Harry Styles is a sensible, responsible man.
Louis Tomlinson is a rude, disobedient boy.
What happens when Louis' mother is fed up with his behavior and calls the only person she can think to call, her old friend Harry Styles.
Can Louis trust Harry...
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Louis' POV:
"Here come the pussies." Brad was staring at us, a look of disgust on his face as we walked to class.
"Oh you hear that, Louis? We're pussies." Brendon turned his head to smirk at me as we walked.
"Huh. What do you think, Brendon, are we?" I raised my eyebrows, smiling back at him.
"Only one way to find out." He shrugged, tilting his head to the side. We shared a knowing look, both silently agreeing on the plan.
Brad and his friends were eyeing us down as we approached them, all attempting to look as tough as possible.
"Are we supposed to be afraid of Tomlinson?" Brad laughed along with his group. "The same kid who sobbed in the principals office?"
I felt my blood start to boil, but I didn't show it. Word got around about the panic attack I had at school a couple weeks back and of course these dicks thought it was hilarious.
I stepped forward, making sure to block Brendon from punching them.
"I'd watch your fucking mouth." Brendon gritted out. I glanced quickly behind me to see Brendon's jaw was rigid and his fists were clenched tightly by his sides.
"Why are you even here? This is between me and him." Brad rolled his eyes.
"I thought I made it clear enough that it could even get through your thick fucking skull. You got a problem with him, then you got a problem with me." Brendon was not breaking his intense eye contact.
"I can see why you need a bodyguard. Apparently all I have to do is yell and you'll be on the floor crying." Brad smiled cockily at me when his buddies laughed.
"You need some new material; this little obsession you have with me is getting old." I stared at him blankly, gesturing my hands up to show I was unimpressed as I closed some of the distance between us. I saw Brendon out of the corner of my eye following me to stand on my left.
"It's not my fault you're such a pussy. Maybe if you could take a punch instead of crying every time we wouldn't have a problem." Brad snarled.
Without warning, Brad lifted his arm, swinging it toward me. I immediately flinched back, my left eye squinting shut in preparation for the hit—just like I used to.
Instead of feeling a punch, I heard laughter from him and his friends. It was then I saw his fist was still raised, but he stopped a few inches from my face.
I felt my face heat up at the fact I flinched so hard at a fake punch. I was never good at hiding my fear; my father hated that about me.
Brendon charged straight to Brad, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pushing him into the lockers. Brad let out a surprised grunt as his back slammed against the metal, struggling in Brendon's grip.
