“You care,” he suddenly says, quiet and pleased in the bitter air.

Louis blinks, confused. “Sorry?”

“You care about me,” Harry clarifies, every word said with a tiny smile that packs a thousand punches to the throat. “You don’t want me to smoke because you’re worried.”

Oh jesus.

“Alright, alright, calm down now, pup,” Louis bristles, suddenly self-conscious and too warm.

But Harry’s smiling up at the stars, swallowing them up in his eyes. “I’m just saying,” he comments idly.

“Yeah, well,” Louis gruffs, taking another drag. He exhales, watches the smoke pool out in a stream as he resists rolling his eyes, tries to remain aloof. “Don’t write a poem about it, or anything.”

Harry merely smiles in response, still staring up at the sky above.

God, this fucker. This honest, forthright, sweet fucker. Louis will not fall further victim to his whiles. He has to at least retain some sense of pride, hasn’t he? God.

It’s not two minutes later that Harry speaks again, dissolving the calm, smiling silence settled between them.

“Hey, Lou?” he hums, casual as anything.

“Hm?”

“Wanna hear my poem?”

Oh dear god. Seriously?

Gritting his teeth to keep from laughing or grinning or falling over his own two feet, Louis arches an inquiring eyebrow, turning to meet Harry’s stare. Of course, the bastard is grinning, proud and loud and pleased.

Harry blinks, slow enough that Louis briefly wonders if the planet’s begun to rotate slower, has maybe begun to rotate backwards, even. “It goes, ‘He likes me, too.’”

He likes me, too.