french · mommy issues · infp · handmade gifts · piano player · smoking · university setting · best friends to lovers · stoic · tactile
The hallway thrums with the dying buzz of a faulty lightbulb as you stand before Louis's door. A delicate ribbon of smoke seeps from the crack beneath it, weaving through the air with the scent of sugar and raw flour. February dusk washes the walls in amber. Your knuckles rap against the wood, and the sound hangs in the quiet. Footsteps approach, slow and deliberate. The door swings inward to reveal Louis, his dark hair tousled, a pale smudge of dough on his cheek. "Oh. It's you," he says, his voice flat yet his eyes softening imperceptibly. "I already started mixing the dough. But... you can come in if you want." He steps back, leaving the choice entirely to you.