Burn Me Like the Sun

I used to be a heavy sleeper until I started living on my own. My first year at university, I had three different alarm clocks that I placed in different parts of my room; by my third year, I was down to one. I could sleep through most things, like the traffic outside my window or Fran using the bathroom to get ready in the mornings, but anything else usually woke me up, especially my mobile going off. So I should’ve learned by now that every time Louis called, it would always be at the least opportune moment, like for instance, when I was sleeping in on my Sunday off.

“You do realize it’s my day off, yeah?” I mumbled through my phone, pressing my fingers into my oily eyes.

“You mean I waited three hours just to make sure I didn’t wake you up and you’re still asleep even though it’s nearly noon?”

“Morning, Lou,” I mumbled, my voice irritatingly husky. I turned over onto my back and squeezed my eyes shut, willing away the sight of Louis waiting impatiently by his iPhone all morning, his knee bouncing anxiously as he stared it down with his fingers intertwined in front of his lips.

“Did you have plans on sleeping this fine day away? Because that would just be a right shame.”

I sat up and pulled my fingers through my dark copper hair – a gift from my father’s side of the family – which had stuck up in different directions as I slept.

“Nothing official,” I hesitantly admitted, my muscles already tensing up.

It had only been two days since the disastrous charity event that Louis had scored for Margaret. He had sparingly texted me since then, but I had ignored him, mostly because I was irritated. He had a strong personality, something that always seemed on the verge of becoming out of control, and it permanently put me on edge. Having to deal with a drunk, prissy, depressed Louis – all rolled into one night, nonetheless – meant I had hit my threshold for at least the weekend, if not until the summer holidays.

“We should hang out,” he said, his voice picking up. “I’ve got some words about your slimy goalkeeper’s actions on the pitch yesterday.”

“Now?” I hesitantly asked, sitting up. I pulled the sheets from my body, my legs already too warm in the flannel pajamas I had on. Spring had come too swiftly for my liking.

“Well, today would be nice,” he chuckled. “But, I mean, if you’re busy or something, I get it. I mean, we could always—”

“Seeing as you already woke me up from my hardly-needed beauty sleep, I guess I could spare the rest of the day in your company.” I pressed my palm against my face and sighed, letting my eyes creak open like termite-ridden windows in a weedy house. “But I’ve got some coursework – an essay and some reading. I can’t really hear you complain about the Magpies all day.” I scoffed. “Not that I’d want to, anyway.”

“Brilliant.” I could actually hear him smiling over the phone. “Yours or mine?”

The breath hitched in my throat, and I stared at the mirror that I had hung against the back of my bedroom door, taking in my wide-eyed and tired appearance. With the way my hair was sticking up on end, it looked like someone had shocked me in my sleep, the electricity shooting my hair in every direction possible.

As much as I didn’t want to brave the tube to get to wherever it was that Louis lived – most likely some posh townhouse smack-dab in the middle of Chelsea – my interest had been piqued since the day I learned that he roomed with his band mate Harry. It was hard enough imagining how Louis lived, especially with any sort of lifestyle he could afford at his fingertips (not that I had actually spent my free time thinking up Louis’s house). But with a second, world-famous, cocky womanizer under the same roof, I couldn’t even start to imagine what their living situation was like.

I was also wary of hanging out with Louis at his own place just for the simple fact that it would mean he trusted me more than I did him, or at least enough not sell him out. I could blab his address and pass code or whatever odd security measures he had to the first fanatic on Twitter that would listen. As stupid as it sounded, such a sense of trust made me nervous. Before, there really wasn’t a threshold to gauge my friendship with Louis. We’d just hung out a couple times and that was it. But now that he was inviting me over to his home, I felt daunted. Anxious, even.

But what hovered over me like a dark cloud, more than Louis’s offer to hang out at his house, was the paparazzi. If Louis wanted to drive his flashy car over to my flat, no matter how much I’d rather he come to me than I to him, he would most certainly be followed. Not only that, but if he were followed, the paparazzi would take notice of my building, as it’d certainly not be the first time he’d get photographed parked outside. The last thing I needed was more attention, and if I could somehow sidestep any sort of spotlight aimed at Fran or my flat or anything else that had to do with Louis’s odd relationship with me, then I’d take that chance.

“How about yours?” I finally suggested, my cheeks burning. I could feel every inch of my body start to buzz like electricity with the way my nerves screamed against my skin. “I feel like a little walking today would do me some good.”

|||

I was right about one thing. Louis did live in Chelsea.

It took me a little over an hour after he woke me up to take the tube to South Kensington, but then I had to walk a fair distance to find his townhouse, which took another half hour and too much squinting at the map I’d printed off. I got lost a couple times, but I eventually found the bricked house wedged on the side of the road, bordered by similar, yet mismatched townhouses and a black iron fence. The spaces between the thick iron rods were filled in with planks of weathered wood, all a light chestnut color. The sharp spires were almost tall enough to keep a bloke with a ladder out of his garden, or even the odd fan girl. It was all at once intimidating and brilliantly breathtaking.

There was an intercom next to the smaller of the two gates; the other I assumed was just for cars, as the spires were thicker and it stretched quite a distance. I pressed a red button on the intercom, then took a step back, hoping I hadn’t pressed the wrong one.

Louis’s voice came crackling through, a stark difference in quality compared to the rest of his house.

“Yes?”

I licked my lips, trying my damndest to hold back a smirk.

“Oh my god, are you Louis Tomlinson?” I gushed, pitching up my voice so I sounded like some pre-teen on the verge of fainting. “Oh my god, I’ve found your townhoose, haven’t I? Is Harry in? Oh. My. God!”

I should’ve known my accent would’ve given me away, because Louis didn’t even fall for what I thought was an telly-worthy imitation of a schoolgirl. He started laughing the second his voice came over the intercom, harsh and breathy and grating to my ears. “Took you long enough. I knew you’d get lost.”

I scoffed. “I didn’t get lost,” I argued. “Everything just looks the same ‘round here.”

“Right.” He laughed again, the higher frequencies amplified by his old intercom. “I’ll be down in a tick.”

Apparently to Louis, a tick meant seven and a half minutes, because by the time he opened the smaller gate and poked his head around the corner, I’d made myself comfortable on the concrete ground, my knees bent in front of me as I stared back challengingly at the few people that passed me with worried, sometimes frightened expressions. I added it up to the fact that not very many rich people would wait in front of a house with their bum on the footpath, let alone walk someplace to begin with, even in a city as compact as London.

I snapped my head to face Louis when he laughed, the sound crisp and familiar.

“Sorry it took so long.” He stepped out from behind the gate, his hands stuck in the pockets of his maroon hoodie. “The kettle went off.”

“Tea’s more important than me?” I clicked my tongue at him as I stood up, crossing my arms over my chest. “I should’ve known.”

“Ah, it’s comparable,” he teased, pulling me in for a quick, unexpected hug. I barely had time to react before he retracted his arm back from around my side, taking the warmth of his body with him.

He closed the gate behind us and led me to his front door across a set of stepping stones that winded about his front garden. He hopped along the way, his elbows sticking out from his sides as he kept his hands in his pockets. I precariously stepped around the rocks, instead opting for the lush grass under my feet as I took in the handful of flowerbeds spread along the perimeter of his garden.

“I’m glad you decided to come over to my place,” he told me, waiting for me at the top of the steps to his doorstop. I glanced at him, my attention still drawn to a bed of carnations that had yet to blossom placed just next to the concrete driveway. “Couldn’t resist?”

I snorted and carefully climbed up the front steps. “No, it’s the paparazzi, mate.” I pointed to his front gate over my shoulder and rolled my eyes. “I’m sure they’re always parked outside your place, especially with that menace of a housemate of yours.” I shrugged as he gave me a confused look, the one that dimpled the skin between his eyebrows. “They put me on edge is all.”

He sighed and nodded, biting his lip as he cast a sidelong glance at me. He looked almost torn for a moment, but then he unscrewed his mouth and shook his head as he grinned. “You’ll get used to them pretty soon, I reckon.” He reached for the doorknob and twisted it open, pushing against the heavy front door with his shoulder in one swift motion.

“Until then,” I said, passing him and stepping into his foyer, “I think it’s best if I just take the tube over here. You attract too much attention for my liking. Whoa.”

Louis came up behind me, shutting the door quietly as I took in what I could see of his house.

All I could see from my spot in the foyer was a straight staircase leading up to a first floor, bordered by white handrails at the top. The walls were painted a matching white, so bright and fresh and new that I nearly had a hard time keeping my eyes open. I could just make out a garden right outside a set of double sliding doors in front of me beyond the staircase. My eyes caught a flicker of blue amongst the evergreen of the lawn, a chlorinated hue not unlike Louis’s eyes. The ceiling seemed to go on for stories above me, only stopping at a wide skylight that illuminated the corridor with a swath of natural light.

“Would you like a tour?” Louis asked, stepping around me as he eyed me amusedly. “Not that it would be much. My house isn’t all that impressive.”

I scoffed and finally tore my eyes from the skylight above me, eyeing Louis incredulously. “Stop trying to be so modest, you smarmy arse,” I chided.

Louis stuck a hand into his trousers and positioned himself in front of me, his head bent as he nervously combed his fingers through his blow-dried hair. “How about we start with the living room?”

I bit back a laugh as he swung his arm in a grand gesture to my right towards a wide-set doorway outlined with black paint, one of his eyebrows shooting up as he pursed his lips in attempts to pull a funny face.

I followed him through the doorway, stepping carefully as though I were a young girl sneaking through a stranger’s house uninvited and trying not to get caught. I followed Louis closely until he stopped at the center of the room, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he turned around in place.

“You like it?” he asked me, looking proud of himself.

I bit back a laugh. “You have a wall of Nerf guns.”

He made a face, seeming almost disappointed for a second. “A man’s got to have his toys, Blake.”

“You have a wall of Nerf guns!” I repeated, waving my hand to the far side of the room as I tried harder to bite back the laugh that was pushing against my throat.

The front half of the living room seemed normal enough for two young, rich blokes: on adjacent sides sat two long, black leather couches with a large TV mounted on the opposite wall. On either side of the telly hung One Direction’s first two albums, framed with their Platinum BPI certifications and an enlarged print of their respective album covers. A worn, secondhand coffee table was set in the middle of the room, littered with old magazines and a couple of books, as well as a mug of tea.

A matching reclaimed cabinet was positioned under the telly, along with a set of expensive-looking speakers perched on top. One of the cupboard doors hung ajar, revealing a mess of power cords, along with an abandoned Xbox game case. On the opposite side of the room was a small bar with two stools, complete with a stainless steel mini-fridge off to the side (which I could only guess housed either a perpetual supply of beer or some of the world’s most expensive high-proof liquor) and a pyramid of three highball glasses stacked on top.

But at the other end of the living room, up on a raised platform, stood the rest of Louis’s toys. Quite literally.

Besides the baby grand piano and the handful of expensive-looking guitars hung proudly on the wall, the only thing that really stuck out – at least compared to the rest of his living room and the fact that Louis was 21 years old – was a glass case filled with Nerf guns of all shapes and sizes. There was even foam ammo stacked in an open wooden chest just under the illuminated displays, filled up past the brim. It was the young schoolboy’s equivalent to a Scotsman’s hunting lodge, complete with Japanese pistols and glow-in-the-dark rifles. There was even a set of matching tactical vests pinned to the wall, both of them well-stocked with darts. The entire collection was bathed in a wash of light provided by the strategically positioned light bulbs in the ceiling above. In the corner, I spotted a row of sliding light switches, all of which were turned up the entire way.

“We buy them a lot. On tour. I end up bringing them home with me.” He brushed past me and headed for the wall of toy guns, hopping onto the raised platform, his hands still deep inside his hoodie. “They kept piling up, so I thought I’d give them a proper place in my home.” He spun around, beaming. “It’s at least better than letting them collect dust in the attic.”

“You’re… you’re a child,” I finally breathed, slowly shaking my head in disbelief.

His mouth screwed up as he eyed me hesitantly. “You think it’s stupid, don’t you?”

I sighed and bit my lip. “It’s not a bad thing.” I shrugged, shooting him a thoughtful look. “I mean, I guess I kind of get it.” My brow screwed up and I vehemently shook my head, wagging my finger as I backtracked. “I mean, the whole collecting thing. Not… not the toys.”

“You do?” he ventured, his voice still clipped as he looked at me like I might grab one of his precious guns and pelt him with darts.

I smirked, venturing further to his end of the living room as I spoke. “I own probably over five hundred movies,” I reminded him, sure he remembered the six-foot-tall bookcase that stood in the corner of my room. “And that doesn’t even include the shoeboxes of secondhand DVDs and VHS tapes I left at home when I moved to London. Or the stuff I have downloaded on my laptop.” I chuckled once, just a short laugh. “You shouldn’t even care what I think, anyway.”

“I can’t help it,” he admitted, his ears instantly lighting up like Christmas lights. “I mean, I can’t help it with anyone. Not just you.” He sighed, his shoulders slumping forward as he leaned sideways against the wall next to a gaudy electric guitar with gold hardware. “God, I sound like some sort of lunatic, don’t I?”

“No,” I said, stepping up onto the raised platform, “just neurotic.” I crossed my arms over my middle, gripping my jumper between my fingers as I nodded to the piano. “So who tickles the ivories? Or is it just some decoration so you don’t seem so classless in a sea of old money? No, wait, let me guess, it’s supposed to be ironic with the toy guns and all,” I teased, not believing a single word I said myself.

The blood in the tips of his ears spread to his cheeks and pooled under his skin. Apparently I’d hit a soft spot, because until then, I’d never seen him blush so hard and so easily. He ducked his head and made his way to the jet black piano, his steps short and heavy as the floorboards creaked under his feet. I met him at the piano’s propped top and leaned against the side, taking a short look at the array of strings and nuts and bolts under the top hatch. All I could do was just wait for him to say anything, as there was never really a quiet moment when I was around Louis. Even just watching him as he slid onto the piano stool and hovered his hands over the keys, his bird tattoo peeking out from under his hoodie sleeve, made me tense up.

And then he started playing.

I half expected him to just slam his fists on the keys just so he could see me jump out of my skin. Louis was like that, all mischievous and unruly and ready for a laugh. But instead, what I got was a half-danceable, brooding piano piece that sounded so vaguely familiar that it put my brain into overdrive just trying to figure out where I had heard it before. As I went over the films in my head that could’ve used the song in a score, I found myself breathing along with the waves in the song, even holding my breath for the shortest of pauses at the edge of an apex in a phrase. There was a sudden swell in the melancholy piece, and Louis crouched closer to the keyboard, his brow furrowed as he concentrated on his fingers.

The notes soon became choppy, unlike the constant pulse that had been springing from the piano, hitting me in droves both from my hip that was glued to the curve of the wood and through the air around me. Then Louis’s face went impossibly red as he struggled with a long string of fast notes, his fingers fumbling over the keys.

And then he stopped, so abruptly that it shook me from the trance I was in. Even the goose bumps along my arms started to fade, until I was left with a hollow feeling in my bones that I could only compare to a hunger raging deep under my skin. It was as though the carpet had been ripped from under me and all I was left with was the burns at the bottom of my feet.

I wasn’t ready for the song to end.

“Why did you stop?”

I had to coax the words from my throat. It was difficult. And it hurt. It felt like letting my mobile go off in the middle of Communion with how the still silence that followed Louis’s staggering stop had taken a hold of me.

“I mucked it up,” he said matter-of-fact to the piano. He reached for the lid and slid it shut, the sudden smack of wood against wood nearly making me jump. “Chopin’s right tricky.”

“It was…”

I racked my brain for a proper adjective, but came up short, my nerves still rattled by the song. Not to mention I had yet to place the piece, so my brain was still humming just going over all the possible films in which I might’ve heard it. So far I could only come up with The Pianist, but I already knew that wasn’t it.

“Good,” I resolved, nodding my head as I bit my lip. “It was good.”

“I’m taking proper lessons.” He said this like it was his get out of jail free card, like I was the tough as nails celebrity judge on some telly program. Though come to think of it, he was probably feeling like I was judging him. He must’ve never grown out of that feeling of being harshly critiqued, especially since it was how his singing career started in the first place.

He slid his hands over the black finish and glanced at me only briefly before turning his attention back to the baby grand.

“I love the piano.” He licked his lips and looked back at me, matching my gaze. “I honestly love playing the piano. Harry… Harry, he gets annoyed when I practice, though. On this one.” He tapped it once with his finger. “So usually I’m up in my room. I have an electric one in there, like with headphones, yeah? It’s always nice when he’s out of the house, though. So I’ll just sit here with a good cuppa and, erm, practice for a couple hours. It’s so much more peaceful when he’s not trying to take over the room so he can play FIFA. It’s bollocks, seeing as he has the same exact telly in his own room.”

He got all of this out without taking much of a break to breathe. The crinkles around his eyes came out when he smiled as he finished his spiel, his eyes still matched with mine.

Then it hit me like that sudden urge to vomit you get the morning after a heavy drinking binge, coupled with the dull, brick-like feeling that replaces your brain. Every nerve ending in me was screaming.

Louis was human.

It sounded so simple, and so stupid, and so judgmental of me. But until then, I always brushed Louis off as just another celebrity. Nothing more, nothing less. He wasn’t just the sum of all his parts, past and present. All I saw when I looked at Louis was just a bloke with a fancy haircut, nice clothes, and a rainbow of the same style of Vans that, all things considered, probably cost as much as my flat’s rent.

But no, he wasn’t just some nice clothes and an expensive Beemer and a bunch of weird tattoos that looked like they were copied from a children’s coloring book. And he hadn’t always been this insanely famous pop star, either. He wasn’t always so cocksure, he wasn’t always so vapid. He hadn’t always been so rich, so popular, so infuriating. He wasn’t always this way.

And he definitely wasn’t always how I’d painted him.

He could get embarrassed and he could get nervous. I’d seen him angry and drunk and irresponsible and happy and excited. I’d seen him make foolish mistakes and do some things right. He had likes, he had wants. He had a soft spot for children and music in particular. The only difference between him and some random chap off the street was just an extra outer layer of fame, a layer tougher and thicker and harder to get through than anything else that made up Louis.

I felt sickeningly guilty all of a sudden, and my stomach clenched up as my cheeks paled. I tore my eyes from Louis, who was too busy brushing imaginary dust from his prized Baldwin to notice me grip the edge of the piano to balance myself. I felt weak and mean and worthless all at once, and even angry at myself for not only rushing to judge Louis, but not even changing my opinion about him in the weeks I’d gotten to know him.

But apparently all it took to rip off the label I’d marked him with since day one was just a little humility. And not just from Louis, but from me as well.

“I feel like tea,” I proclaimed, pushing off the side of the piano. I stuck my hands into my worn jeans, one of the two pairs I owned, and hopped off the stage, weaving between one of the leather couches and the coffee table.

I could feel Louis’s footsteps shaking the floor as he followed behind me. But when I stopped in front of the French windows that opened up to the street and spun around, I nearly bumped into him, he was trailing so close.

“Well, you’re in luck,” he gushed, spinning me back around by my shoulders and aiming me at the foyer. “Because I make an ace Assam.”

The tea he’d made before I came inside had gone cold by the time he steered me into the kitchen. The area was about the size of the living room on the other end of the house, with the only difference being that there was a wall that stood between the kitchen and the dining room. There was even a breakfast nook with a couch nestled into the corner that faced the street, along with a dark wooden table and a couple of chairs. The rest of the kitchen took up the other half of the room, and was lined with natural-finished cupboards and paintings of random fruit. It was open and clean, meticulously so, which I could only guess was Louis’s handiwork.

He waved me off when I said I was fine with him warming the cold tea back up. But he was too much of a perfectionist to even hear me out when I tried to protest again, and dumped it down the sink the second I spoke.

Louis steeped his tea by hand. I only realized this when he started rummaging around under the island in his kitchen – which was about half the size of my entire kitchen itself – for some loose tea leaves instead of reaching for a box of tea bags left next to his toaster.

“What’s wrong with tea in a bag?”

The top of Louis’s hair just poked over the edge of the counter when I spoke, and I heard a dull thump, which only meant that he had bumped his head against the island. I smiled to myself but wiped the grin off my face when he finally stood up all the way, a glass jar of shredded tea leaves in one hand and a hand-knit cozy in the other.

“It’s just not the same,” he insisted. “Trust me.”

“Oh, and you can tell the difference?” I challenged, reaching for a strawberry off a plate of fruit he had pulled from his fridge. “What, do you have superhuman taste buds or something?”

He set the jar of Assam on the counter and the cozy on top, then reached across the counter and picked up a few grapes, shoving them into his mouth. He chewed carefully and took his time snapping open the lid to the mason jar, all the while watching me amusedly. “Yes.”

“What about tea shops? You’ve got to admit,” I said, tossing aside the stem of my strawberry, “there are some takeaway spots that brew some nice breakfast tea.”

He snorted as he spun around, then made his way to the electric cooker on the far side of the kitchen. He set his fists on his hips and stared down at the kettle just as the whistling started to pick up. “Nothing’s the same as hand-steeped, even if it comes in a teabag,” he contended.

“My mum makes pretty good takeaway tea.”

Louis’s hand hovering over the handle of the kettle stilled, and he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes barely meeting mine before he turned back around. “I thought you said you don’t see you mum very often these days.”

My pulse picked up its pace, and I could feel my hands start to shake. I don’t know why I thought mentioning my mum would be a good idea, but my mouth had always been about as independent from my body as the states were to Great Britain. I clasped my hands together and concentrated on the fruit in front of me, the strawberries and grapes and pear slices all jumbled together just like my train of thought.

“No. I don’t.” I licked my lips and glanced at Louis, but he was too busy having a staring contest with the kettle to see me start feeling the pull of flight or flight in the middle of his kitchen. “She owns a cozy teashop in Wakefield. I worked there one summer when I was still in secondary school.”

“Wakefield?”

He just barely glanced over his shoulder, then went back to the kettle, which was nearly whistling full-blast. He let it go for a few more seconds, his hand still hovering close by. I was considering yelling at him to take it off the stove, as the shrill sound was nearly melting my brain, when he finally plucked it off. He set the kettle on a red trivet and finally twisted around, watching me carefully as he grabbed the ceramic teapot by the cozy, which he’d already warmed in the microwave.

“It’s not too far from where I was raised,” he explained, turning back around and setting down the teapot, swiftly removing the lid.

“Where’s that?”

He glanced at me over his shoulder, his eyebrows nearly reaching his hairline in surprise. “Doncaster,” he said after a moment, still twisting his neck so he could watch me over his shoulder.

“Oh.” I nodded. “Well. It’s no Bettys. But she makes good coffee, as much as I hate to admit it. I wouldn’t be surprised if she starts a chain one of these days, if she ever gets the money.”

Louis smiled to himself. “I can still make tea better than your mum’s. And Bettys, for that matter.” He whipped around and scooped up the Assam, taking it with him as he twisted back to the kettle. “And my coffee isn’t half-bad, either,” he quipped, pointing at me with his thumb over he shoulder as he carefully added the shredded tea leaves to the pot.

“But it takes far too long,” I complained, whining a little. “I’ve had my bum planted on this bloody stool for ten minutes and you’re just starting to steep it.”

“But that’s the thing!” he proclaimed, throwing up a hand as he carefully poured the water. He slipped the cozy over the ceramic pot and brought it with him to the island, setting it in front of me. He matched my pose, folding his arms and resting them on the marble countertop as he watched me. “Isn’t the extra time worth it when it tastes better?”

I huffed dramatically, playing with the leaves I’d pulled off from my strawberry. “You know, I told you I was fine with warming the first pot back up and you acted like it was blasphemy.” I smirked and ducked my head, busying my still twitching fingers with running them through my short hair. “But I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Louis, did you save me the crossword puz—fuck!”

When I spun around in my chair, I discovered Harry Styles standing in the middle of the kitchen, covering the front of his tight, black boxer briefs with a newspaper as his cheeks burned a bright pink.

I could hear Louis chuckling behind me. I couldn’t tear my eyes from Harry, though, as much as I wanted to and save myself the embarrassment. Out of all the boys in One Direction, I could recognize him at the drop of a hat, even before I met Louis at the dentist. He was always in the newspapers and on the telly, and Fran thought he was absolutely fit, too, so of course she never shut up about him. He was famous enough that I couldn’t ignore him even if I hid myself in the smallest town in England and gave up on my dream of writing film reviews to start herding sheep for a living.

And I definitely couldn’t ignore him now, not while he was half-naked, barefoot, and dripping wet in his own kitchen. He held the newspaper in front of his waist like it was a robe, though it barely covered much, as it was folded in quarters. He had tiny tattoos all over his body, as well as a gaudy butterfly on his abdomen and two mismatched birds on his collarbones. His hair was nearly pitch black with water, his bangs brushed across the top of his head, still curly even though he was nearly soaked. He must have just gotten out of the shower, because I could easily smell the musky soap that clung to his skin even though he was just five feet away.

“What did I tell you about walking around without any clothes on, mate?” Louis finally scolded, circling around the island for the cupboards just behind me. “Honestly, you’re lucky, Blake. Sometimes if he’s feeling particularly proud, he’ll skip around naked until he pulls his clothes out from the dryer.”

“That happened one time!” he argued, his voice coming out like quicksand as he pointed a threatening finger at Louis.

“One time too many,” he muttered, glancing at me over his shoulder. I let a gruff giggle get coaxed from my throat.

“I’m just drying off, you sod.” He walked past Louis and me and ducked through a doorway into the dining room at the end of the kitchen before disappearing behind a set of louvered doors. He emerged a moment later, dressed only in a pair of sweatpants. “‘Sides, it’s always hotter than hell itself in this house.”

“I’ll say,” I teased, laughing behind the back of my hand as I pointedly looked at Harry.

He ducked his head and pushed his wet bangs off to the side, smiling enough that his famous dimples pulled at his cheeks.

Louis closed the cupboard doors with enough force that the abrupt smack made me jump. With a couple of mismatched mugs in his hand, he took his place across from me at the island. “Stop staring, Blake,” he teased, his smile tight.

“I can’t. I’m star struck,” I huffed, batting my hand at him.

Harry finally came out from the dining room a moment later, hopping down the single stair step. He took the seat adjacent to me, his shoulders hunched forward as he rested his elbows on the marble counter.

“Obviously I can’t remember all that much, but I know for sure that you weren’t this shy when we first met,” Louis griped, pressing the back of his hand to the teapot to check its temperature.

“That’s because I didn’t know who you were. I know who this bloke is,” I argued, pointing my thumb to Harry, who was flipping the pages of the newspaper he had used to cover himself. “You, my curly-haired friend, are always in the papers.”

Harry looked up, his brow wrinkling as his eyebrows shot up, and showed off his dimples. “I’m a hot commodity.”

I guffawed, then turned back to Louis, who was eyeing me precariously. “Not to mention, Fran has a crush on him. Thinks he’s well fit. God, I won’t hear the end of it when I tell her.”

“Like I said, hot commodity,” he said factually, nodding his head side to side.

“So, what, he gives you the butterflies, but when I’m the one that pops up at the doctor’s, you don’t even recognize me?” Louis clarified, running his fingertip over the lip of his mug.

“Okay, one,” I started, counting off on my fingers, “I didn’t even know you existed, what, a month ago? I’m not a 13 year-old schoolgirl.”

“Yeah, and your impersonation of one sucks, too,” he reminded me smugly.

I rolled my eyes. “And two, he’s… He’s shirtless!” I cried, gesturing at Harry, who had half a strawberry between his lips. “I nearly got a full show just now.”

Harry’s eyes were wider than the bowl of fruit as he stared at me, clearly guilt-ridden. “Am I making you uncomfortable? Do you want me to put a shirt on? Fuck. I’m-I’m so sorry,” he gushed, already scrambling to pick up his newspaper again so he could cover himself.

Louis let out a weak laugh, the sound raspy and tight as the corners of his eyes crinkled. If anyone was uncomfortable in the kitchen, it was obviously him.

But before I could tell Harry I was definitely okay with him having a late lunch with us shirtless, he had already retreated back to what I assumed was the laundry room. He came back out a moment later in a plain black t-shirt, rolling up the sleeves as he made his way back to his stool.

I would’ve asked Louis what was bothering him if I couldn’t already tell it from his face. He wasn’t ready to introduce me to Harry just yet. At least, not while he was half-naked and soaking wet like he just came from shooting a porno.

“So why did you come down? I thought you were going out with Grimmy later.”

Harry shrugged, taking another bite of a strawberry. “I heard you playing while I was showering.” He looked straight at me and nodded over at Louis. “He usually only goes at it while he’s brooding. Especially all that, what’s it? Chop-inn?” he tried, waving his fruit around in the air.

“Sho-pan,” Louis quietly corrected, reaching for a strainer from under the island. He hopped off his stool and went back to the fridge, bringing back a pitcher of milk and a plate of thick Eurosandwiches wrapped in plastic wrap.

“Lou – our, erm, stylist – she made ‘em,” he told me, setting down the milk and pointing to the plate in his other hand. “I can’t cook worth my name. Harry’s—” He paused as he struggled with the plastic, then finally tore it off, the tendons in his hands straining. “Harry’s a fair cook, I’d say. Though it’s mostly just barbecue.”

Harry made a sound of agreement, his brow screwed up as he studied the paper.

“We usually just order out, or go out if it’s not too much of a hassle. Niall knows how to cook alright. Zayn, too. Liam’s, well…” Louis trailed off, glancing at Harry.

“Liam’s brilliant,” Harry finished, reaching for some grapes. “He cooks all the time when we’re on tour, bless his soul.”

The corner of my mouth perked up as I tried my hardest to recall Liam’s face. “He’s the bloke with the buzz cut, yeah?”

“These days ‘s more like a, you know, that word that starts with a Q?” Harry asked, looking back at Louis for assistance.

Louis didn’t pay him any mind, as he was too busy pouring milk into the mugs.

“Quiff?” I tried.

Harry nodded, the tips of his ears going a bit red as he pushed his fingers through his drying hair.

“You have enough for a third cup?” Harry asked Louis as he slid a mug over to me. He nodded and shot to the cupboards behind me again, quietly fishing out a third mug for Harry.

I brought the cup up to my lips, letting the steam waft over my nose. It smelled heavenly. I took a ginger sip, and then another, letting the piping hot tea scald the inside of my mouth and trickle down my throat until it settled into my stomach, warm and familiar.

Louis definitely hadn’t lied about his tea. It was brilliant. And he didn’t have to ask what I thought either, as the second he took in my expression, something halfway between shock and admiration, a satisfied grin hung from his lips.

“So, what’s tour usually like?” I asked, finally setting down my mug before I gave my throat third degree burns. “Besides all the singing and foolish hip-thrusting I’ve heard about.”

Harry bit back a smirk, his lime-green eyes twinkling. He watched Louis as he walked around the island, clearly aware of who was doing said hip-thrusting.

“Tiring. Busy. Homesick.” He shrugged, plucking a couple grapes and rolling them around in his palm. “But worth it. Wouldn’t you agree, mate?”

Louis’s head shot up as he set the pitcher of milk back onto the counter, his forehead wrinkled in surprise.

My heart quivered at his next word. It only confirmed the epiphany that shook me just moments ago when he played the piano for me. The word slipped so effortlessly from his lips, quiet but serious, like he was talking about a childhood pet or his own child. In a sense, all of this – the fame, his music, his whole life for the past three years since he was on The X Factor – was his child. I couldn’t even imagine the commitment and all the relentless work he’d put towards touring and recording and writing songs.

His cheeks burned as he tucked his chin to his neck, his eyes focused on the tea he was pouring for Harry, his own mug still empty next to his elbow.

“Always.”