You’re sixteen years old and really popular at school, and have never really cared about your grades. That was, until the headteacher pulled you into his office and said that if your grades didn’t go up, you can’t play football for the schools team anymore. Then you cared. A little. He picked a lad, Harry Styles, to tutor you personally. You’d seen him like, once. Never spoke to him. He was tall, curly haired, skinny, soft featured. You were slightly shorter, muscly, shaggy haired, sharp angles. You tried to be dismissive of his help, but he was just so nice to you that you couldn’t do it for long. So innocent.