The morning after your first date with Harry, you’d gotten a frantic call from him. He’d actually woken you, and later when you checked your call log you saw he’d rang at 5 a.m.
“Hullo?” you muttered, barely able to function through the sleepiness.
“[Y/N], sorry, I know it’s early and I’m sorry to wake you.” He sounded nervous, worried really. But there was also a twist of anger in his words that helped you pull yourself awake.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, sitting up in your bed and holding the phone closer to your ear.
“It’s just—I’m just—fuck,” he stuttered. “I’m just so sorry.”