L i a m: A blaze of red breezed down the quiet street, sirens whirring through the warm spring air. All the kids were lined up anxiously at the edge of the sidewalk. Each one standing on tiptoes to see as they bounced excitedly on the balls of their small feet, eyes round and glued to the shiny red truck. The fire chief stepped down from the cab of the truck, bright yellow helmet tucked neatly under his arm. “Good afternoon, kids,” he chimed, greeting them with a professional smile, “are you excited to see how a fire truck operates?” All the children let out ear piercing cheers, clapping in delight as the chief tapped the metal door. Just then, another man hopped down from the back of the truck. With a wide, white-toothed grin, the young, broad shouldered fireman explained in animated detail, what each nozzle and lever was used for. You couldn’t peel your eyes away from his chiseled jaw or his warm chocolate eyes as he spoke. It was evident that he had a way with children, and his vibrant actions spoke directly to your fluttering heart. Before you realized what had happened, the afternoon bell chimed, signaling lunchtime. Gathering yourself, you quickly ushered your students back to the building. A strong hand came to rest on your shoulder, earning your surprised attention. “Hi, I’m Liam,” he hummed, voice carrying a hint of an accent, “I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful you are, and I was wondering. Would you care to go to dinner with me sometime?”
H a r r y: The sky turned grey, storm clouds forming overhead, when suddenly heavy drops of rain came pouring down on your head. Cursing Mother Nature, you scurried along the rapidly dampening sidewalk, desperate for an escape from the spring showers. You quickly ducked into the closest building you saw, sighing a heavy breath of relief from the rising chill forming in the air. The overwhelmingly sweet aroma of chocolate and vanilla wafted into your nose, filling your senses with mouthwatering desire. “Hi there,” a low, sultry voice came from behind you, startling you, “how can I help you?” Spinning around on your heels, your lips instantly curled into a soft smile. “Umm,” you smirked, crossing over to the long, sleek bakery counter, “that depends. What’s good here?” Grinning back at you, you watched as the tall, handsome man wiped his flour stained hands on his white apron, emerald gaze lingering over your body. “Well, something as sweet as you, deserves only the sweetest things to touch her lips,” he purred, reaching for a pan of freshly baked chocolate cupcakes. Popping one from the cooling rack, he raised an eyebrow at you as he expertly swirled a dollop of cream cheese frosting in the center. Handing you the warm cupcake, he flashed you a dimpled smile. “For you,” he hummed, “and maybe in return, I could get your number?”
L o u i s: You sat in the bleachers, blue plastic clipboard resting in your lap as you watched the players rush across the freshly groomed turf. “C’mon, off sides ladies, off sides,” the coach’s voice called across the field, his own clipboard tucked beneath his arm as he cupped his hands around his mouth. Shifting on the cold metal seat, you tucked your hair neatly behind your ear, absentmindedly chewing a hangnail on your left hand. You tried to focus your attention back on the jersey clad players running in the grass, but your eyes refused to keep from wandering back to the handsome, foreign coach. Shaking your head at yourself, you glanced down at the list of players on your scout sheet, centering your concentration on their technique, and the stamina they portrayed. The roster in your fidgety grasp portrayed all the best stats you were looking to recruit, yet you couldn’t keep your mind from trailing back to the statistical ten residing in the young coach’s ass. He paced back and forth along the edge of the field, his intense sea blue eyes briefly flicking to where you sat. He flashed you a flirty smile, before stopping to quickly scribble something on the back of his papers attached to the clipboard. Holding it up for you to see, it read, “coffee after practice?” in his untidy scrawl. He watched pleasantly as a grin spread across your face, and you nodded, lips forming a delighted “yes.”
N i a l l: The clock seemed to tick painfully slow, the minutes dragging on and on as you sat in the crowded classroom. Pen gripped between thumb and forefinger, you absentmindedly chewed on the plastic end as your professor talked through the battle of Little Bighorn. History certainly wasn’t your favorite subject, but you couldn’t seem to tear your eyes away from the handsome blond standing at the head of the room. The way his smooth, pale pink lips formed each syllable drew your mind to fantasies of feeling those lips move in rhythm against your own. The soft lilt of his voice, Irish accent low and enticing, left you hanging on his every word. Just then, the chime of the bell yanked you from your daydreams, forcing you back to reality. Leisurely, you packed your laptop and textbooks back into your messenger bag, eyes continually flicking to where your professor stood hunched over his desk. Hoisting your bag over your head, you cautiously approached him. “Excuse me, Professor Horan,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady and casual. “Yes, Miss (Y/L/N)?” he smirked, stalking slowly closer, “can I help you?” Color flushing your cheeks, you glanced briefly at the floor. Closing the remaining distance, you placed a hand timidly to his chest, fingers toying with the small buttons on his chest. “You tell me,” you purred, giggling as you rose to your full height and pressed your lips firmly with his.
Z a y n: Stepping onto the subway car, the smells of oil and something stale, mixed with the lingering scent of smoke from a recently extinguished cigarette. It was crowded, everyone in a rush to get on with their hectic lives. Scanning the dirty space, your eyes searched for an empty seat. “Need a seat?” a deep, sultry voice came from beside you. Your eyes fell to the stranger, his chocolate colored eyes twinkling brightly as he smiled up at you. “You can squeeze in beside me,” he continued, lifting his leather jacket into his lap to make room for you. You flashed him a grateful smile, maneuvering your way through the masses of bodies clogging the stuffy car. Shimmying in beside him, you leaned casually against the hard metal bench. “Thank you,” you murmured, smiling politely in his direction. “No problem,” he crooned, extending his hand out to you, “I’m Zayn, by the way.” Placing your hand gently in his palm, your eyes fell to his caramel skin. His hand was soft, and sleek. Smooth, like marble behind all of his black, ink filled tattoos. “You ever thought of getting one?” he asked, voice carrying a hint of humor as he let his thumb linger along the back of your hand. “Hmm? Sorry,” you retorted, furrowing your brow in confusion. “A tattoo,” he chuckled, pushing back the sleeve of his t-shirt that hid the impressive art marking his skin. “Oh, uh, I– I don’t know,” you shrugged lightheartedly. Getting to his feet as the subway pulled to a stop, he slipped a business card into your grasp. “Call me,” he coaxed, “if you decide you’re interested.” With a charming wink, he disappeared into a sea of surrounding strangers.
