By now, Harry has learned more than enough about you to the point he's lost count, like how you get the hiccups when you laugh too much – also works when you get frightened, which is easily – and how you once punched a bloke in the face when he slapped your ass in the middle of a Cinnabon.
"The manager gave me a free cinnamon roll!"
As the list continued to grow, there was one thing that stood out over the rest - not including having not seen Pretty Woman, which he gladly marked off your list – which was, "I haven't been on like an actual, real date before."
When Harry looks at you, he can't begin to fathom the number of dudes who find themselves doing double-takes as you scan the aisles of a Barnes and Noble, or how they bask in your presence when you're slumped on a sofa, reading Bukowski in the corner of a rundown café. But, yet here you are, standing before him in a Starbucks on South Grand Avenue, stealing sips of his iced coffee, admitting your most astounding secret – your words, not his.
"You know those awkward first dates where the guy picks you up in his car, opens the door for you and takes you to this shitty restaurant that you pretend to like, and you make awkward conversation while making awkward eye contact—oh, thank you." You revert your attention back to the barista to retrieve your drink, grabbing a cardboard slip on the side of the counter. "And then he takes you home in a nearly awkward silence and then goes to kiss you on your doorstep, but you sideswipe him, and he goes in for the cheek, and you never talk again? Yeah, never had one of those, and I feel like you have to have one them or it's lawful or something."
You really were something else.
"So, you want to go on a shitty date?" Harry chuckles, adjusting the straw of his cup and shaking his head in amusement.
"No, I want to go on a date that feels real. Not that 'Meet me at the bar in 10 minutes' bullshit." You let out an exasperated sigh, muttering something about Tinder ruining the dating age, and quickly turn on your heel. "I take everything I said back. I need that cake pop."
The rest of the afternoon went as followed: cruising around in his Mercedes; making a comment about how, "This is a car you make love in," and Harry instantly going frigid behind the wheel, averting the mere thought of the two of you laying down in the backseat, an entanglement of limbs trying to find a comfortable position, despite the mental imagery of ruining the interior; making a trip to YSL so he could pick up his new boots, and you making more comments such as, "Your shoes cost more than my rent. Think about that," which he simply snickers to; you struggling to keep up with his long, lengthy strides, and him stealing a bite of your cake pop when you weren't looking.
He truthfully enjoyed days spent like these, where he had no real commitments, and could just spend quality time with you outside of his house. He knew once his schedule picked up a bit again, times like these would come few and far between, so taking advantage of them now was his best objective, especially since he left for London in four days.
"You have to bring me back souvenirs, like a snow globe with Big Ben in it, and a shirt that says, 'I Love London'... Oh, oh! And a crumpet." You're sat in his passenger seat, fiddling with a frayed string on your shirt. "What even is a crumpet?"
"I'm going to have to take you sometime, pet. I think you'll like it." Harry beams from the side, pulling out onto the road. "Won't be there too long this time. Maybe two weeks or so."
"Your mom seems so nice. She liked the picture of Meg I took this morning.
Another thing he learned about you over your time together was the fact you named your rescue cat Meg. You never gave a reasoning behind it, so therefore Harry never thought to mention it.
