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You Wound Me, Styles

Blanket

Actually, it was a disappointment for me, seeing as in my second meeting with Harry Styles, I was caught in my slob mode.

My mouth was stuffed with crisps; my naturally fiery red hair was up in a messy bun; my ice blue eyes were wide in shock, blinking every now and then.

"Um, hi," I said, instantly swallowing the dry food. I would have offered my hands, but my fingers were covered with crisp bits. I merely stood up and let a smile grace my red lips. "My name's actually Arabelle. Arabelle Rose Morel."

"I'm Harry Styles," Harry said in his silky accent. "You were in the bakery earlier." I wished he hadn't mentioned that. He was grinning, though.

"Oh, look at that, you two have met already," Aunt Elizer giggled.

My aunt might have been trying to run a match-making service here, from what I could tell. I instantly blurted out, "Well, Harry, you're probably tired from working. You should probably go home."

I hadn't realized how rude I sounded, but as thick-headed as I was, I insisted on sending Harry Styles home. "I... yeah, maybe I should," Harry said finally, then turned to my aunt. "Thank you for letting me visit."

"So early? But you haven't even been here for—" Aunt Ellie began saying.

"Thanks for the visit, Harry," I interrupted, letting a smile stretch my lips. After I slammed the door behind me, my dearest aunt shot me looks of daggers.

"That was extremely rude of you, Rosie." She crossed her arms over her chest firmly, and she tapped her foot. Oh, brother. "He was interested in you. Very interested. Is that how you treat a friendly boy who wanted to welcome you?"

I snorted a small "ha!" and quickly added, "Auntie, he seems like the flirty type."

"Ah, well, you'll most likely change your mind later on," Aunt Elizer assumed. "I'll draw you a map to his house, so you'll know where to find him."

I gave my aunt an odd look. "Auntie, you're encouraging me to go to this boy's house alone?"

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Later that day, my dearest auntie tossed the map through the slit under my bedroom door, and I nearly scrunched the paper up into a ball and threw it away. But I didn't.

Why? Because my guilt was eating me up.

So the next morning, I woke up earlier than usual, baked up some fresh strawberry shortcake, and tried to make a presentable wrap for it. I finished it all in about five hours, and it was well-worth it.

I changed to a big long-sleeved shirt and wore skinny jeans. I stuffed my phone and keys in my pocket, grabbed the map and cake, and headed for the outdoors.

The breeze was icy, nipping at my cheeks incessantly, but my mind was already set, and there was no turning back.

It would be an utter lie if I said I didn't get lost on the way to Harry's house, but the main thing was that I got there (probably in two hours or so). I rang the doorbell, and...

I dropped the cake splat on the ground.

My hands instinctively rushed upwards to block my eyes, and I squeezed my eyelids shut. "Do you answer your door naked?" I asked, not daring to take a peek.

"Oh, sorry," he said apologetically, and he closed the door for a short while. When he came back, he was donned in a regular attire (hallelujah for that). As realization sunk in, I gaped at the squished cake on the ground. My hard work...

"I meant to give you that cake as an apology," I told him quietly. "I'm sorry for being rude yesterday. I don't know what was with me yesterday. But I'm pretty harmless, honest."

Sleepily, he scratched the back of his neck and said in a low morning voice, "Isn't it cold outside? Come inside." He grabbed my wrist and led me inside.

"But the cake—" I protested, eyes ogling at the wasted cake on the ground.

"We'll make a new one," he said, voice clipped. "Come on, your hands are freezing cold. Don't you know better than to wear only a shirt in this weather?"

I didn't realize how cold I actually was until my body began trembling violently at room temperature. Harry sat me on the sofa and wrapped me gently in a blanket, sweeping my hair up and caressing it.

"Whose blanket is this?" I asked softly, scrunching myself under the covers, clutching at the blanket tightly.

"Mine." He went to the kitchen, doing something I couldn't see.

"Harry..." There was a pause of hesitation. "... do you sleep naked?"

I felt my cheeks heating up and glowing pink as I questioned him innocently. I was afraid of what his answer might be, but the curiosity that sparked in me was overpowering.

"... yes. Yes, I do."

"Should I feel awkward now?" I loosened my grip on the blanket, reluctant.

"No, love, you should feel absolutely wonderful." I couldn't identify the sarcasm in his tone, but I pursed my lips. With a mug of hot chocolate in one hand, he marched toward me and handed me the delicious drink.

"Thank you." I took a sip. "Has anyone ever told you that you're overly kind to strangers?"

"I'm only kind to certain strangers," he grinned playfully, dimples and all.

Notes

I don't own One Direction. I wonder if people actually take time to read this.

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