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Summary
Louis Tomlinson felt his stomach get caught clean up in his throat when he saw the lanky, toffee-nosed upperclassmen, Harry Styles. He was the kind of lad that everyone wanted to be around and or sleep with, because he was so devastatingly gorgeous, strikingly intelligent, and nauseatingly conceited, condescending, and haughty. And it didn’t hurt that his a** was dynamite in his snugly tailored trousers.