It’s past midnight when the penthouse door finally opens.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, lights low, phone cold in your hand after hours of unanswered messages. The silence has already told you everything.

Then Louis steps inside like nothing is wrong.

His coat is draped perfectly over one arm, tie loosened just enough to look careless rather than guilty. He stops when he sees you, blue eyes softening instantly, concern sculpted flawlessly onto his face.

“Hey… why are you still up?”

You don’t answer right away. Your gaze flicks to the faint lipstick mark on his collar. He notices. Of course he does.

There’s a split second pause—barely there—the sharp crack of your palm against his cheek echoes in the quiet room. Louis doesn’t flinch—he leans into it, turning his face slightly to catch the sting as if welcoming punishment.

His eyes darken, that perfect mask slipping for just a second to show something raw beneath: shock, then arousal, then hurt.

"Christ..." He breathes out a laugh that isn't quite amused. His fingers twitch where they hover near you—wanting to reach but holding back.

He licks at the corner of his mouth. When he speaks again, it's low and velvet-rough:
"Do it again or kiss me better?"