Something About a Feeling

The first time he sees you, a mere glance from across the room, he has to remind himself he has a girlfriend. A lovely woman, she was, like most of the female counterparts he took in his life, but like most woman he chose to spend his time with, they all had one thing in common. Temporary. He knew he was growing closer to the end with this one; Hannah, a friend of a friend who was easy on the eyes, laughed at his sore attempts at jokes, and quite simply, knew she herself was as temporary as a toothbrush. They'd keep each other company for the time being and a couple of months down the road, they'd part ways, and the rest would be history. Simple as that.

But the first time he sees you, cuddled a little too close to his best mate, peering down at his phone as a small giggle escaped your parted lips, he stops dead in his tracks and backtracks. You were a catch.

Niall had his arm swung behind you, resting carelessly along the wooden seats, and Harry almost digs at himself as he resorts back to their conversation the night before wondering if he had missed the part in text where Niall stated he'd be bringing a female guest of interest. He doesn't remember anything of the sort, but it doesn't go unnoticed when he hands his beer out to you, and you instantly wince when the dark lager meets your lips.

Looks like he was playing third wheel tonight.

The first thing he learns about you is you are in fact not fucking Niall, or with how you put it, "He jokes about taking me home all the—you are joking about that, right?" And, in truth, only met each other a couple weeks prior at a party through mutual friends, and just hit it off. Niall jokes about how you can't handle your alcohol, and he's got a lot to teach you, whereas you roll your eyes unenthusiastically and mutter, "At least I don't drink barely water.

The second thing he learns about you is you actually do have good taste in drinks. At some point in the night you prodded off to the bar to grab another cocktail, and once you return you make a beeline towards Harry, your drink outstretched in your arms.

"You have to taste—it tastes like red pixie sticks." He's unsure at first, but with the absolute delight etched in your face—probably from the previous drinks—there was no way he could tell you no. "Niall is unappreciative."

"'Cause you choose those sugary chick drinks—"

"Your Guinness tastes like stale coffee, you donut!"

Harry sips your drink watching your exchange, and even though it is a little too sweet for his liking, he makes a point to nod to Niall and say, "She's got good taste in sugary chick drinks."

At some point, Niall had made the mistake of asking Harry about Hannah, and the only thing he could muster was a "She's well,", a shoulder shrug, and another swig of his pint.

"Could'a brought her along. It's like a sausage fest—" A swift slap to the side of the head earned him a silent shut up, as you rolled your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose.

Harry mentions that she had a late meeting—lie—and wasn't up to do much once she got home—lie. She was currently bar hopping with her girlfriends, and even if her plans were empty, he probably wouldn't think to tag her along anyhow; she was many things, but she wasn't one of the boys.

The pair would arrive to the bar nearly an hour late, and wouldn't stay for longer than that. She would lean over and, quietly into Harry's ear, complain about how there was nothing to talk about, though in his defense, all the boys would try and stick her into conversation that she winds up not gratefully accepting.

"I'm bored, let's just go back to your place, yeah?" And as much as Harry would love to sit and spend time with his friends, he's rather not listen to his missus complain under her breath for the next hour or so.