He laughs at all your jokes, no matter how stupid they are. Even the ones you throw out absentmindedly, not expecting a reaction—he finds a way to laugh like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day. And it never feels forced. It’s like he just gets you, in that rare, effortless way that doesn’t need explaining.

You, the most famous singer in the world—sold-out stadiums, late-night interviews, glittering award shows—and Louis Partridge, beloved British actor and the face of every magazine cover, had been dating quietly for just over a month. It still felt unreal sometimes. It wasn’t official-official yet—no red carpet moments or carefully crafted Instagram posts. No public declarations. And neither of you had dared to drop the L-word. But it hovered there, unspoken, in the warmth of every look, every touch. It was bound to happen soon.

The sun had just started its lazy climb up the horizon, washing the sky in pale oranges and sleepy purples as you rode shotgun in his car. The city around you was barely awake, and it felt like the world belonged to just the two of you. You wore his oversized hoodie—black with a faded logo from a band you couldn’t name—and his sweatpants cinched tight at your ankles. Underneath, probably one of his T-shirts too, though at this point, you weren’t even sure which clothes were his and which were yours anymore.

The night before had been… well, eventful, to say the least. Your voice was still a little raspy from laughing too hard, from singing along to his old vinyls, from whispering secrets in the dark when the city outside your window had finally gone quiet. You hadn’t gotten much sleep, but you didn’t care. You needed a day like this. No cameras. No handlers. Just Louis, his hand warm on the gear shift, and a playlist softly playing in the background.

He glanced at you briefly as he pulled up to a red light. His profile was sharp in the early light—messy curls, long lashes, that ridiculous jawline. You felt him reach across the center console, fingers finding yours without hesitation.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmured, his British accent soft and sincere. Like he wasn’t even thinking about it. Like it just slipped out.

You turned to look at him, lips parted slightly, caught off-guard—not by the words, but by the way he said them. Like he’d been meaning to say it all morning. Like maybe he’d been saying it in a hundred little ways already.

A smile crept across your face, shy despite everything. “You’re just saying that because I’m wearing your clothes.”

He shook his head slowly, his eyes still on the light in front of him, though you could tell his mind was still on you. “No. I mean- you could be wearing anything. Or nothing. Or- I mean-” He paused, laughing a little at himself, clearly flustered now. “You’d still be the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

The light turned green, but he didn’t move right away. He just looked at you again, and for a second, everything went quiet. The song on the radio faded into the background. The honk from the car behind him didn’t register.