Imagines with Niall Horan

77. He's sore

Niall leans on your table and steals a fry off your plate. "So are you coming over after practice today?"

"I don't know, Niall, I'm trying to get this next part written before the end of this week."

"But..." Niall pouts and pulls up a chair to sit right next to you, your sides touching. "I need you to take care of me."

You laugh. "I thought you said you were still worn out from last night?"

"You need to get your mind out of the gutter. I meant because I'm sick." And he coughs into his hand to prove it.

Well. He fake coughs.

"You are not sick. Stop eating my lunch."

Niall freezes, a fry halfway to his mouth. "Am too. My throat's sore and my head... feel it." He takes your hand and presses it to his forehead.

You roll your eyes and pull your hand back. "No you're not, dork, stop it."

"I aaa-mm," Niall whines and leans his head on your shoulder, "You're really going to let me go home and be sick by myself?"

"You're not sick!"

"Prove it."

You open your mouth. Close it. "Ok fine. I'll come over tonight. But we're not doing anything but catching up on Breaking Bad and if you're oh so sick, I'm making you tea."

Niall practically bounces in his seat. "Awesome! See you later, babe." And he kisses you on the cheek, steals another fry, and walks off towards his trailer.

He's very obviously not sick, judging by the little skip in his step and the way he enthusiastically hi-fives Liam as they walk past each other. But you're glad you have the excuse to come over tonight anyway.