Harry sat on the edge of the desk, one leg bouncing lazily while his fingers toyed with the silver ring on his thumb. The room smelled faintly of sea salt and leather, his jacket tossed over the back of a chair, his cutlass leaning against the wall like it belonged there.

You stood between his knees, eyeliner pen in hand. “You’re worse than a five year old,” you muttered, tilting his chin up. “Stop moving.”

He grinned, that teasing pirate smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hard to stay still when you’re this close, darlin’.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t move away, thumb resting against his jaw to keep him steady. The sharp tip of the liner traced the edge of his lashes, slow and precise. His breath hitched, just enough for you to feel it.