(you write SO WELL) What about the first dates with Harry, tho? the flirty little shit he must be. the guy knows he's got the most charming smile and look, throwing the most ridiculous jokes just to see you laugh and feel even more confident. and before the first kiss? I think he'd compliment and let it clear about his intentions, like... "m'sorry, was too distracted by your lips... no' my fault, is it?" and you'd be just dead shy and red and dead. (IM DEAD)
First dates with Harry would be so nerve-racking. He’d be staring into your eyes, wanting to familiarize himself with them so in case he’s ever lonely, he can think of them and feel at peace.
Say you’re at dinner and you put your hand out on the table, maybe playing with the stem of your wine glass, nervous because it’s going really well and the conversation has never lulled. He’d place his hand on top of yours, giving it a small squeeze, rubbing your thumb with his while he continues to tell you a story about how when he was a kid, in the summertime, he would sit and watch ice cubes melt in the driveway for hours on end. “Weird kid. Weird, weird kid,” he’d shake his head, smirking at the memory.
You’d go out for drinks, wanting to stretch out the date as much as possible. He would order a bottle of champagne for the two of you to split, clinking your glasses together with a wiggle of his eyebrows, his smile slipping over the rim of the glass to taste his favorite libation. You would sit close together, and as you drank more bubbly and got more and more comfortable, you’d rest your hand on his shoulder when he made you laugh particularly hard. You’d place your hand on his knee, squeezing gently, when he told you an anecdote about his life that was nearly unbelievable to you. He would lace his fingers with yours while you recounted a horror story about your first job, giggling as you told him instances where your manager was particularly snippy with rude customers.
It would be undeniably intimate, your first date. And not intimate in the sense that you’d go to bed with him that night. He would want to wait for that - not rush things, not mess things up before they even got started. But, rather, intimate in the way getting to know someone can be. He’d want to memorize everything about you; want to remember every little detail and idiosyncrasy so he could look back on that night when he told your children about when he knew he was going to marry their mother.
He would walk you to your car, offering you his arm. Before you got the chance to open the door, he would gently place his palm onto the hitch of your jaw, guiding your lips to his. It wouldn’t take much - you’d wanted to be attached to his mouth the moment he started to talk - and when he slips his tongue across your bottom lip after a series of open-mouthed kisses, you’d gasp a little, your heart flipping up into your throat.
“Feel that?” he’d ask, pressing his forehead up against yours. “Righ’ in the pit of your stomach? Haven’t felt that in the longest time.”
And you would nod, because you would know exactly what he was talking about.