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This time baby, I'll be bulletproof.

He's got about five or so minutes before he has to clock in. He's good on time. Excellent on time. Perfect, even.

I won't let you turn around and tell me now I'm much too proud. All you do is fill me up with doubt.

The snow and ice that slather the pavement crunch beneath his overly-priced, slip-resistant, water-resistant, seamlessly-black-because-God-forbid-there's-a-splash-0f-character-or-color work trainers, the breeze assaulting his cheeks and threatening to split his dry skin open, slip into the cracks and freeze his bones together. It's a bit fucking Antarctic outside, the sky white and threateningly infinite and on the verge of dumping curtains of soft snow-as it has been, consistently, for the past...three weeks? Give or take?

Louis is a bit goddamn tired of it. To be quite fucking frank.

This time baby I'll be bulletproof.

His headphones are smashed over his ears, burying the noise of the engines idling in the drive-thru, burying the hustled sounds of shoppers who need to just go the fuck home and enjoy the day like any sane, happy-with-thyself human being.

Like Louis would be doing if he didn't have to work.

Like always.

Fuck life, fuck it all.

With a firm expression on his face that is not a frown (he's a pleasant person; he's not scowling because his life is sludge and he works at a goddamn Starbucks, no of course not), he slips one frozen, mitten-ed hand out of the sanctity of his pocket and opens the heavy door to the small, mostly-glass building-thanks to those fucking windows with their fucking smudgy handprints left behind from sticky children and bad-mannered plebeians. Said door-the handle nearly burning through his gloves with its cutting chill-is speckled in stickers that boast of warm lattes and joy and individuality and all the other bullocks that is oh-so-charming.

And he's definitely not frowning.

He's happy. Elated, even.

This time I'll be bulletproof.

The minute he walks inside-leaving absolute zero behind and instead being assaulted with nervous, burning energy-his senses are pelted with the all-too-familiar wave of burnt espresso beans and brewing coffee, the undertones of cleaning product and stressed smiles hanging in the air like fog or precipitation or anything else that is mostly unpleasant and sometimes charming.

It all feels very familiar. Or, as Louis' inner workings have come to begrudgingly label it as: Home.

"Louis!"

Immediately comes the chorus of the green apron-ed bodies as he slips off his headphones (bye La Roux, sweet friend) with a proficient flick, sliding his iPod into his jacket pocket and assessing the zoo at hand.

The line at the till is manageably long, filled with teenagers flicking through their phones (probably searching for their fucking Frappuccino recipes on that goddamned 'Secret Menu') and a scattering of elderly people with pleasant expressions, clutching coupons. The hand-off plane holds a small cluster, but Niall's currently on bar (thank Jesus-he's the most competent of the lot here, quick on his feet and damn good at sequencing and even better at customer service, the little gem) so the drinks are being delivered as quickly as they're coming, all with a bright smile and an "Enjoy the rest of the day!" that tinkles against the stainless steel and porcelain pastry plates.

Thatta boy, Nialler.

"Hey, kids," Louis greets easily, pulling up the dregs of his positivity that are mostly still lying in his warm bed, nestled in the keys of his laptop, and resting in the pages of his notebooks. Strewn on his bathroom floor, near the radiator where his cat usually sleeps. Sitting on his kitchen table where he left it with his smiling sisters and warm mother.

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