Lights, Cameras, & Harry Styles

“Is it…alive?” I question, leaning over Harry’s bare shoulder. Harry sighs, running a hand through his curls and shaking his head sadly.

“It’s gone.”

I pout, staring down at the burnt pasta. “If you want to remake it, I won’t mind helping.” I offer, feeling a bit bad. If I hadn’t sprayed him with whipped cream, he wouldn’t have gotten distracted. If we hadn’t gotten distracted, the pasta wouldn’t have burned. It’s my entire fault.