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    Summary

    Louis is still behind him, insistently teetering from one foot to another, breathing against his neck in short, warm puffs and he feels so nice and sleep warm, smells so good, like the laundry detergent they use, like the Acqua di Gio he wears, like the coconut shower gel he probably steals from Harry, because Harry’s sure it’s his own and he’s even more certain that Louis doesn’t have his own bottle of the same thing, and Harry feels pure want tugging somewhere behind his ribcage, inside his tummy and it’s horribly unfair, he thinks.

    Or, the one where Harry can't stop wanting Louis, they see each other naked a few times too many and showers are a magical thing.

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