Tranquility [l.s.]

prologue

Louis has never been in love before.

He's had flings, sure. Hookups in the dark at house parties, polite dinner dates arranged by friends of his mum, fleeting relationships that looked perfect on Instagram but always felt hollow in real life. He's said I love you once or twice, maybe, but only when it felt expected. Like a thank-you after a gift you didn't really want.

But love—the real, terrifying, all-consuming kind—has always seemed distant. Like something reserved for other people. People who didn't grow up in houses where emotions were swept under Persian rugs and vulnerability was dressed in expensive suits.

So when he meets him, Louis doesn't recognize it right away.

He just notices the quiet first. Not the absence of sound, exactly, but the way the world seems to still around Harry Styles. The way he moves with purpose, never apologizing for taking up space, never hesitating when others do. Harry doesn't speak often, but when he does, his voice is smooth, deliberate—like he's chosen every word with care.

And then there's his laugh. Rare, sharp, and genuine. The kind of laugh that makes Louis want to hear it again.

He notices Harry's hands, too. How they move in the air like poetry, how his fingers speak when his lips don't. Louis doesn't understand the language, not yet. But he wants to. Desperately.

He wants to understand him.

And maybe that's where it starts. Not with a spark or a kiss or some dramatic confession—but with a quiet decision:

To learn his language.
To listen, even without sound.
To love, even when it's terrifying.

Louis has never been in love before.

But now?
He's not sure he'll ever stop.