” you add. “Even if you’re good at what you do. Especially then.”
He lets out a shaky breath, shoulders finally sagging. “I didn’t even want to talk about it. I just wanted to disappear for the night.”
You lean in, resting your forehead against his temple. “You don’t have to disappear with me here.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then slowly, carefully, Louis leans into you. His head finds your shoulder, and his grip tightens like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
“For what?”
“For being like this.”
You pull back just enough to look at him. “Like what?”
“…Not okay.”
You cup his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye. “Louis. I don’t love you despite this. I love you including this.”
Something in him cracks.
He exhales, breath hitching, and suddenly he’s holding onto you with both arms, face buried in your shoulder. You wrap around him instinctively, one hand pressing between his shoulder blades, the other cradling his head.
You feel the tension finally start to bleed out of him.
“It felt like I was shouting into a void,” he whispers. “Like no matter how hard I tried, it just wasn’t enough.”
You rock him gently. “But you kept trying.”
“…Yeah.”
“That matters,” you say. “More than you think.”
He stays like that for a while, breathing slowly evening out. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are red, but clearer.
“Thank you for coming,” he says quietly.
“Always,” you reply without hesitation.
You lie back together then, Louis tucked against your side, his head resting on your chest. You card your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, until his muscles loosen.
Outside the room, the dorm is quiet. Tomorrow will come with new schedules, new expectations, new chances to doubt himself again.
Louis doesn’t realize how tightly he’s holding onto you until your fingers slow in his hair.
“Hey,” you whisper, voice barely louder than breathing. “You okay?”
He hums against your chest, arms still wrapped around your waist. “Just… don’t move yet.”
You don’t. You settle further into the bed, one arm around his shoulders, the other tracing lazy shapes along his spine. His hoodie is soft under your palm, warm from his body, and you can feel every small rise and fall of his breathing.
Eventually, he shifts so he’s half on top of you, cheek pressed against your collarbone. It’s instinctive—muscle memory, comfort, home. His knee slides between yours, grounding, familiar.
You tilt your head, pressing a kiss into his hair.
Another one.
Then one more, lingering a little longer.
Louis exhales, the sound almost breaking. His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt like he’s anchoring himself.
“You don’t have to be strong with me,” you murmur. “You know that, right?”
“I know,” he says quietly. “It’s just hard to stop trying.”
You lift his chin gently until he’s looking at you. His eyes search yours, like he’s checking for disappointment, for doubt.
He doesn’t find any.
You kiss him—slow, careful, unhurried. Not desperate. Not rushed. Just reassurance pressed into every second of it.
Louis melts.
He sighs into the kiss, shoulders finally relaxing as he kisses you back, softer than usual, like he’s afraid to take too much. You cradle his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, letting him feel how wanted he is.
When you pull back, your foreheads rest together.
“You did enough today,” you tell him. “Even if it didn’t feel like it.”
His voice is small. “What if I never feel like it’s enough?”
“Then I’ll remind you,” you say simply. “Every time.”
His lips quirk upward just a little. “You say that like it’s a promise.”
“It is.”
He kisses you again—shorter this time, but firmer. Like he believes you.
Louis shifts so you’re fully holding him now, his head tucked under your chin, arms wrapped around you in a way that feels almost protective despite how vulnerable he is. Your fingers trace slow lines up and down his arm, grounding him.
“I kept hearing the producer’s voice in my head,” he admits quietly. “Even after I left.”
You press a kiss to his temple. “Listen to mine instead.”
He chuckles faintly. “What’s it saying?”
“That you’re talented. That you worked hard. That one bad day doesn’t define you.” You pause, then add softly, “And that I’m really proud of you.”
He goes still.
“…You are?”
“Always,” you say. “Especially on days like this.”
Louis buries his face in your neck, and this time when he breathes out, it’s steady.
The world feels quieter with him like this. No expectations. No studio lights. Just the slow rhythm of comfort and touch.
Eventually, his fingers start drawing absentminded circles on your side.
“Stay tonight?” he asks, voice tentative.
You smile, kissing his cheek. “I wasn’t planning on leaving.”
He relaxes completely then, body heavy and warm against yours. You pull the blanket up around both of you, tucking it around his shoulders. He sighs contentedly, eyes fluttering shut.
As sleep starts to pull him under, he murmurs, barely awake, “Thank you for cheering me up.”
You press one last kiss to his forehead, holding him close.
“Anytime, Louis,” you whisper. “That’s what I’m here for.”
And for the first time all day, he falls asleep believing it.
