The Box [h.s]

16

Waffles.

Sweet, soft, and so delicious that I could almost feel their texture in my mouth, crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside. I imagined them drenched in a generous drizzle of honey that slowly cascaded down, accompanied by fresh blueberries, juicy strawberry slices, and thin banana slices. The aroma rising from that fantasy made my stomach twist in anticipation, as if it were already ready for the feast.

I stretched lazily, letting my mind continue to wander in that image, imagining in such detail the breakfast I was about to prepare that I could almost feel the warmth of the freshly made waffles. It was so vivid that I would swear I could smell them, as if the sweet scent had filled the room before I even started cooking.

My eyes opened slowly, and I blinked, trying to become aware of the white ceiling in front of me. I turned my head to the left, expecting to feel the familiar warmth of the balcony, but instead, all I found was the view of the window. I blinked again and turned to the right, expecting to bump into the back of the couch, but instead, I saw the nightstand with that perfume whose scent had become imprinted in the memory of my room.

My room.

I sat up in bed so quickly that a sharp pain shot through my head.

What the hell am I doing in my room?

I inhaled deeply before finally getting out of bed. My body, though relaxed from sleeping on a mattress after days, felt heavy, while my head throbbed with unbearable pain and a nauseating sensation coursed through me. I brought my hands to my face and rubbed it with cold water from the sink, not needing to look in the mirror to know how disastrous I must look. Damn hangover. Damn Zayn and his bottle of vodka.

Shit. Zayn.

I rushed out of the room, not even finishing drying my face before the aroma of waffles stopped me just before entering the kitchen.

So it wasn't my imagination.

I leaned slightly forward, observing the scene before me, completely different from what I had expected to find.

The sound of a plate being placed on the counter broke the silence, followed by the figure of the curly-haired man handling the waffle maker with the skill of an expert. With precision, he took the freshly made waffles and placed them in a bowl, then focused on the fruit he had cut, decorating them carefully. It was curious to see him take the chocolate bottle and almost empty it over his plate, but my attention drifted when his voice resonated in the air.

"Good morning, Drunking Beauty."

I ignored the startle his comment caused in me and straightened up, cautiously moving towards him.

Once I sat on one of the stools by the counter, Styles turned to me, offering me a plate of waffles with fruit, leaving the honey and chocolate beside me to choose from. I frowned, watching him as he sat across from me with his own plate overflowing with fruit and chocolate.