You honestly couldn't remember what started the fight. Harry came back from class upset, you wanted him to tell you why. But Harry Hook has mastered the art of never talking about his feelings. You kept pushing and an argument started.

"I just want you to trust me," you said frustratedly, sitting on the bed.

Harry was pacing in front of you. His hook had been discarded on the dresser forever ago, and he was running his scarred hand through his hair. "Dammit, princess. I do trust ya', that don' mean I gotta tell ya' every damn thing."

You sighed heavily. This conversation was going nowhere good and both of you were just getting worked up. Harry's Scottish accent got thicker when he shouted, making understanding his argument harder.

You spoke finally, interrupting the string of curse words falling from his lips, "You have a pretty voice."

Harry stopped pacing, his hands falling to his sides. He was quiet, trying to gauge if this was your way of ending the argument or if the fight was still going. A noise halfway between a laugh and a choked groan left him. He lifted his head just enough to glare at you—mock outrage, but his eyes were suspiciously damp.

"Oi," he grumbled. "Ye cannae just say shite like that tae me when I'm tryna be properly pissed off."