Chapter Text
Louis wakes to the sound of the sea. At first, it threads into his dreams — soft and endless, a low hush that ebbs and flows — until a shaft of sunlight cuts across his face and drags him fully into consciousness. He blinks blearily, squinting against the brightness pouring through the glass wall, and it takes him a few seconds to remember where he is. Not his flat. Not London.
The little house by the coast.
Harry’s hideaway.
The sheets beneath him are soft and rumpled, smelling faintly of salt and something warmer, familiar. The pillow is sunk under the weight of his head, and his body feels heavy in the best way, limbs loose and slow, like he could easily fall back asleep.
And then he becomes aware of heat beside him.
Harry.
He’s lying on his side, facing Louis, curls a messy halo against the pillow, one arm tucked loosely beneath his head. The morning light paints his features in soft gold, tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek, the shadow of lashes resting against skin. Louis freezes, not daring to move, barely daring to breathe. Harry looks younger like this somehow — unguarded, mouth slack with sleep, faint freckles visible where the sun hits. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, the duvet half-slipped down his shoulder. Louis lets his gaze linger for just a moment too long before forcing it away, staring up at the ceiling beams instead, trying to quiet the sudden, frantic thrum of his heartbeat.
The night comes back to him in fragments:
The wine.
The walk along the coast.
Harry’s laugh soft and tipsy under the stars.
The notebooks full of lyrics.
The slow drift into silence, into sleep.
And now this. Waking up beside him.
Louis swallows, dragging a hand over his face, but the movement stirs the mattress slightly, and Harry shifts — a soft groan caught in the back of his throat as he blinks awake, green eyes hazy and unfocused.
“Mornin’,” Harry mumbles, voice low and rough, full of sleep.
Louis huffs out a quiet laugh despite himself. “Morning.”
Harry pushes up onto one elbow, curls falling into his face, and squints blearily at the glass wall. “Bloody hell, it’s bright.”
“You bought a house made of windows, mate,” Louis says dryly, rolling onto his side to face him properly. “What’d you expect?”
Harry smiles, small and crooked, rubbing at his eyes. “Worth it for the view, though.”
Louis hums, following his gaze out toward the horizon where the sunlight spills molten gold over the restless sea. “Not bad,” he admits.
Harry tips his head, studying him instead. “That’s not what I meant.”
Louis blinks, startled, and looks back at him sharply. Harry only grins, faint and lazy, before collapsing back onto the pillow like he hasn’t just dropped that casually into the air. For a while, neither of them speaks. The quiet is soft, easy, threaded with the sounds of gulls in the distance and waves rolling against the shore. Louis stretches beneath the duvet, legs tangling in the sheets, and accidentally brushes his foot against Harry’s calf. He freezes immediately.
Harry doesn’t.
Instead, he shifts slightly closer, settling so the line of his thigh presses lightly against Louis’s under the covers. It’s subtle, casual enough to be deniable, but Louis feels the spark of it anyway — sharp and bright, sinking deep under his skin.
“You sleep alright?” Harry asks after a beat, voice quieter now.
Louis nods, keeping his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “Yeah. Better than I have in ages, actually.”
Harry hums softly. “Told you the sea does that. Clears your head.”
“Maybe,” Louis allows. “Could’ve been the wine, though.”
Harry chuckles, the sound low and warm, vibrating faintly through the shared mattress. “Or maybe it was me.”
Louis turns his head to look at him, one brow arched. “Bit full of yourself, aren’t you?”
Harry smirks, unbothered. “Nahh, just confident.”
“Annoying,” Louis corrects, but the corner of his mouth twitches despite himself.
Harry rolls onto his side fully, propping his head on one hand, facing Louis head-on now. Their faces are close enough that Louis can see every detail — the faint crease in Harry’s cheek from the pillow, the soft pink of his lips, the sunlight catching on the curve of his throat. Louis forces himself to stay perfectly still, even as his body buzzes with awareness.
“You always wake up this early?” Harry asks softly.
Louis shakes his head. “Not usually.”
“Why today?”
Louis hesitates, fingers fidgeting idly with the edge of the duvet. “Dunno. Guess I didn’t wanna miss it.”
Harry tilts his head, curious. “Miss what?”
“This,” Louis says, gesturing vaguely between them — the bed, the sea, the soft quiet of the morning. “All of it.”
Harry studies him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then, quietly: “Me neither.”
The tension between them sharpens, subtle but undeniable, stretching taut like a wire. Louis drops his gaze briefly, only to find himself staring at Harry’s mouth before he catches it and looks away again, heat creeping up his neck. Harry notices — of course he notices — but doesn’t say anything. He shifts closer instead, just slightly, the brush of his shoulder against Louis’s deliberate now, weighted. Louis feels it like static, humming low and constant under his skin.
“You hungry?” Harry asks after a while, breaking the silence just enough to keep it from spilling over.
“Bit,” Louis admits.
“There’s stuff downstairs. I can make us something.”
Louis huffs a quiet laugh. “Didn’t peg you for the breakfast type.”
Harry grins, playful. “Stick around, Tommo. I’ve got layers.”
Louis shakes his head, rolling onto his back again, eyes closing briefly against the sunlight. “Not sure the world’s ready for ‘chef Harry Styles.’”
Harry leans closer, voice low and teasing near his ear. “Good thing it’s just you, then.”
Louis opens his eyes sharply, meeting Harry’s gaze, and for one suspended moment neither of them looks away. The air feels thick between them now, every little shift amplified — the soft rustle of the sheets, the warmth bleeding through the narrow space where their arms nearly touch, the slow cadence of their breaths syncing without thought. Louis can’t remember the last time silence felt this loud. And yet neither moves. Not yet.
Outside, the tide crashes against the rocks, steady and endless, as if the world itself is holding its breath with them. Louis swallows, gaze dropping once more — first to Harry’s collarbone, then lower, before forcing his eyes away, fixing them firmly on the ceiling. Harry’s lips curl faintly, like he’s caught him out but chooses not to say it.
Instead, Harry shifts just close enough that their knees brush under the duvet, deliberate and careful, and murmurs, “We could stay like this all morning, y’know.”
Louis exhales, shaky despite himself, and manages a soft, “Yeah. We could.”
They don’t, though — not yet. The spell breaks eventually when the gulls cry louder overhead and sunlight catches Louis full in the eyes, making him squint and shove the duvet back slightly, muttering about needing coffee. But the weight of what almost happened lingers between them, unspoken and heavy, as they finally climb out of bed. The wooden stairs creak faintly under Louis’s bare feet as he follows Harry down to the kitchen, still tugging at the hem of his T-shirt, trying to shake off the soft weight of the morning. The little house feels different now in daylight — warmer, somehow, like it’s been gently woken up. Sunlight spills across the stone floor, catches on the pale cabinets, glints off glass jars filled with sugar and sea salt. The windows on the far wall frame the restless sea, bright and endless, stretching right into the horizon. Louis leans against the doorway for a second, watching as Harry moves easily around the kitchen, opening cupboards and pulling things out like he’s done it a thousand times. He hasn’t said much since they left the bed upstairs, and Louis wonders if Harry’s doing the same thing he is: replaying the moments that almost were.
Harry glances back suddenly and catches him staring.
“You gonna help,” Harry asks, one brow raised, “or just stand there lookin’ pretty?”
Louis smirks, crossing his arms lazily. “Didn’t realize you needed my help to burn eggs.”
Harry scoffs, reaching for the frying pan. “I’m an excellent cook, actually.”
“Sure you are.” Louis pushes off the doorway, wandering toward the counter. “What’re we havin’ then, chef?”
Harry holds up a carton of eggs triumphantly. “Scrambled. Can’t mess that up.”
Louis snorts. “Famous last words.”
Harry sets the pan down, flicks on the stove, and starts whisking the eggs with entirely too much concentration. Louis leans against the counter beside him, deliberately close, just enough that his arm brushes Harry’s now and then. Harry notices — Louis knows he does because his shoulders tense slightly, though he doesn’t move away.
The silence stretches until Louis breaks it casually: “Didn’t know you had a place like this.”
Harry hums without looking up, pouring the eggs into the pan. “S’not really public knowledge.”
Louis tilts his head, watching him. “Yeah, I figured. You’ve been keepin’ secrets from me, Styles.”
Harry glances at him then, smirking. “Wouldn’t call it a secret. Just… mine.”
Louis blinks at that, something soft and unspoken passing between them before Harry turns back to stir the eggs.
The smell of coffee fills the kitchen a few minutes later as Louis sets the machine going, trying to give his hands something to do.
“You always cook breakfast for people who crash here?” he asks, keeping his tone light, testing.
Harry shrugs one shoulder, still focused on the pan. “Not really.” Then, after a beat, quieter: “Haven’t had anyone here to cook for.”
Louis pauses, spoon hovering over the mugs, before forcing himself to move again. “First time for everything, I guess.”
Harry glances sideways at him, something unreadable flickering in his eyes, but doesn’t respond.
When the food’s ready, they sit opposite each other at the small wooden table by the window. The view is ridiculous — the entire coastline stretching out beneath them, waves crashing against the rocks below, sunlight turning the water silver where it breaks. Louis props his chin in his hand, pretending to focus on his plate, but his eyes keep drifting up. Harry’s curls are a mess, his T-shirt rumpled, skin golden where the sun hits his collarbone. There’s something unfair about him in mornings like this, all soft and effortless.
“You’re staring,” Harry says without looking up, fork poised halfway to his mouth.
Louis doesn’t even bother denying it. “Just tryin’ to work out how you managed not to burn this.”
Harry grins, cheeks dimpling as he takes a slow bite. “Told you I was good.”
Louis rolls his eyes, sipping his coffee to hide the twitch of a smile. “Yeah, alright. Don’t let it go to your head.”
Harry leans back in his chair, stretching lazily, long legs brushing against Louis’s under the table. He doesn’t move them away. Neither does Louis.
For a while, they eat in companionable quiet, broken only by the clink of forks and the distant cries of gulls outside.
Then Harry speaks, voice softer now: “You sleep alright? Really?”
Louis looks up, surprised by the question. “Yeah,” he says after a moment, setting his mug down. “Slept better than I have in weeks.”
Harry hums, nodding slowly. “Me too.”
There’s weight in the admission, something unsaid hanging between them, and Louis feels his chest tighten slightly around it. He takes another sip of coffee to fill the silence, but the tension doesn’t go anywhere. If anything, it builds.
After breakfast, Harry gathers the plates, and Louis stands to help, moving around him in the narrow kitchen space. It’s impossible not to brush against each other — an elbow here, a hand grazing there — each accidental touch leaving a small spark behind. At one point, Louis reaches for a glass just as Harry does, and their fingers meet, lingering a second longer than they should.
Louis clears his throat quickly, grabbing the glass and stepping back. “We’re gonna need ground rules if we’re producin’ together, mate.”
Harry quirks a brow, drying his hands on a towel. “Yeah? Like what?”
“Like no distractin’ me in the studio,” Louis says, deliberately casual.
Harry grins slowly, leaning against the counter. “Pretty sure that’s impossible.”
Louis rolls his eyes, trying not to smile, but his pulse gives him away.
The kitchen feels smaller somehow — warmer, closer — and Louis realizes suddenly that they’ve been circling each other all morning without quite naming it.
The flirting.
The touches.
The near-silences filled with meaning.
It’s all there, hanging between them like static.
Louis clears his throat, shifting his weight. “So… what’s the plan for today then?”
Harry smirks faintly. “We’ve got time before heading back into town. Thought we’d take it slow.”
Louis tilts his head. “Take it slow, huh?”
“Yeah,” Harry says softly, gaze locking on his. “Just… don’t wanna rush this.”
Louis swallows, caught between wanting to push and wanting to stay exactly where they are. The warmth of Harry’s words settles deep in his chest, grounding and disarming all at once.
The moment stretches until the clock ticks loud in the quiet, pulling Louis back. He clears his throat, grabbing his mug.
“You’re makin’ it very hard to focus on breakfast,” he mutters.
Harry grins, smug. “Good.”
The tension remains thick but soft-edged, a slow pull neither of them seems ready to break yet. They move around each other easily as they clean up, trading quiet jokes and stolen glances, both pretending they’re not lingering just to stay close. Outside, the sunlight climbs higher, spilling across the sea, and for a while it feels like the rest of the world doesn’t exist — just them, the little house, and the endless horizon. By the time the breakfast dishes are cleared away, sunlight has claimed every corner of the little kitchen. The glass wall facing the sea glitters with reflected light, and outside, the waves roll steady and inviting, white foam curling onto the sand. Louis stands by the window, mug dangling loosely from his fingers, staring out at the endless horizon.
“Looks warm out,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.
Behind him, Harry’s voice floats lazily through the space. “Warm’s a stretch,” he says, leaning one shoulder against the counter. “But worth it.”
Louis glances back, one brow raised. “Worth what?”
Harry nods toward the water, curls falling into his face. “Morning swim.”
Louis turns fully now, mug halfway to his lips, blinking at him. “You’re jokin’.”
Harry grins, slow and smug. “Do I look like I’m jokin’?”
Louis studies him — the messy curls, the soft T-shirt, the grin that’s already trouble — and sighs, setting the mug down. “You look like someone who wants to give me pneumonia.”
Harry pushes off the counter and steps closer, hands stuffed into the pockets of his joggers. “Trust me,” he says softly. “It’s worth it.”
There’s something about the way he says it, low and certain, that makes Louis hesitate.
And then Harry tilts his head, lips quirking. “Unless you’re scared.”
Louis scoffs, straightening immediately. “Not scared.”
Harry’s grin widens. “Good. Then I’ll get us towels.”
They grab towels and wander down the narrow path that winds from the house to the beach, the air sharp with salt and sunlight. The sand here is pale and cool beneath their bare feet, scattered with smooth stones that catch the light like tiny mirrors. Louis shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie as they walk, watching gulls wheel lazily above the waves.
“Can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he mutters.
Harry, walking a step ahead, glances back with a crooked grin. “You’ll thank me after.”
“Doubtful.”
“Promise.”
When they reach the waterline, Harry stops to strip off his hoodie, tugging it over his head in one smooth motion. His T-shirt comes off next, revealing tanned skin, a scatter of tattoos Louis knows by heart but hasn’t let himself look at properly in months.
Louis looks anyway.
It’s stupid, reckless even, but his gaze drags over the ink on Harry’s chest, the lines of his ribs, the soft dip at his waist where the joggers hang low.
Harry catches him staring — of course he does — and his mouth curls into something slow, deliberate.
“Y’alright there, Tommo?”
Louis tears his gaze away sharply, crouching to unlace his trainers like it’s the most urgent task in the world. “Fine. Just makin’ sure you don’t drown, yeah?”
Harry laughs, low and quiet, but doesn’t push.
The water’s colder than Louis expects.
The first wave crashes over his ankles and he hisses through his teeth, jerking back instinctively. “Bloody hell, Harry!”
“Told you it’d be brisk,” Harry calls from a few feet ahead, already waist-deep, curls plastered damp to his forehead.
“Brisk?” Louis splutters, hopping back from another surge of foam. “It’s fuckin’ arctic.”
Harry grins, teeth bright against sun-warmed skin. “C’mon. You’ll get used to it.”
Louis glares, but eventually wades in after him, the cold slicing sharp against his calves, his thighs, until he’s knee-deep and shivering.
Harry turns then, hand outstretched. “Here,” he says softly.
Louis stares at the offered hand, chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the water temperature, and hesitates just long enough for Harry’s grin to turn smug again.
With a muttered curse, Louis takes it.
The shock of it — Harry’s palm, warm and solid against his own — jolts something low in Louis’s chest. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t dare, just lets Harry tug him forward until the waves hit their waists.
Harry laughs when Louis swears under his breath, the sound bright and unguarded, and Louis catches himself smiling despite the cold.
“See?” Harry says, pushing wet curls out of his face. “Not so bad.”
“You’re mental,” Louis shoots back, but it’s half-hearted now.
They stand there for a moment, water lapping against their skin, the sun catching droplets on Harry’s shoulders, turning them to gold. Louis tips his head back to breathe in the salt-heavy air, the sound of the sea loud in his ears, grounding him in a way he didn’t know he needed. Harry watches him, quiet for once, green eyes soft and intent. Louis feels the weight of it — the stare, the silence, the closeness — and forces himself to look back.
Neither of them looks away.
“Y’know,” Harry says after a beat, voice low and rough from sleep and saltwater, “this is why I come here.”
Louis raises a brow, dragging his free hand through the cold waves. “To freeze your bollocks off?”
Harry huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “To clear my head. Reset.” He gestures vaguely toward the endless horizon. “Out here, it’s just you and the sea. Nothing else.”
Louis studies him for a moment, the way the wind pulls his curls into his eyes, the earnestness etched into the lines of his face. “Bet it’s good for writin’, too,” he says finally.
Harry smiles faintly, nodding. “Some of my best stuff came from sittin’ right here.”
“Lucky place, then.”
Harry’s gaze catches on his, steady and unreadable. “Maybe it’s just better with the right company.”
Louis’s chest tightens. “Flatterer.”
“Only when it’s true.”
They drift further into the water, waves curling higher now, splashing cold against their stomachs. Louis shivers, trying to hide it, but Harry notices anyway and moves closer without thinking, hands brushing lightly against Louis’s elbows under the water. The touch is casual, an excuse to steady him, but Louis feels it everywhere.
“Better?” Harry asks softly.
Louis nods, though he can barely find his voice. “Yeah. Better.”
The conversation turns lighter after that, tipsy laughter spilling between them as they splash saltwater at each other like idiots, forgetting the cold entirely. Harry catches Louis around the waist at one point when he stumbles against a wave, pulling him upright, and neither of them lets go immediately.
For one suspended breath, they just… stay there.
Chest to chest.
Saltwater dripping between them.
The world narrowing to the sound of the surf and the quiet thud of Louis’s heart in his ears.
Harry’s gaze drops — quick, fleeting — toward Louis’s mouth before flicking back up.
Louis notices.
Louis swallows.
Neither of them moves.
The water moves gently around them, warm where the sun hits, cool beneath the surface, small waves lapping against their ribs. Louis can hear his own breathing over the sound of the sea, sharp and uneven.
Harry’s right there — close enough that the sunlight hits his wet lashes, close enough that Louis can see droplets sliding down the curve of his throat.
It should feel casual.
It doesn’t.
Harry pushes his curls back with one hand, his rings catching the light, and fixes Louis with a look that makes his stomach flip.
“You’re quiet,” Harry says again, voice soft but threaded with something… else.
Louis shrugs, pretending to tread water like it takes all his focus. “Just concentratin’ on not drownin’, mate.”
Harry smiles faintly, slow and lazy, his dimples just showing. “Liar.”
Louis scoffs, eyes flicking away. “You love callin’ me that, don’t you?”
“Only when I’m right.”
Another wave rolls through, shifting them closer. Harry doesn’t move back this time. Neither does Louis.The silence stretches, thick with unspoken things, until Louis hears himself ask, almost without meaning to:
“What do you think I’m lyin’ about, then?”
Harry tilts his head slightly, curls clinging damp against his temple. “About what’s goin’ on in that head of yours.”
Louis forces out a laugh — too sharp, too quick. “Loads of things go on in here.”
Harry smiles again, but it’s softer this time, almost careful. “I only care about the bit that’s lookin’ at me like that.”
That makes Louis still — really still.
The current pulls at his legs, but he doesn’t move, can’t.
Harry’s eyes are green fire in the sunlight, steady and unguarded, and Louis feels the bottom drop out of his chest.
He swallows hard. “Like what?”
Harry doesn’t answer straightaway. He lets the silence breathe, stretching it until Louis feels it everywhere — in his chest, his fingertips, the salt drying on his lips.
Then, quietly: “Like you want somethin’ you won’t ask for.”
Louis forgets how to breathe for a second. His throat goes tight, heart pounding hard enough to hurt.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, words dissolving before they can form. Harry takes one slow step forward in the water, closing the space between them until their knees brush under the surface. His voice drops, rough and low:
“Am I wrong?”
Louis forces air into his lungs, his voice shaky when it finally comes. “You’re never wrong, are you?”
Harry’s mouth curves — not quite a smile, not quite not. “Sometimes,” he murmurs, “but I don’t think I am right now.”
Another wave laps against them, higher this time, salt stinging Louis’s skin where the sun’s warmed it.
He should step back.
He doesn’t.
He lets Harry stay close — too close — until he can feel the soft heat of his breath above the cool drag of the current.
“Haz…” he starts, but the rest gets lost, swallowed by the space between them.
Harry tips his head, curls dripping against his forehead, voice like velvet when he answers:
“Yeah?”
Louis closes his eyes for a beat, trying to ground himself, but it only makes him more aware — of everything. The sea, the sunlight, the sound of Harry breathing.
“This is… mad,” Louis whispers.
Harry hums, low and easy, leaning closer until his nose almost brushes Louis’s. “Yeah,” he says softly, “but it’s us.”
The words hang there, heavy as the heat curling between them.
Harry’s gaze drops — deliberate, unhurried — from Louis’s eyes to his mouth. He stays there, looking, and Louis feels it everywhere, down to the soles of his feet.
“Tell me to stop,” Harry says, voice barely a rasp now.
Louis swallows, heart in his throat, every muscle in his body strung tight. “I… don’t want you to stop.”
That’s all it takes.
The first brush of lips is feather-light, more breath than touch, but it knocks the air out of Louis’s lungs anyway. Harry hesitates, searching his face, waiting for any sign he’s gone too far. There isn’t one. Louis leans in that last fraction, and then it deepens — still soft, still slow, but real now, warm and salt-slick and undeniable. Harry’s hand comes up under the water, settling lightly at Louis’s hip, fingertips cold from the sea but steady, grounding him. The other curls briefly around the back of Louis’s neck, thumb brushing damp skin just beneath his ear.
Louis’s knees nearly give out.
He curls one hand into the water between them, the other finding Harry’s shoulder, half to hold him back, half to keep him close. He can feel the heat rolling off Harry’s skin, contrasting the cool sea, making him dizzy.
It’s unhurried, languid — like they’ve both been carrying this for too long and finally let themselves breathe.
The kiss breaks for a second, their foreheads resting together, both panting quietly. Harry whispers against his mouth:
“Told you I wasn’t wrong.”
Louis lets out a shaky laugh, eyes still closed. “Always a bloody show-off.”
Harry grins softly, lips brushing his as he murmurs, “Only with you.”
But before Louis can fire back, Harry kisses him again — surer now, deeper, like he’s finally given up pretending this isn’t what he wants. Louis responds without thinking, without hesitating, and the world tilts. Saltwater clings to their lips, sunlight warms their skin, and for the first time in months, maybe years, Louis feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be. Harry’s lips brushing against his own, tentative at first, as if neither of them is quite ready to believe this is real. The air between them is charged, heavy with everything unsaid — the arguments, the longing, the sleepless nights spent replaying every stolen glance. And then, as though something inside them both finally snaps, the hesitation vanishes. The kiss deepens even more — sudden, desperate, hungry. Fingers clutch at skin, pulling each other closer until there’s no space left to breathe, no room for second thoughts. Harry tastes of something familiar and yet entirely new, warm and intoxicating, and it sends sparks racing under his skin. Every emotion from the past few months crashes into this single moment — frustration, aching want, heartbreak, relief. It’s a wildfire, consuming, unstoppable. The world outside could collapse and neither of them would notice; all that matters is the press of lips, the shared heat, the unspoken promise carried in every breathless touch. When they finally break apart, foreheads resting together, their breaths come ragged, shaky. Neither speaks — there are no words big enough to hold what just passed between them. The silence hums with everything they feel, and for the first time in months, it’s enough. The waves have carried them a little closer to shore.
Louis opens his eyes, meeting Harry’s gaze, and something silent passes between them — something big and unspoken but mutual, undeniable. Harry’s hand lingers at his jaw, thumb tracing lightly along the edge. He doesn’t look away when he whispers, voice low and careful:
“Lou.”
Louis swallows, chest tight, and whispers back, “Yeah.”
Harry hesitates, like he wants to say more, then just smiles — small, soft, private.
“C’mon,” he says finally, nodding toward the beach. “Before we turn into ice blocks.”
Louis huffs out a laugh, shaky but real, and follows him in.
The sand is hot beneath them, warmed by hours of sun, and Louis swears he can feel the heat seep straight into his bones. Salt dries tacky on his skin, leaving faint trails where droplets had run, and his hair sticks damply to his forehead. He drops onto his towel with a groan, limbs heavy, chest still pounding faintly from the swim — from everything. Beside him, Harry flops down too, stretching out on his back with a soft sigh, arms above his head, curls falling into his face. He looks… undone, in the best way. Cheeks pink from the sea air, lips bitten-red from salt and sun and —
Louis looks away fast, jaw tightening, staring up at the cloudless blue instead.
For a few minutes, neither of them says anything.
The only sounds are the gentle crash of waves, gulls calling somewhere distant, the hum of insects in the dunes behind them. The quiet isn’t awkward. It’s heavy, thick, but easy somehow — like they’ve both decided words would ruin it. Louis closes his eyes, feeling the sunlight hit his face, warming away the sea chill. He focuses on his breathing, on slowing the hammering of his heart, on pretending the memory of Harry’s lips against his isn’t still burning through him like static.
Then Harry shifts beside him — just enough to brush their elbows together.
Louis opens one eye lazily, pretending not to notice. Harry doesn’t move away.
Instead, after a long pause, Harry hums, soft and low. “This is nice.”
Louis huffs a laugh, short and quiet. “Not drownin’, yeah, it’s proper lovely.”
Harry tilts his head toward him, lips quirking. “Not just that.”
Louis turns fully now, squinting against the sun. “Go on then.”
Harry doesn’t answer immediately. He rolls onto his side instead, propping his head up on his hand, curls falling forward, green eyes cutting straight through him. “Just… bein’ here,” Harry says finally, voice quiet but certain. “With you.”
Louis swallows hard, looks back at the sea. “Sappy git,” he mutters, but it doesn’t come out sharp.
Harry smiles wider, dimples deep, unbothered. “You love it.”
They fall quiet again after that, but something’s shifted. Louis can feel Harry’s gaze sometimes — lazy, lingering, drifting over him like sunlight warming skin. And every so often, Harry shifts just enough for some new point of contact: a knee bumping gently against Louis’s, an ankle brushing sand against his own, fingertips grazing when he adjusts his towel. Each touch is small, casual enough to pass for nothing, but Louis feels every single one.
At one point, Louis stretches out his legs, sighing as he digs his heels into the hot sand. Harry mirrors him automatically, and their calves brush lightly. Neither of them moves.
“Do you ever stop?” Louis asks suddenly, voice softer than he means it to be.
Harry blinks at him. “Stop what?”
“Thinkin’,” Louis clarifies, turning his head to face him. “All that stuff in your head — lyrics, melodies, whatever else goes on in there. Does it ever… stop?”
Harry considers, dragging his lower lip gently between his teeth. “Not really,” he admits. “But this…” He gestures lazily toward the sea, the sand, the stretch of empty coastline around them. “…This comes close.”
Louis studies him for a moment, chest tightening unexpectedly. “Nice, that.”
Harry smiles faintly, like he knows exactly what Louis isn’t saying.
Another long stretch of silence follows, softer this time, less charged, more… full somehow.
Louis tilts his head back, letting the sun soak into his throat, and shuts his eyes. He hears Harry shift again — slow, unhurried — and then feels it: fingertips brushing faintly against the side of his hand. He opens his eyes, glancing down. Harry doesn’t look at him, doesn’t move his hand away, just lets their pinkies barely, barely touch.
Louis doesn’t pull back either.
“You think we’re mad?” Louis asks suddenly, voice low, nearly lost under the surf.
Harry hums, eyes still fixed on the sky. “Bit,” he says simply. “Doesn’t feel wrong, though.”
Louis swallows hard, staring at their hands. “No,” he admits. “Doesn’t.”
Harry turns his head at that, meeting his gaze fully. There’s no teasing now, no grin, just quiet honesty in the soft green of his eyes. “Feels a bit like finally,” he says, almost under his breath.
Louis looks away, throat tight, pretending to squint at the horizon. “…Drama queen.”
Harry chuckles, low and warm, brushing his knuckles deliberately against Louis’s this time. “Still not denyin’ it, though.”
The warmth between them builds — slow, steady, inevitable.
It’s in the sunlight, the salt drying on their skin, the quiet lapping of waves against the shore. It’s in Harry’s soft hums and Louis’s shallow breaths, in the way neither of them can seem to shift further apart even if they tried. Minutes bleed into each other, the tide inching closer, soaking the edges of their towels, but neither of them moves.
“Haz,” Louis murmurs eventually, voice rougher than before.
Harry tips his head lazily toward him. “Yeah?”
Louis hesitates, then shakes his head, lying back down. “Nothin’.”
Harry smiles faintly, like he knows better, and lets it go.
When the breeze picks up, Louis shivers slightly, goosebumps prickling over damp skin. Without a word, Harry shifts closer, shoulder brushing against Louis’s as he leans back on his elbows, sun warming his chest.
“You cold?” Harry asks, glancing sideways at him.
Louis shrugs, trying for nonchalance. “‘S fine.”
Harry hums softly, then — very deliberately — lets his arm rest along the sand behind Louis, not quite touching, just there. A shield. A promise.
Louis bites the inside of his cheek, pretending not to notice, but his entire body is buzzing. At some point, Harry lies back fully, arms stretched above his head, chest rising and falling in a lazy rhythm. Louis can’t help watching — the way sunlight paints golden lines across his skin, the way damp curls stick to his temples, the faint pink at the tips of his ears.
Harry turns his head suddenly, catching him. Their eyes lock.
Louis freezes.
Harry grins, slow and knowing. “Starin’,” he teases.
“Not!” Louis fires back instantly, looking away too fast.
“Sure…” Harry says softly, still watching him.
The tension coils tighter and tighter, so thick Louis can almost taste it.
Neither of them moves. Neither of them speaks.
But Harry’s hand drifts again — closer this time, fingertips brushing just barely against the inside of Louis’s wrist, feather-light, testing.
Louis exhales shakily, turning his head, meeting his gaze fully this time.
Neither of them looks away.
They don’t kiss again, not here, not yet. But the air between them feels like it’s buzzing, charged, suspended.
Harry smiles finally, soft and small, breaking the spell without shattering it. “Sun’s doin’ me in,” he murmurs. “Gonna fall asleep right here if we don’t move soon.”
Louis swallows, nodding, dragging his gaze away. “Reckon we’ll both fry if we stay much longer.”
“Mm,” Harry hums, rolling lazily onto his side so they’re almost face-to-face now, close enough that Louis can see every fleck of sunlight in his irises. “Let’s stay a bit, though.”
Louis hesitates, then nods, lying back too. “Bit, yeah.”
By the time they finally peel themselves off the sand, the sun has shifted lower, shadows stretching long and soft across the dunes. Louis dusts sand from his legs, wincing when he brushes against skin still tight with dried salt.
“You’re burnin’,” Harry says behind him, voice warm, faintly amused.
Louis glances over his shoulder, pretending nonchalance. “Cheers, Mum.”
Harry smirks, standing there in the shallows of the late light, hair drying into soft curls that catch the wind. His t-shirt clings damply to his chest where he’s thrown it back on without bothering to towel off, and Louis looks away fast, focusing on shaking out his towel instead.
Harry notices. Of course he does. But he says nothing.
The walk back along the coast is quiet, their feet sinking into cool sand where the tide has crept up. The waterline glimmers under the fading sun, the breeze soft, briny, smelling faintly of seaweed and salt.
Louis tugs at the hem of his shirt, breaking the silence first. “Didn’t think we’d be out here this long.”
Harry hums, shoving his hands into his pockets as he strolls. “Didn’t plan it,” he says, glancing sideways at him. “Not complainin’, though.”
Louis snorts lightly. “’Course you’re not. You got your little secret paradise.”
Harry’s lips twitch. “Might’ve kept it hidden on purpose.”
Louis raises a brow, kicking at the sand. “Why?”
Harry looks forward again, thoughtful, curls whipping gently in the wind. “…’Cause not everything’s for everyone,” he says softly after a beat. “Some places… feel better small.”
Louis glances at him then, catches the edge of something private, something fragile behind his words, and doesn’t push. By the time they reach the little glass-walled house, the light has turned golden, painting everything soft around the edges. Louis pauses at the steps, looking up at it again, at the way the structure almost seems to float between field and sea, like it belongs to neither and both.
“Still mad you own this,” he mutters, shaking his head.
Harry unlocks the door with a small smile. “Still mad you didn’t know.”
Louis nudges his shoulder on the way inside. “Sneaky bastard.”
“Efficient,” Harry corrects, grinning now as he holds the door open.
Inside, the air smells faintly of cedar and salt, cool and shaded compared to the heat outside. The downstairs is all glass and soft wood, wide windows framing the view of the endless horizon. Louis drops his bag near the sofa, stretching his arms above his head until his shirt rides up, revealing a strip of sun-warmed skin. He doesn’t notice Harry watching. Or maybe he does and pretends not to.
“You takin’ the shower first?” Louis asks casually, toeing off his shoes.
Harry leans against the kitchen counter, twisting one of his rings absently. “Could share,” he says, casual on the surface, but his gaze sharp, deliberate.
Louis freezes mid-step, then throws him a look over his shoulder. “You’re hilarious.”
Harry smirks, unbothered, reaching for a bottle of water. “Just sayin’. Save the planet, yeah?”
“Yeah, right,” Louis mutters, but there’s a flicker of heat under his skin he tries not to acknowledge.
Louis takes the shower first.
The water is hot, steam curling around him instantly, washing away salt and sand, leaving his skin loose, soft, almost humming. He braces his hands against the tiles, letting the spray hit his shoulders, head tipped forward as the day spills over him in fragments — the walk, the laughter, the kiss, the way Harry looked at him like he was something rare.
His chest aches, full and tight all at once.
When he comes out wrapped in a towel, Harry’s leaning against the kitchen counter, barefoot, curls damp at the ends where he’s rinsed off his face. He’s stripped down to loose grey joggers and a white vest, arms inked and golden under the fading light.
Louis stops mid-step before catching himself. “You’re makin’ tea?”
Harry glances up, smiles faintly. “Figured we earned it.”
Louis hums in response, heading to the sofa to dig through his bag. He pauses, frowning at his clothes. “Didn’t pack anything warm.”
Harry looks over, setting the kettle aside. “Drawer upstairs,” he says casually. “Middle one. Got a hoodie or two.”
Louis blinks. “You’re just offerin’ me your clothes like it’s not a big thing?”
Harry’s lips twitch. “Maybe I want you wearin’ my hoodie.”
Louis throws him a flat look to hide the way his stomach flips. “Grow up.”
Harry laughs under his breath, shaking his head, and Louis heads upstairs before Harry can see his grin. Upstairs, the bedroom opens onto the sea, the entire wall facing the water made of glass. The view is staggering, endless blue bleeding into golden light. Louis stands there for a moment, towel loose around his hips, heart thudding against his ribs, before he finally moves toward the drawers.
He finds a soft, oversized hoodie — pale green, worn at the edges — and pulls it on over loose shorts. It hangs low on his thighs, sleeves too long, fabric warm from Harry’s skin.
He stares at himself briefly in the mirror, lips twisting, muttering, “Pathetic,” before heading back down.
Harry’s on the sofa when he comes down, mugs on the coffee table, bare feet tucked under him, scrolling through his phone lazily. He glances up when Louis walks in, gaze lingering a fraction too long.
“That mine?” he asks, nodding at the hoodie.
Louis rolls his eyes, sinking into the opposite end of the sofa. “Don’t make it weird.”
Harry smirks, sipping his tea. “Looks better on you, anyway.”
Louis groans, tipping his head back against the cushion. “You’re insufferable.”
“Comfortable, though,” Harry counters lightly.
Louis huffs out a laugh despite himself, sipping his tea to hide his smile.
They sit like that for a while — soft, quiet, watching the horizon shift through the glass as the sun sinks lower. Conversation flows easy, looping between nothing and everything: lyrics, random stories, half-serious arguments about which crisps are superior. Somewhere in the middle of it, Harry shifts closer, stretching his arm across the back of the sofa behind Louis. It’s casual. Completely casual.
Except Louis feels every inch of it.
At one point, Harry leans forward to refill their mugs, and his knee brushes Louis’s. He doesn’t move it right away. Neither of them comments.
When Harry settles back, their sides nearly touch now, heat radiating softly between them.
Louis tips his head toward the window, voice quiet. “You really don’t get lonely out here?”
Harry glances sideways at him, expression softer now. “Not when you’re here.”
Louis blinks, thrown off balance, and forces a dry laugh. “You practice lines like that?”
Harry smiles faintly, shaking his head. “No I’m just being honest.”
Louis looks away fast, ears pink, pretending to focus on the sea.
The evening slides into soft blue shadows, and the house hums gently with silence and distant waves. The air feels heavy, warm, threaded through with unspoken things neither of them touches directly.
But the space between them narrows inch by inch.
Louis shifts sideways on the sofa, tucking his feet under him, and Harry mirrors the motion automatically, their knees brushing again, lingering this time.
Harry looks at him — really looks — and Louis forces himself not to glance at his mouth.
They don’t speak.
They don’t need to.
The horizon burns gold when Louis finally glances back at Harry.
He shouldn’t — he knows better — but something in the quiet draws him there, like gravity disguised as curiosity.
Harry’s looking out through the glass wall, jaw soft, lashes dipping low as the last of the sunlight spills over his profile.
The kind of view people paint.
Louis swallows and turns away fast, pretending to sip his tea, ignoring the way his fingers shake faintly where they curl around the mug.
Harry notices anyway.
Of course he does.
“Alright, Tommo?” he murmurs, voice low, velvet-soft.
Louis hums without looking at him. “Peachy.”
“Hmm.” Harry leans back, stretching lazily, his arm settling casually — too casually — across the back of the sofa, just behind Louis’s shoulders. “Peachy doesn’t look like that.”
Louis side-eyes him, defensive. “Look like what?”
Harry grins faintly, his dimple flashing. “Like you’re thinkin’ very hard about not thinkin’ about something.”
Louis groans, leaning forward to put his mug on the table. “You’re annoyin’.”
“And you’re avoidin’.”
“Not avoidin’,” Louis mutters, tugging at the sleeves of Harry’s hoodie where they hang loose over his hands. “Just… stayin’ sane.”
Harry tilts his head, curls falling into his eyes, watching him carefully. “…Does it feel like somethin’ to stay sane right now?”
The question lands heavy, thicker than the quiet around them.
Louis doesn’t answer right away. He can’t. Not when Harry’s this close, not when every tiny shift of his body makes the sofa dip and the air seem thinner.
Outside, waves crash soft against the rocks, rhythmic and steady, like background music for something neither of them’s brave enough to name.
Louis exhales slowly, grounding himself. “Dunno what it feels like,” he admits finally, his voice softer now. “Feels like… holdin’ somethin’ down. That’s all.”
Harry doesn’t move for a moment, doesn’t speak — and then, slowly, he shifts closer.
Not touching.
Not yet.
But near enough that Louis feels the warmth radiating off him, feels his chest pull tight, lungs fighting to keep up.
Harry’s voice dips low, quiet but steady. “What if you didn’t?”
Louis blinks, turning his head slightly. “…Didn’t what?”
“Didn’t hold it down.”
He doesn’t get a chance to reply — Harry’s hand brushes against his knee where it rests between them on the sofa, feather-light, almost accidental.
Almost.
Louis freezes, breath caught halfway in his chest, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape.
Harry’s gaze flickers down to where their legs touch, then back up, slow and deliberate.
“You’d tell me if I was pushin’ too much, yeah?” Harry asks softly.
Louis nods once, throat tight. “…Yeah.”
Neither of them moves away.
Minutes pass like that — or maybe seconds; Louis can’t tell anymore.
The golden light softens into blue, shadows stretching long through the glass walls, waves louder now that the air’s gone still. Harry shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing Louis’s as he leans forward to set his mug down. It’s nothing, casual, meaningless — except Louis feels it like a spark down his spine. When Harry settles back, his knee presses against Louis’s again, firmer this time. No pretending, no apologies.
Louis exhales hard, finally blurting out, “You’re doin’ this on purpose.”
Harry tilts his head, pretending innocence. “Doin’ what?”
“You know what.”
Harry smiles — soft, dangerous. “Maybe I do.”
There’s laughter then, quiet and shaky, breaking the tension for half a second. But it doesn’t last, can’t, not when Harry’s still this close, when Louis is still breathing in the salt from his skin, the faint warmth of him curling between them like smoke.
Louis turns his head before he can second-guess it.
Harry’s already looking at him.
The silence shifts. Thickens.
It feels like standing on the edge of something that might change everything.
Harry’s gaze dips — not to Louis’s eyes, but lower.
To his mouth.
Louis notices.
Harry knows he notices.
The air tastes like salt and anticipation.
Harry moves first — just slightly, leaning in, tilting his head enough that Louis can feel the ghost of his breath on his cheek.
Louis’s hand grips the edge of the sofa, holding himself steady. “Haz…”
“Yeah?” Harry whispers, voice rough now, lower than before.
Louis hesitates — and Harry pauses too, waiting, giving him space, offering control without words.
And then — Louis tips forward, just barely, closing the last inch between them.
Their lips meet soft at first, hesitant, testing.
The kiss is small. Gentle.
But it lands like a crack of thunder beneath his ribs.
Harry exhales against his mouth, the sound somewhere between relief and something hungrier. His hand lifts instinctively, fingers brushing along the side of Louis’s neck, warm and careful.
Louis shivers at the touch, leaning into it before he can think better of it.
The kiss deepens just slightly — not rushed, not messy. Just… there. Present.
Two heartbeats syncing up without trying.
When they finally pull apart, it’s not far. Barely an inch.
Harry’s thumb lingers against Louis’s jaw, tracing idle, grounding circles. “Been wantin’ to do that for a while,” he admits quietly.
Louis swallows, nodding once. “Yeah,” he says, voice barely there. “Me too.”
For a while, neither of them speaks.
They just sit there, breathing the same air, sharing the same space, letting the weight of what just shifted settle gently between them.
Then Harry leans back first, slow, like pulling away from warmth you’re not ready to lose. “Should… top up the tea,” he mutters, voice soft, slightly unsteady.
Louis nods quickly, almost too quickly. “Yeah. Tea.”
They move around each other in the kitchen, quieter now, softer. The edges of their touches blur — brushing hands when passing the sugar, standing too close at the counter, shoulders bumping without apology. Louis catches himself smiling more than once. Can’t seem to stop.
They end up back on the sofa later, mugs in hand again, knees touching now like it’s natural, like it’s always been that way.
Louis sets his mug down, leaning back into the cushions with a sigh. “Feels weird,” he says, staring at the ceiling.
Harry glances at him, brow raised. “Weird good or weird bad?”
Louis huffs a laugh. “Good,” he admits. “Just… good in a way I forgot it could be.”
Harry’s lips twitch, soft and fond. “That’s somethin’, then.”
Louis hums in agreement, falling quiet again.
It’s Harry who breaks the silence next, voice low and thoughtful. “You’re thinkin’ about somethin’.”
Louis hesitates, chewing on his lip before finally murmuring, “Work. Monday.”
Harry tilts his head, watching him. “That why you sighed like someone nicked your pint?”
Louis groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Means this little bubble’s gonna burst, don’t it?”
Harry nudges his knee, gentle. “Doesn’t have to. Just means we figure out how to make it fit. S’not all or nothing, Lou.”
Louis looks at him, surprised by the quiet certainty in his voice, and something in his chest loosens.
They sit there until the sky outside turns fully dark, talking low and easy, leaning closer without even noticing. Little touches accumulate — Harry’s hand brushing Louis’s thigh as he reaches for his mug, Louis’s fingers grazing Harry’s wrist when he adjusts his ring, their knees pressing together constantly now, solid and unashamed. Every brush of contact feels deliberate even when it isn’t.
The tension never goes away.
It just softens, folds itself into the quiet.