Golden | ls au

26.

Louis didn't know how much he missed Harry's London house until they've crossed the front door.

The large, tall walls held so many memories, almost tangible in his head. He recalls being there the first time, all shy and unsure feelings coated in insecurities of being with Harry. It feels so recent, and yet so long ago. After going through so much, he feels relief of coming back to a familiar place, and he can tell that Harry shares the same feelings by the way the singer enters his house and throws his bags by the front door, and does nothing but to drag Louis through the spacious living room, kissing, hugging and then taking naps on the couch to recover from the slight jet lag.

It isn't until around five in the afternoon that Louis stirs awake in the empty cushions to the smell of baker's yeast. He smirks, stretches out and stumbles to the kitchen, finding Harry working on the counter isle. The taller man looks up briefly, and that's all that it takes for the dimples to come alive in his rosy cheeks.

Louis approaches and rests his upper body on the surface of the counter. "We barely got home and you're already baking bread," He mutters. He doesn't fail to notice the way the word "home" makes Harry's lips twitch into a slight smirk, and how the term slides off his tongue so sweetly and easily.

"S'not bread, I'm making a strudel." Harry responds, whisking whatever is in the bowl in his grip.

"A what now?"

"You'll see. It's pretty good."

Louis traces his finger on the counter top, glancing around. There's something besides the memories there that bring him a comfortable sense of domesticity, an intimacy beyond physical. The atmosphere between them is calm, subtle like waves in a low tide.

"Can I help?" Louis asks, tracing the silence with his voice.

"Sure, ahn, grab a bowl in the cabinet, please?"

He complies, circling the kitchen isle and struggling quietly to reach the top cabinets where the bowls are situated. "Bloody hell," He groans, prompting himself to the tip of his toes.

"Can't reach?" Harry teases, glancing back with a smirk that Louis wants to wipe off with a kiss.

"Watch me, Styles." He scoffs, raising his knee on the counter and finally managing to grasp the shiny utensil.

"Oh, I'm watching," The singer mumbles, green eyes tracing the curves of Louis' arched back, warm beneath his hoodie and sweatpants.

The shorter man chuckles and ignores the blush that creeps up his cheeks, and pushes past his boyfriend with a smile on his face. "Got your bowl, what now?"

As it turns out, strudel is a hard recipe to follow. He doesn't know how to work a batter, or how to twist and roll the thing without making a mess on the counters, but Harry manages to take that task while he prepares the filling. He watches as the singer puts all the ingredients and parts together to form a aesthetically pleasing dish, swirls of sweet apples between soft layers of dough, before putting it in the oven.

Harry sets a timer and organizes the coffee table in the living room to have their meal there, and before they have time to take another restless nap, the alarm calls and the recipe is finally done and ready to be consumed.

"I have a private meeting tomorrow." Harry informs between bites of his strudel, feet crossed and prompted up on the couch.

Louis glances over at him, ignoring the TV for a few seconds and the slight frown in his lover's features take all of his attention right away. "You don't sound very thrilled." He points out.

Harry shrugs, picking at a piece of candied apple on the corner of his plate. "It's management stuff. Not my favorite thing to have a meeting about," He pauses, biting on his honey stained lips. Louis waits, consuming Harry's frustrated sigh. "But, yeah, Jeffrey does most of the talking anyways."