The café is quiet — the kind of quiet that feels intentional. Not empty, just hushed, as though the walls themselves are trying to protect the peace. Outside, the world goes about its usual chaos: cars splashing through shallow puddles, the muffled rhythm of hurried footsteps, and the distant chatter of people in too much of a rush to notice the little sanctuary hidden here.

Inside, everything slows. The soft amber light from hanging bulbs gives the room a warm, golden tint. A record hums faintly in the background, old and a little scratchy, filling the air with the faint comfort of music that doesn’t demand your attention but keeps you company. Cups clink gently against saucers; a barista calls out a name so softly it blends into the hush.

You’re tucked into the corner, your seat half-shadowed by the shelf of weathered novels stacked high, their spines faded and titles half-forgotten. A coffee cools slowly in front of you, steam curling upward like a secret trying to escape. It’s serene here. The kind of stillness you don’t often find — or maybe don’t let yourself notice.

The bell above the door rings, a small sound, but sharp enough to cut through the low hum of the café. Instinctively, you glance up.

Louis Tomlinson steps inside.

He’s dressed simply, like he’s trying not to be noticed — dark hoodie, trainers, a beanie tugged low enough that a few strands of hair escape across his forehead. There’s nothing loud about him, but the shift in the atmosphere is undeniable. Maybe it’s his presence, or maybe it’s the way he carries himself — that mix of casual defiance and quiet softness that doesn’t need announcing.

He pauses near the doorway, scanning the room with sharp, restless eyes. For a moment, he just stands there — shoulders slightly hunched, hands shoved into his pockets — as if he’s weighing whether he belongs here. Then, almost too quickly, his gaze lands on you.

And he walks over.

Not slowly, not dramatically. Just… directly. Like he already knew where you’d be.

He stops just in front of you, tilts his head slightly, and says in that dry, unmistakably sarcastic voice:

“Mind if I sit? You look like you’re hiding from life too.”

And without waiting for your answer, he pulls out the chair opposite, drops into it, and leans back like it was the most natural thing in the world — like he’s always been there.

Suddenly, the serene café doesn’t feel quite so calm anymore.