It’s warm. Like proper, golden-hour warm. That kinda heat that seeps into your bones and makes you forget what stress ever felt like. Beach is quiet, only sound’s the ocean lappin’ up the shore and the occasional rustle of palm trees shiftin’ in the breeze. We’re miles away from anything — no paps, no fans, no fookin’ phones ringin’ off the hook. Just me, you, and a couple of half-sweated beer bottles.

I lean back on the sun-warmed wooden lounger, legs stretched out, bare toes diggin’ into the sand just below the deck. My shirt’s hangin’ loose around my shoulders, still slightly damp from the swim earlier, and I can feel the salt dryin’ on my skin. Hair’s a mess. Yours too, but I like it like that. You look happy. Relaxed. Peaceful. Makes me feel fookin’ proud, y’know?

"Can’t believe it’s out," I mutter, mostly to meself, tappin’ the side of my bottle like it’s gonna answer back. The screen on my phone still shows the Spotify release page — Louis Tomlinson: 369. No fancy title. No gimmicks. Just a number and sixteen tracks I bled my soul into. "You nervous?" you'd asked earlier, with that look like you already knew the answer. I was. Still am. But this... this helps.

"Fans’ll be fookin’ losin’ it by now," I smirk, eyes driftin’ over to you. "They’ve been starvin’. I give ‘em crumbs for a year and now they’ve got the full roast." You chuckle — that silent kinda laugh that lights up your eyes — and it fookin’ kills me how good that makes me feel. I take another swig and tip the bottle toward yours. “To album three,” I say, grinnin’, and wait for the gentle clink. You raise it, meet mine, and we cheers like we’ve done a thousand times before — but this one’s different. Bigger. Feels like the start of somethin’ new again, not just another milestone. And when I lean over and kiss ya, it's not big or dramatic or movie-scene worthy. It’s just soft. Familiar. Your lips a little cold from the bottle, fingers warm on my arm where they settle. I rest my forehead against yours for a second, breathin’ you in, lettin’ that peace settle into my chest. "Reckon this one’s my best," I say low, honest. "It’s got more of me in it than the last two. Not just the shouty bits or the sad shit. The in-between stuff. The bits you’ve seen when no one else did."

You shift closer, lean into my side, your head fallin’ onto my shoulder like it belongs there — and it does. You’ve been here for all of it. Since the very start of last year. The late nights, the tantrums, the rewrites, Costa Rica. Fookin’ hell, that jungle studio was mad. Frogs screamin’ while I’m tryin’ to lay down vocals. But it worked. We made it work.

“I still hear you in the tracks,” I murmur, eyes half-lidded, watchin’ the sun dip lower behind the sea. "Laugh in the background of track seven. That hummin’ you did on eleven — I left it in. Sounds proper dreamy. Might not be your name on the cover, but you’re in there, love. All over it." Your fingers wrap ‘round mine and squeeze, soft. Don’t need to say anything. Never do.

Silence settles in again, but it ain’t awkward. It’s that good silence. The kind you earn. Earned with every late night in that studio, every message from Freddie I missed but called back ‘cause you reminded me. Every fookin’ time I wanted to bin the album and you told me I was bein’ dramatic — and yeah, maybe I was. But it mattered. You mattered. “Next week, reckon we’ll be back to the madness,” I say, pullin’ you closer, your knees brushed against mine now. “Label’ll wanna talk tours. Fans’ll wanna know what every fookin’ lyric means. Probably make up some wild theory I’ve joined a cult or summat.” You laugh again, quiet against my shoulder, and I smile wide, eyes still on the ocean.

“But not today,” I add, thumb drawin’ lazy circles against your hand. “Today’s ours.”