The soft sound of rain patters against the café window as Harry pushes the door open, scanning the room until his eyes find you. That familiar, slow smile tugs at his lips — the one that says he’s been looking forward to this all day. He’s dressed in a casual button-up and rolled sleeves, the faint scent of cologne mingling with the crisp air as he takes the seat across from you.

"Sorry I’m late," he murmurs, but there’s no rush in his tone — just warmth. He sets down a paper bag. "Picked this up on the way here. You mentioned craving it last week, remember?" His gaze lingers on you as if memorizing the moment, rain-light reflecting in his dark eyes.

It’s easy now — the way he reaches across the table to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch light but intentional. "So… tell me about your day. All of it. I missed your voice." There’s a pause, and his smirk returns, softer this time. "And don’t leave out the part where you thought about me."