Pretty Please Don't Pinch Me

33. One Thing

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The oven timer goes off, signalling that the lasagne is ready, and I carefully extract it from the oven and leave it to cool. Harry reenters the room with a white towel wrapped lazily around his waist, while his hair is slicked back into a high quiff. He both looks, and smells divine. Shooting me a boyish grin, he lies down on the chair that I was previously sitting on.

"Don't make yourself too comfortable there," I warn, while I test if the lasagne is done.

"Oh, and why's that?" he asks, looking mildly amused.

"Because when I come back, you're definitely moving," I swiftly answer.

"Absolutely not," he casually tells me, "unless you're planning on moving me yourself," he adds, whilst raising his eyebrows in an invitation to challenge him.

Ugh, cheeky bästard. There should be a rule that no one can be this irritatingly sëxy.

He doesn't even notice me staring while he's lazily sprawled out on the couch in all his half näked glory, where I have viewing access to his tattoos scattered over his torso. I've never really been a huge fan of tattoos, but I am now, officially, a convert.

When the lasagne dish has cooled enough for me to hold it, I carry it over to the lounge room with a set of cutlery.

"So, are you going to move anytime soon?" I ask him casually. "Or are you just going to continue to make yourself at home?"

Looking up at me, he grins.

"Well personally I prefer the latter," he teases. Sitting up slightly, he pats the space between his legs as an invitation for me to sit there.

Well. Don't mind if I do.

I idle over, dish in hand, and I place the lasagne on the side of him, and sit contentedly between his legs. Taking a fork with his hand, and steadying me with his other, he stabs a piece, and drives it towards his mouth. He looks utterly delighted as he savours it in his mouth, before swallowing.

"This...is so good," he sighs. "Here, try some," he offers, feeding me a piece from his fork.

"I know what it tastes like," I protest, and turn my head away so the piece of lasagne hits the side of my face instead.

"Look at the mess your making!" he tuts, "Here, I chose this piece especially for you," and he nears the fork closer to me again.

Despite rolling my eyes, I oblige, opening my mouth up to him.

"See, now that wasn't so hard, was it?" he sighs dramatically, as though dealing with a difficult child, "I didn't realise having a girlfriend was so challenging..." and I feel him study my face closely from his comment.

I freeze, because it's the first time he's used that word. Girlfriend. The word seems to reverberate through the empty house and suddenly, I am lost for words.

"Girlfriend?" I ask, not being able to keep the grin from my face.

"Well that's what you are, aren't you?" he asks me.

"I don't know, Harry," I say smiling. "I mean, you haven't exactly asked me properly..." I joke.

"Is that what you want? A simple formality?" he asks, and I nod.

Dramatically he rolls his eyes, taking my hands in his, "Ava Sinclair," he begins sincerely, "I am absolutely and irrevocably taken with you. So much so, that I don't want to share you with anyone else and I want you to be all mine. So please. Be my bloody girlfriend already."