You chased your dog across the street, heart pounding. He dashed through someone’s open gate and flopped dramatically onto the lawn.

"Oi! Whose little tornado is this?" a voice called.

You looked up to see Harry Styles—actual Harry Styles—crouched on the grass, your dog already rolling into his lap.

"He’s usually well-behaved," you muttered, flustered.

Harry laughed softly. "No complaints here. He’s got taste."