It's finally nice enough out so that Harry's time spent indoors has decreased dramatically, and his restlessness, while far from sated, has been lowered down to at least a somewhat manageable level. Things have been...okay, for the most part, aside from the fact that he's been distant; he doesn't mean to retreat into his head in that way that he does sometimes, but there's just been so fucking much on his mind lately that it's almost impossible for him to not. Things have become increasingly difficult, what with the proposal, and Louis' confession before hand, and Harry's beginning to wonder when he's going to start feeling like he's engaged instead of just drifting still.
The slight breeze isn't enough to chill him, despite the short sleeves he's sporting, and he turns back towards the bakery, his reflection in the front windows enough to make him pause slightly. It's not that he looks bad, it's just that -- well... When he squints his eyes, he can see passed it to where Louis' stands, back to him, working on something or other, and he asks himself for the hundredth time this week if it wouldn't just be better to get everything off his chest -- to tell him, tell his fiance, what's been bothering him. It's just hard, when he still doesn't entirely trust him, which sounds stupid, all things considered, but is what it is regardless; the bell over the door jingles as he slips inside of the shop, the smell enveloping him, and drifts over to prop open one of the windows before approaching the counter.
