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“You know,” Louis murmured, “this place never changes. Every time I come back, I still feel sixteen.”
Harry turned his head slightly, studying Louis in the golden spill of light from the villa windows. The years had sharpened his features, but the boy Harry remembered was still always there—in the curve of his smile, the way his lashes cast delicate shadows on his cheeks.
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Harry asked.
Louis hummed, considering. “Depends. When I was sixteen, I used to dream about kissing you right here on this terrace.” Harry’s breath caught. “I’d imagine coming home, walking from the fields with handfuls of flowers,” Louis continued, voice soft, “and you’d be waiting in the doorway, leaning against the frame, smiling at me like I was the best thing you’d seen all day. Then you’d meet me at the bottom of the stairs and kiss me like there was no tomorrow.” He cut himself off with a quiet laugh. “God, it’s embarrassing.”
Harry swallowed. “It’s not.”
Louis smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. It was a sixteen years old boy’s fantasy. One that never came true.”
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