The air was thick with summer heat, the kind that made the nights feel longer, softer, like time had slowed down just for you.

Feet up on the dashboard, wind tangling through your hair, Louis sat beside you, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gearshift. He had that look again, the one that made your stomach feel like it was falling and floating all at once.

"You know," he mused, stealing a glance at you, "you look ridiculously good in my clothes."

You rolled your eyes, tugging at the oversized sweater you stole from his suitcase days ago. "You say that like you didn’t give this to me on purpose."

"Maybe I just like seeing you in things that are mine."

The streetlights blurred past in golden streaks. You hated how easily he got to you, how a simple sentence from him could rearrange the entire layout of your heart.

"You do this a lot," you muttered.

"Do what?"

"Make me feel things I don’t want to feel."

Louis laughed, rich and warm, like he knew exactly what he was doing. He reached out, fingers brushing the side of your knee, featherlight but grounding.

"And what are those things?" he asked.

You hesitated. Looked at him. Took in the curve of his lips, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the way he drove like he had nowhere better to be than next to you.

"You're so annoying."

"Mmm, no. Try again."

"You’re..." you exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "I might just be in love with you if you keep this up."

The corner of his mouth twitched. Smug. Dangerous. Beautiful.

"Then I guess I’ll have to keep it up, won’t I?"