We slept in the same bed for space reasons but now we’re just waking up and there’s something about your bleary eyes and mussed hair
The first thing Louis notices when he wakes up is that he’s cold. That in itself is enough for him to open his eyes and sit up in bed.
See, here’s the thing–Louis is somewhat of a blanket hoarder. He’s always cold, so in his flat, he has this tendency to sleep with three or four blankets on the bed, arranged in a specific way so that even when he tosses and turns at night, they stay put, and he wakes up feeling warm and toasty. So being cold upon waking up is a little bit…unusual.
The second thing Louis notices is that there is a log lying beside him, all wrapped up in the duvet of the bed.
The third thing Louis notices is that the log has curls and seems to be breathing.
Harry.
It takes him a moment to remember everything–they’re in some far-off, rural city for a work retreat (Liam had called it an ‘inter-office bonding session’), and there weren’t enough rooms booked that Louis had to share with Niall. Which was all fine, except Niall had forgotten that he and Louis were sharing and chained the door, which left Louis stranded without a bed to sleep in. So Harry, gracious, charming, courteous Harry, had offered to share his bed with Louis, and, well.
Now they’re here, with Harry having hogged the duvet all to himself.
Louis rolls his eyes, and leans over to find the gap in the duvet cocoon, wriggle his (freezing) hand into it, and poke Harry on the forehead. He doesn’t do it too hard, but apparently it’s enough for Harry to wake, his brows furrowing and his green eyes blinking open sleepily.
“Huh?” He says, his voice low and husky in a way that Louis’ never heard before. “Whussit?”
See, Louis may be a lot of things, but he’s definitely not blind. So like the rest of the office, he can recognize, and appreciate, objectively how attractive Harry is–with curls and dimples and green eyes and tattoos. However, unlike the rest of the office, he isn’t actively trying to date Harry Styles. He thinks the man deserves to go to work everyday without co-workers–male and female alike–throwing themselves at him and trying to get an ounce of his attention.
But there’s something to be said for the way Harry looks with his curls all out of order, for the way he blinks, slow and sleepy. For the way his voice sounds, low and rough that it ignites something beneath Louis’ skin.
He ignores it.
“Hey blanket-hog, rise and shine!”
Harry groans, buries his face into the duvet. “Go ‘way,” he says, his voice muffled by the pillow. “’m sleeping.”
“Nope,” Louis says, and proceeds to try and pull the blanket away from him. “You gotta get up now.”
“It’s early,” Harry whines, turning his face so the words come out louder and clearer. “No one has to get up. Why’re you up? Go back to sleep.”
Louis rolls his eyes fondly. “Well, I would, except I’m fucking freezing and someone appears to have stolen the blanket.” He tugs at the blanket.
As expected Harry clutches onto it. “Mine,” he says.
“C’mon, Harry, I’m freezing!”
“My blanket,” Harry says again. “My bed. You’re only a guest.”
Louis pouts. “So you’d leave me to freeze?” He asks. When Harry doesn’t answer immediately, he sighs. “Fine. If I die of hypothermia, you better confess to the police that you straight up murdered me–hey!”
“Oh my God,” Harry huffs against his neck. Because somehow, in the middle of his sentence, Harry managed to unwrap himself from the blanket cocoon, throw the duvet over himself and Louis, and wrap them together tightly. “Holy fuck, you’re freezing.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Louis says haughtily, and then presses his super cold hands onto Harry’s stomach.
The hiss Harry lets out is enough to make up for how cold he is. “God, okay, fine,” he says. “Here, you’re gonna be warm now. So let me sleep.”
Louis doesn’t say anything to that, and it’s quiet for a while, only the sound of Harry’s rhythmic breathing to be heard. Slowly, Louis feels himself warm up–a much faster process due to the immense amount of body heat Harry gives off, and soon he’s warm and toasty.
“See,” Louis hears Harry say, and he turns to see Harry peeking at him with one green eye, a lazy grin spread out on his face. “You’re pretty hot now, aren’t you?”
Louis resolutely doesn’t think about how that sounds. Instead, he thinks of other things–the way his feet are tangled up with Harry’s, the way his hand is still pressed against Harry’s defined stomach. Thinks of how their co-workers throw themselves at Harry, how they flirt despite Harry’s gentle rebuffs. Thinks of how he’s become the one person in the office who doesn’t flirt with him, who doesn’t make his words into an innnuendo or an implication, because Harry deserves to go to work without people constantly treating him like some sort of sex object.
And when put like that, it’s easy to decide what to do.
Louis clears his throat. “Um, yeah,” he says. “Thanks Harry, you’re a great friend.”
And he knows, he just knows, he’s said the wrong thing when the grin slips off Harry’s face.
“Sure,” Harry says. “Whatever.”