sweet and sour [h.s.]

"I can't believe you've never done body shots before."

"It's just never come up!"

Harry snorts in mild, disbelieving amusement, the still atmosphere of the room staining with the sound of his multiple rings clacking softly against tempered glass.

He takes a firm grip around the neck of a Casamigos tequila bottle, dismounting it from its signature spot on the center shelf of the liquor wall, turning back around to face Y/N. He sets the alcohol container down on the waxed wooden surface of his work station, absentmindedly rummaging through one of the clean equipment tubs stored beneath it.

She can't help the way her lips twitch fondly at the obvious cinch between his thick brows, his mouth slightly down-turned in a pensive pout as he fishes for something out of sight.

Harry comes up fruitful, a black metal pour spout glitzing dully under the muted lights of the closed bar. He unscrews the cap from the tequila jug, carefully fitting the accessory into the neck and turning it tight for good measure. He taps his fingers triumphantly against the crystal clear glass, rings once again filling the empty space with chimes.

Harry's gaze locks with Y/N's, brows shrugging in a playfully expectant manner, one corner of his soft lips flicking upwards with sly mischief.  "Get up on the counter."

She rests her chin in the palm of her hand, elbow propped casually on the tabletop to support the weight. She snorts dismissively, shaking her head a tad. "I don't think so."

He points at Y/N scoldingly with the tip of the spout, both brows jerking upwards in a deadpan expression. "You're absolutely fucked in the head if you thought you were gonna confess to a bartender that you've never done body shots and leave without doing some. Now hop off it and get up on the counter."

Y/N rolls her eyes grandly, slumping her shoulders with begrudged annoyance. "No."

Harry stares at her for a second, reading her body language carefully— the pads of her fingers tapping jestingly against her cheekbone, the tiny crooked grin curling her delicate lips, the way her eyes are half-lidded in amusement, and the taunting rebellious sheen glinting across the glossy surface of her irises. She's not refusing due to comfortability reasons; she's refusing in order to purposefully get on his nerves.

He's not surprised— pushing his buttons is one of her favorite hobbies, usually because the flirtatious teasing and joking defiance spurs into another one of her favorite pastimes: Harry thrusting between her legs.

It's obvious now that she's being a pest to get a rise out of him and he's more than willing to give it to her. Too willing, if he knows what's good for him, but he can't ever seem to resist her— can't resist how much he loves the way she tugs at his strings so effortlessly.

Harry releases his grasp around the long neck of the liquor bottle, setting his palms flat against the smooth red oak of the pub table. He teeters forward on his hands, ducking down until his line of vision is level with Y/N's, so close to her face their noses unintentionally brush. The distance separating them is nearly nonexistent, so slim that she's enveloped in a sphere of his intoxicatingly delicious scent as it wafts up from his flexing neck, tingling her nostrils with notes of ocean salt, cedar wood, and vague whiffs of the fresh linen candle that is continuously alight in his flat.

He shackles her into place with unwavering eye contact, the darkened emerald hue around his pupils gleaming challengingly as his fluffy, shiny curls frame his strong jaw so beautifully it's likely considered sinful. The white tee he's sporting strains against his broad chest, the blocky, baby blue Enjoy health! Eat Your Honey! text stretching across his pectoral muscles, the doodle of a smiling bumble bee tempting her with the message's double-meaning. She hates that she can see his nipples printing through the sheer cotton fabric.