You find him exactly where you expected—corner booth, backlit by the golden haze of a too-expensive restaurant that doesn’t even bother with a sign out front. He’s sipping something neat, Cuban probably, suit jacket draped behind him, cufflinks undone like a shrug. The city glows at his back. But Harry? Harry glows like trouble.

He doesn’t look up when you arrive. He always makes you come to him.

So you make an entrance of it.

Strappy heels ticking across marble, hips swaying like you rehearsed it (you did), a new silk dress hugging every financial decision he’s ever made in your favor. You slide into the seat beside him—not across, beside—like heat, like inevitability.

He glances over, slow and amused. “You’re overdressed for apologies.”

You hum, brushing invisible dust off your thigh—your fingers deliberately slow. “Maybe I’m not here to apologize.”

That gets his attention. His eyes drag across your neckline, then lower. He doesn’t speak. He never does when he’s calculating what your silence might cost him.

You lean in, lips grazing the edge of his ear, a whisper only for him: “You looked lonely on my credit card bill this week.”

He exhales a laugh through his nose, low and dark, fingertips tapping the rim of his glass like he’s weighing something. Whether to scold you. Or reward you.

You continue, innocent as sin. “I thought about calling. But then I thought… no. Let him stew. Let him miss me. Let him wonder who’s kissing the lipstick off my champagne flute tonight.”

Now he’s looking at you properly. Mouth parted slightly. That barely-there smile he wears when he’s torn between pride and pure, dumb lust.

Your knee brushes his. Your hand rests light on his thigh, just there—just enough to suggest. “Don’t worry, Harry. I saved all my best lines for you.”

He tilts his head, finally speaking, voice like velvet over gravel: “Did you save anything else?”

You smirk, slow and feline. “Guess you’ll have to open your wallet to find out.”

He reaches for you then—not to touch, no, he’s far too disciplined for that. Just a graze of his knuckle against your chin, tilting your face toward him like he’s buying time. Like he already knows he’s going to give in.‎