Harry: This was not what Harry was expecting when you had asked him to come to New York. He's standing off to the side at the too-posh engagement party for one of your sorority sisters, completely out of place. He doesn't fit in among the pinks and pastels in his black suit pants and white button down. The heat of the Hamptons had caused him to roll his sleeves up, tattoos on full display and he knew people were looking. He glanced around, noticing you by the champagne fountain with several other girls he knew would have promptly ignored him all through school but you have a bright smile on your face and he knows you feel at home. You're dressed in a pale pink chiffon dress with nude heels and you look every bit the part of the high society princess he had always assumed you to be. "So you're a music producer... is that lucrative?" A man dressed in a pastel purple suit asks and Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah... is for me," he explains, tipping the flute of expensive champagne he'll never know the name of against his lips in the hopes of getting smashed. "I work on Wall Street myself, make a killing... more than enough to support someone of, Y/N caliber," he snides with a smile and Harry recalls how you had explained this gesture to him as being "polite with a bitch slap." "I take care of Y/N just fine... not that she needs it, the store is rather successful," Harry defends, standing to his full height while unbuttoning the top button of his shirt to reveal even more ink. The man doesn't back down. "She never was one for... outcasts but perhaps she's grown into liking charity cases more than she did in school," he offers with a raised eyebrow that is entirely too groomed to belong to a man and Harry narrows his eyes. "Maybe and I'll say... I love how she handles her charity cases, she's very thorough," Harry exaggerates before walking away, black boots stomping against the concrete as he breezes past you to head inside. "You alright?" you question, wrapping your arms around him behind with a happy smile. "I'm fine... it's just too hot out there," Harry lies, tapping your fingers with his and you nod. "Molly asked me what is what like to be with someone so different from me... I couldn't really answer that," you tell him, leaning back against the bar behind you and Harry raises an offended eyebrow at you. "I don't feel like you're that different from me anymore. You're the best boyfriend I've ever had and you treat me like the princess I think I am," you tease with an easy smile Harry always returns. Harry decides then that he'll just have to deal with the assholes in pastel suits but when you take his hand to keep at his side, Harry decides this highfalutin crap wasn't so horrible.

Liam: When you had asked Liam to take you to the theater, he had not planned on seeing a musical. He wasn't entirely sure what he was planning on but watching almost three hours of non-stop singing was not it. He sits at your side in the dark theater at the West End, utterly bored and wishing he were anywhere but there. He stares, wide eyed, at the stage not registering any of the events taking place. He's already gone through everything he needs to do for the upcoming event taking place at the store and he's run out of things to think of. "Isn't this beautiful," you question with tear-filled eyes, staring up at Liam during intermission and he nods robotically. "So beautiful," he sighs dryly, eyes shut and he prays he can sleep through the rest of the show. "Liam... wake up, it's starting and you don't want to miss the second half!" you whisper in excitement, jolting Liam awake with your shaking and he gives you a tight lipped smile. "No, I wouldn't want that" he whispers back, slouching down into his seat while tugging at his tie to loosen the constricting material. By the end of the play, he's lost three hours he'll never get back and you're a teary mess. He glances around, other women in the same state as you blubbering on and on about the beauty of Les Miserables to their husbands who look like they'd rather be murdered violently than sit through another musical. Everyone other man is in a suit, crisp and clean and he's in black slacks and a white button down. His tie was long ago loosened and his tattoos were never fully hidden from view. You fail to notice others glancing at Liam, eyes washing over the tattoos and piercings before they scurry away. "Liam, don't you agree?" you question again, turning in the front seat of Liam's Land Rover and he raises an eyebrow. "Wouldn't you go again?" you repeat and the idea of sitting through another musical makes him want to wreck his own car. "If you wanted," he sighs, scrubbing his eyes with his knuckles and you smile.

Niall: Niall's senses are immediately assaulted with smells he's not particularly found of. The smell of the high fashioned/high priced perfumes are ones he finds too stifling and only remind him that he's never been considered good enough to hold a girl that wears them. The people around him glance sideways at him, taking in his tattoos and piercings and immediately write him off as a low-life. The security guard immediately spots him, eyes locked on his form as Niall makes his way towards the Chanel counter. Niall stands there for a moment, piece of paper crumpled in his hands and he's never felt more out of place. He's never felt more as if he didn't belong. The sales attendant blatantly ignores him, offering to help the woman with the primped face and posh bag as opposed to the man with ink. Niall opts to wonder around the counter, glancing to the paper in his hands while trying to match your writing to the bottles and pods he sees before him. "Can I help you?" an annoyed, exasperated voice questions and when Niall looks up, he sees the sales attendant before. He watches as she glances to the security guard who's gotten significantly closer since Niall entered the makeup department and Niall fights the sinking feeling inside. This is how he's always been treated. He had offered to pick your makeup up for you, seeing as you were currently in bed sick from the flu. He had known he would have felt out of place amongst the products but he never thought he'd be considered a possible thief. "I'm picking this stuff up for my girlfriend," he explains with a forced smile, new snakebites highlighting the dimples you loved so much as he passes the paper to the woman. "This is going to be expensive," she explains slowly, because obviously Niall was an idiot considering his tattoos. "Yeah... I got it covered," Niall snaps, flashing his black Visa and the woman's eyes widen. After that, she's more than willing to help him. "I'm never doing that again," he tells you once he returns home, setting the bag on your vanity and you raise an eyebrow. "They thought I was gonna rob the place... fucking twats," Niall mumbles, stripping out of his clothes to lie beside you. Once you slide your hand into his, Niall decides it wasn't that terrible. And he knows, if you asked him to do it again Niall would return to any makeup counter for you.

Louis: "So this is why we can't go out on Sunday nights?" He asks as you pull into a parking space in the church parking lot. You nod your head and smile before climbing out of the car. "And you don't think that I would come to church with you or something is that why you never said anything?" You pause until you reach the door to answer his question. "I'm not here to go to church," you reveal. "Then why are we here?" He questions following you down the large corridor. Opening the door at the end of the hall he is soon given the answer as to why you had brought him with you. "Who are all of these people?" He questions, looking out at the surely one hundred or so people sitting in the large cafeteria style room. "They're some of the homeless people living in London," you reveal as you step through a swinging door. "Good afternoon (Y/N)," one of the ladies in the kitchen greets. "Hi! How are you this evening?" "I am well, who is this handsome guy you have brought with you?" She asks, looking past you and at Louis. "This is my boyfriend Louis, he's going to help out tonight." You turn to smile at him but he is only confused. "What are we doing?" "Well those people out there," you begin, pointing out of the small window dividing the kitchen and the eating area, "are here for their weekly church meal and BINGO." "And we're here..." "To help feed them and spend time with them." You look at him strangely thinking it surely wasn't this hard for him to wrap his head around the logistics of a soup kitchen. "Okay, I can do this," he says, unsure of himself. He had clearly never had to deal with anything below the ritzy restaurants and football board meetings, but you were here to show him what reality was like for a lot people living just minutes from where he did. "Well first I want you to go out and take their orders," you explain, holding out a pen and pad of paper. "Orders?" "Yeah we have to know how many people want what." "Okay so what are their options?" You go over with him the dinner choices and prepare to send him out into the masses. "Oh babe," you say just as he begins to walk out the door. "Yeah?" "Let's leave that watch in the kitchen," you tell him, thinking the gold and diamond covered accessory would only put off the people he was trying to be friendly with. He slips of the watch and you place it in your purse. "So I just ask them what they want from this list?" He questions, running the pen over the meal options you had told him. "Yeah that's your objective, but sit down with them and talk for a bit." "What do I talk to them about?" He asks, having not prepared any conversation dialog. "That's something you get to figure out," you tell him with a smile, motioning for him to exit the kitchen. "But (Y/N) I don't know what to say!" "It'll come to you." You watch as he warily walks towards the tables. "Not really his type of people?" The lady from before questions. "Not really," you reveal to her, "but he will warm up to them soon enough." You take your focus from him and begin helping the rest of the ladies in the kitchen with the meal preparation.

Zayn: You had kept your immense knowledge of high fashion to yourself up until today. "Where are we going?" He had asked, getting into the backseat of the car that had stopped to pick you up first. "Alexander McQueen is showing his Fall collection at the Somerset House," you explain as the driver pulls back out onto the road. "I don't know what that means," he admits. "It's a fashion show." "Oh," he says not at all sure how to react to the news. "Did you rent this?" He asks next. "No, it was provided for me," you answer. "By who?" "My boss." "Who is your boss?" You had only told him that you worked from home and that knowledge had kept him satisfied up until this point. "Alexander McQueen," you reveal softly. "You work for a fashion designer?" His question was accompanied by mass confusion. "Yeah I work under Sarah Burton actually, she's his creative director. When I'm not out walking with you I'm inside on the computer researching different trends in different countries so she can incorporate them in the designs." "That just sounds like you are doing her job." "My research is turned into her ideas." "And you don't feel cheated by that? Surely you can figure out how to use what you find just as good as her." "No, I like what I do. Plus it pays enough to where Sophie and I can live on our own." The car comes to a rolling stop a few minutes later and Zayn leans towards your door to open it. You place your hand on his, "He opens it for me, plus you're supposed to get out on your side." He looks at you and then over to his door where the driver was heading to open. You nod at him and he climbs out as the driver moves around the rear of the car to open your door. "Now come over here," you instruct him still from your seat with a smile. Zayn shuts the door and walks over, straightening out the sleeves on the blazer you had told him to wear. "Hold your hand out." You take his open hand and move it into his side as you let go so he can escort you with his angled arm. "They do red carpets for fashion shows?" He asks, looking ahead at all of the photographers behind the barricades. "Any excuse for them to get out of the office," you acknowledge. He sighs loudly, making you aware of his discomfort. "You will be fine, they're going to only want a few pictures. We aren't celebrities like the rest of these people." Your explanation did not help to relax him, he had never been amongst legitimately famous people. The red carpet director spreads news down the line of photogs that you have arrived. They prep their cameras and begin shouting your name. "Your arm now goes around my waist," you instruct with a whisper. As your hand rests on your hip in posing position, Zayn's hand rests on top of it, his free hand nervously twitching in the pants pocket you had also instructed him to use. The two of you pose for just a few seconds before moving down to the next group of flashing lights. "That wasn't so bad," you say to him as you make your way inside. "How many of these do you do?" He questions, his tone worrisome. "One for each season plus fashion week." He sinks into his shoulders at the news. "Oh don't, you'll get used to them, I promise."