To put it simply, Harry was distraught.
He imagined the first time seeing you naked to be some life changing experience, and for the most part he was right, but he envisioned it to be more on the romantic side, with his naked form hovering above you as he reaches into his bedside table for a condom, not when he scampers into his bedroom to find a pair a socks, only to be met with your naked figure bent over to retrieve the towel that had fallen to a heap at your feet – but nothing ever goes the way he wants them to.
Ever.
For all the times he's spent his mornings with a hand wrapped around his cock envisioning you rocking greedily against him, back arched and your nails digging into his thigh, he realizes you're just as flawless as he daydreamed, even if he only got a few second glimpses before he stumbled out of the doorway, not even a peep leaving his lips.
Now, he was expected to share breakfast with the image of your bare arse forever etched in his head.
"Where the hell did he..." He overhears you mumble beneath your breath, the soft pattering of your footsteps scuttling toward his closet. After some quick rummaging, he hears a delighted hum. "Ah, bingo."
"Hey, uh..." He clears the knot in his throat and goes to rest his head back against the wall. "Breakfast is ready if you're—"
"Oh, thank God!" He listens as your footsteps scurry closer to the doorway, where you find him leaning back with his eyes clamped shut and his lips pulled tightly between his teeth. "You good, friend?"
Friend.
Fucking friend.
"Yeah," he peeks an eye open to see you standing before him in his Muscle Machine hoodie, a pair of black CK boxers, and hair pulled up into a haphazard bun.
If Harry thought he was fucked before, he was considerably screwed now, with how fucking adorable you looked standing in front of him as if it was nothing. How was he expected to make it through breakfast with the image of your ass imbedded into his brain, and the knowing thought of you sitting there cheekily in his boxers, and a raging boner tucked into the waistband of his own underwear.
His attention is brought back to you when you let out a huff, and start dabbing at your hair self-consciously. "It's already falling out... I suck at—"
"Let me," Before he has a chance to realize what he's saying, he has your hair in his hands and delicately removes the hair tie – probably found in one of his bathroom drawers – and begins gathering your locks together. "Used to do it all the time before I cut it."
"I can't imagine you with long hair," You chuckle, and raise your hand to catch a falling strand. "I'm sure you looked like Tarzan or something."
It was Harry's turn now to stifle a laugh, shaking his head at the amount of times he's seen someone make the comparison. "Not sure who I look like now—"
"Prince Eric, that's The Little Mermaid, right? Or maybe Flynn Rider. Both got short do going on, and look pretty handsome."
Harry doesn't realize that's he's tugged at your scalp until a harsh hiss leaves your lips, and he's already compiling every apology in the book, but holy shit, did she secondhand call him handsome? Does it count? He did call her beautiful last night, after all, amongst other things.
Once he's tightened the bun to her head, she spins around with a contented look. "My personal little hairdresser."
"It's my pleasure." He feels his dimples pop, and watches you adjust the hoodie with an appeased sigh.
