The day soon ended, and today's event was hidden under my memories. At about four o'clock in the afternoon, a box of strawberry shortcake was delivered to my home, and I was caught a bit off-guard.

"Uh, Harry bought this and told me to give it to this house," a man with a stark black moustache told me. I couldn't help but notice how his moustache, which was very distracting, wiggled as he spoke.

It looked quite funny, but thankfully, I could still keep a straight face.

"Harry?" I echoed as he passed me the box of cake. "Harry Styles?"

"Yeah," Mr. Moustache said. "The one who works in the bakery."

"...oh." I blinked rapidly, which made me slightly dizzy. "Thank you."



It was another morning where I awoke right when dawn was rising with a dull glow. Coldness filtered through the attic cover above my bedroom ceiling, and I curled up to a tighter ball under my bed covers. I was freezing.

After a few more tossing and turning, I had gotten convinced that no amount of whirl-winding on my bed would get me back to sleep.

Afterward, I decided to slip into my comfy t-shirt and shorts, all ready for outside jogging.

As stupid as I was, I plunged into the outdoors with nothing but my thin gym clothes and started working on my feet and pace. I easily brushed off the iciness that tried to cling onto me for the first ten minutes.

However, as minutes raced past, I could feel my legs numbing at the temperature and eventually, my body couldn't help but tremble wildly.

Instinct told me to find the nearest shelter, and would you look at that? Harry's house was right across the street.

Of course it would be.

My eyes started getting misty, and I tried my best to blink off the unwanted tears. Knocking on his front door, I repeatedly shouted, "Harry? Harry, please answer the door!"

I could barely feel my knuckles battering against the wooden door; that was how cold I was. My whole body could also use some thawing. Then, all of a sudden, snowflakes drifted downwards.

"Harry? Please, just please, open the door!" My shouts slowly turned into frantic pleads.

"What's all the shouting about?" Of course, his British accent coated his words like sweet honey.

Quivering like a trembling leaf, I stuttered, "I-I-It's sn-snowing o-outside"—I pointed at the ominous clouds overhead that were spitting snow at me—"S-See?"

"I can see that," he nodded, his eyebrows almost meeting together. "What did I tell you yesterday about clothing?"

"I-I w-wasn't th-think... ing," I replied. "C-Can I p-please c-come i-inside?"

In a matter of minutes, he led me inside (he was fully clothed then) and left the bathtub water running for me. There were some lit candles adorning the washroom, each flaming with a soft yellow.

Blushing, I stared at Harry. Staring, watching. Oh, would heplease just finally understand?

"What's wrong?" he asked at first, and I averted my gaze, my cheeks heating up. "... you can't take off your clothes?"

My eyes widened at his blunt words, and my cheeks have never felt so hot before.

Of course I really couldn't take off my clothes at that time. My hands were far from being defrosted, all numb and solid, and it felt like my fingers would shatter into minuscule icicles if I tried to wiggle them in even the slightest bit.

"Alright." He sounded determined. "Do I... wait, I can't seem to figure this out... I won't look."

He squeezed his eyes shut to assure me it was alright. He began stripping off my shirt, then my trousers next. His hands were so warm; it felt like every contact was fire licking at me.

"Harry Edward Styles, what on earth are you doing?" A firm, seemingly annoyed voice thundered. When my eyes went to rove over the doorway, a tan, gorgeous woman stood there, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Mum, I... Just look at her, she's frozen," Harry said, refusing to open his eyes still.

Notes

I don't own One Direction. The question is: do you?