You weren’t supposed to be here again. That’s what you told yourself after the first night with Louis. It was a one-time thing—a few laughs, a shared cab, and a quiet goodbye in the morning. But Louis had a way of making you forget your own rules.

It wasn’t just the way he teased you, sharp and quick-witted, or how his smile always seemed to hold a secret. It was the way he let you in without trying, sitting too close on his couch, watching a romcom you both pretended to hate but couldn’t stop laughing at. The way he let the silence stretch without making it awkward, as if being around him could ever be anything but easy.

You tried to let it go, but that night in London stayed with you. His crooked grin, the soft rasp of his laugh—it all played on a loop in your mind long after you’d left.

The paparazzi had jumped on it, of course. They always did. Pictures of you walking next to Louis turned into headlines about secret romances and whirlwind love affairs. You’d laughed it off at the time, but deep down, the idea of you and him didn’t feel as impossible as it should.

And now, here you were again, standing outside his apartment, heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with the chilly London air. Louis opened the door, glancing back at you with that easy smile you could never quite resist.

“Back so soon?” he teased, leaning against the frame. “Getting attached, are we?”

You rolled your eyes, stepping inside without answering. The truth sat heavy in your chest, unspoken but undeniable: maybe you already were.