Word Count: 1,680
Rating: PG
The cold September wind collided against your tan skin, making you shiver. You usually didn't mind fall weather, but today was especially chilly. As your boot-covered-feet slapped against the pavement, you neared your favourite store.
Starbucks.
You let out a happy sigh as you neared the familiar building. No matter how many times you visited the shop, you could not get past the beauty of it. Maybe it was the delicious coffee or the freshly baked pastries, but there was just something sentimental about the building.
Walking through the doors, you were greeted with a hello from your friendly barista, Tom. He was usually working every afternoon after school and the two of you had grown close over the span of a year. As you strolled over to wait in the one-person-line behind the counter, your eyes drifted around the compact shop. It was abnormally empty, and besides the blond haired man in front of you, there were two other customers in the shop.
Sighing, you bit your lip and stared off into space, waiting for your turn to give Tom your order. And then it all happened so quickly.
Your turned your head a bit to the right, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw it. You saw him. He was beautiful, like the boy you had always dreamed of when you were a child. The prince in all the fairy tales of your youth.
However, you also were so infatuated with his looks, you did not realize his fumbling fingers. The fingers that were fiddling and stumbling over the edges of his freshly made coffee. Finally, the beautiful man lost his grasp and coffee almost flew out his hand.
And landed on your new, white sweater.
You naturally flinched back, which only allowed the coffee to rush down your sweater and fall onto your darkened jeans. The man yelled, "Oh shit," his thick foreign accent sliced through the air and captured your full attention. As he frantically fluttered around, you remained motionless, staring. Your eyes swam over his tan face, that you thought was probably even darker a month ago. The blond hair atop his head was sun-kissed and if you did not know any better, you would think he was just a surfer.
He wasn't a surfer, but a singer. This boy. . . This man. . . This incredible stranger was Niall Horan.
Niall Horan just spilled coffee on you.
Suddenly, your hand reached forward and you snatched a handful of napkins off the counter. You flicked his hand away and began to wipe your sweater off. It was ruined; the sweater; however, your day wasn't.
"I'm so sorry," he said, probably for the 100th time.
"Aw, it's okay. I didn't like this weather anyway," you chuckled, staring sadly at the mud-coloured stain.
"Here," he said, his voice filled with an emotion near sadness. "At least take my sweatshirt."
"It's fine."
"Please. Take it." His eyes were full of hope and apology; it would be hard to resist his offer.
"I-" you were interrupted as he moved behind you. You felt your face heat up and then you felt his body heat slamming against your skin. He was so close and then he was so far away. His fingers slid the clover green sweatshirt upon your shoulders and he was standing back in front of you.
"Zip it up. It'll cover the stain."
You looked down as you zipped it up, feeling lightheaded. Maybe it was the smell of him intertwined within the fiber of the sweatshirt's fabric, the smell that you hoped to remember for the rest of your life. The zipper stopped above the stain and you hoped you still looked alright.
