what happens after [h.s.]

what happens after

Nestled in the far corner of the bar inside the Chateau Marmont hotel after your third (or was it fourth at this time?) tequila on the rocks is not how you intended to spend the remainder of your Friday night. But alas, you were hidden in plain sight in the dimly lit room, right leg crossed over left against the expensive velvet lounge seating, sipping gingerly on your (definitely fourth) cocktail as you wait for your phone to vibrate on the sleek wooden table.

The bar seemed to wake up once the clock struck midnight—a normality amongst the best late night spots in Los Angeles. Situated just off the Sunset Strip, you find yourself not surprised in the slightest that this was the destination Harry requested to meet you at. It's the quintessential spot, if you truly stop to think about it—close enough to the liveliness of downtown LA but not quite in the epicenter of it all, the ideal amount of faint lighting to make the mood just an inch heavier, and the perfect amount of anonymity to ensure that sneaky iPhone pictures aren't taken against your will.

While you wait, one hand grasping the half-filled glass and the other calmly resting on your leather-clad thigh, you find yourself aimlessly scrolling through the handful of messages exchanged between you and Harry from this evening.

It all started after the concert when his security guard handed you a barely legible piece of paper with a phone number hastily written on the bottom. Just as the crowd began to disperse, you composed a coy text message that he had answered almost instantly. And once you read the words, I've got to finish up at the venue for a bit. Mind waiting at the Chateau Marmont bar for me? I'd love to have that drink x, you were calling your Uber without hesitation.

As if he could tell that you were growing a bit impatient, a new message appears underneath your last response. It was simple, reading, I'm here, and before you could inform him that you were waiting towards the back of the room, two pairs of long legs hidden underneath striped black and white trousers become visible in your periphery.

You look up immediately, smiling when you realize it was Harry.

He looks different standing near you than he did up on the stage an hour and a half earlier. Even though he still had that wildly messy hairstyle, and he still filled out his clothes incredibly well, and he still looked larger than life—you can now make out smaller details that are otherwise impossible to see from the crowd. His eyes are a hazy mix of blues and greens and golden browns and he had a faint layer of stubble surrounding his mouth and when you look a bit closer, you can make out birthmarks that litter his face in an appealing way.

"Hi," you say slowly, realizing that Harry was making the same identifications that you just were.

"Hi, sorry if I kept you waiting long. Want another?" he asks, eyes begrudgingly falling from your own to the last few drops of tequila sloshing against the bottom of your glass.

When you nod steadily, he turns around with one last smirk before you realize that you hadn't even told him what you were drinking. But when he reappears, holding two identical glasses and sliding into the open space next to you, the smell of expensive tequila floats towards your nostrils and you're suddenly impressed.

"Thank you," you whisper, smiling slightly before bringing the rim to your lips, holding eye contact while you slip slowly.

You try not to notice the bob of his Adam's apple as he mirrors your movements. You do notice, however, that he angles his body so that his right elbow is leaning against the table, causing his kneecaps to rest against your thighs. And when he flings his left arm over the back of the velvet lounger just gracing the tips of your shoulders, you're not subtle when you ogle at the crisp Calvin Klein tank top underneath his black blazer.