Wild Hearts Run Free

Chapter 3

Louis wakes with a start, gasping for air, the remnants of his dream evaporating like tendrils of smoke swept away on a fierce gust of wind. He blinks rapidly, the room coming into focus and for a brief moment he forgets where he is before it all crashes back down on him.

The rain is still coming down heavily and Louis wonders when it will end. He hadn't bothered to check the forecast before he'd set out for his romantic weekend away, such a city boy, going along happily assuming the weather was just a general annoyance and backdrop to his life that he could work around with an umbrella or some sunscreen or a thick jacket. But it's different out here, he realises that now: Mother Nature is not to be trifled with.

He stretches his legs, pushing his toes against the armrest and lets out a yawn, stomach grumbling.

"Hungry?"

"Fuck!" Louis shoots upright, hands clutched his chest as he snaps his head around to find Harry sitting in the armchair, elbows on his knees, staring at him yet again. "Sorry," Louis says on an exhale. "You startled me."

"I'll finish making breakfast," Harry states and gets up, walking into the kitchen as Louis' rabbiting heart slams against his rib cage like it's trying to escape. He glances down at the coffee table and finds his clothes neatly folded and stacked, the edges of his jeans lining up exactly with the creases of his t-shirt, even his socks are tucked and rolled in a perfect ball and it makes his heart lurch for an entirely different reason.

On the surface, Harry comes across as scary and unfriendly, but these little gestures hint at something else. The way he's kept his distance might at first seem standoffish, but it's also respectful. As an alpha alone and isolated with an unfamiliar omega, he's allowing Louis as much space as he can within the confines of the cabin. His willingness to share his home, his clothes, and his bedding isn't necessarily unexpected given the circumstances. It could easily be viewed as simple human decency, but the consideration and precision with which he'd made Louis' bed up last night, and now this little pile of clothes, so carefully formed and presented, has Louis smiling fondly at the alpha's kind gesture.

He decides to get dressed again in Harry's clothes for now, not wanting to keep him waiting, so he slides the flannel shirt over his shoulders and pulls the trousers on under the blanket. He wanders over to the small dining table and sits down, letting his fingers trace the grain of the wood, so smooth and beautifully polished. The cabin is filled with many more pieces of handcrafted wood and now that he's taking the time to observe them, he can appreciate how stunning they all are. The table and chairs with intricately turned legs, the slab of wood for the coffee table, the desk where the radio sits, the kitchen cabinetry, shelves, all of it. Whoever made this furniture is a true artist and incredibly talented.

Harry's back is to him where he's standing at the stove, something sizzling in the pan. The table is set with a coffee pot and cups along with a small jug of milk, a bowl of sugar, and some jam in a little crockery dish. It's all very civilized.

"Is there anything I can help with?" Louis offers as he straightens the cutlery and notices the beautiful wooden vase with a leaf carved into the grain, a single daisy and a few sprigs of rosemary held within. Harry really is full of surprises.

"No," Harry says softly and then almost as an afterthought, he tacks on a stilted, "thank you," as he glances over his shoulder and gives Louis a small smile—the first Louis has witnessed—before turning his attention back to the pan on the burner.

It was only the briefest of glimpses, but Louis notes that Harry's face was entirely different without the furrowed brows he's become accustomed to seeing.

Harry is young, Louis observes, perhaps around Louis' age, certainly no more than twenty-five, and even more handsome in the morning light, dim as it might be with the sun still blocked by the storm. His hair is held back in a high ponytail today, soft curls licking at the nape of his neck, a red and black flannel shirt over his broad shoulders and hanging loosely over his torso. As he shifts around, the material clings in places, accentuating his tapered waist which leads down to his shapely but strong thighs, encased in a similar pair of brown trousers to the ones Louis is currently wearing. Perhaps he just buys them in bulk Louis muses, conjuring up an image of Harry's wardrobe with neatly hung pairs of identical pants in a row at one end and green, red, and blue flannel shirts at the other.