LANA MASON
"Ow–shit," I wince as I stub my toe, running around like a madwoman trying to tidy up my pitiful studio.
Harry has a two-bedroom apartment in the West Village and before that, a three-bedroom apartment in SoHo. I'll bet he's never seen an apartment as small as mine before and I'm trying not to get too stuck in my head about it.
Once my clothes are either put away in my hamper, tiny closet, or dresser, I light the candle on my coffee table and make sure I don't have any dishes in my sink. He hates dishes in the sink and I don't want him to hate anything about me. As funny as his obsession with organization and cleanliness is, I don't ever want him to be turned off by my less-than-perfect state of living. I'm clean, just not always...immaculate.
As the buzzer by my door goes off, I feel as if an electric current just flowed through my body from head to toe as I whip around to face the lit-up screen. I cross the living room area to see Harry in black and white, standing there with his hands in his pockets and waiting for me to buzz him in. I smile as I do so, watching him lift his head as he pushes down on the door handle to let himself into the building. I hope he's not turned off by the fact that it's a fifth-floor walkup either.
A few minutes later, I hear the footsteps ascending down the hall before his gentle knock lands on the door, and I purposely wait just a few seconds before opening up for him. His smile is small and subtle as our eyes meet, but it's there.
"Hi," I hold the door open wide for him. "Come on in."
"Thanks," he wipes his shoes on my doormat before crossing the threshold, looking around the small space. "This is nice."
"Stop," I laugh.
"It is," he smiles a little. "It looks very...you."
"What does that mean?" I follow his gaze to my sage green couch and colorful throw pillows.
"It's eclectic and fun," he clarifies. "It's colorful."
"Yeah, I still can't really decide what vibe I'm going for," I glance around the place. "I like a modern aesthetic like your restaurant, but I also like cozy, vintage-looking, one-of-a-kind stuff. I just want it to feel homey."
"It does," he nods with his hands in his pockets, eyeing my bed straight across the room by the windows. His gaze lingers there for quite a while.
"Well, we can sit on the couch if you want," I gesture to the very quaint sectional in front of the TV. Netflix is on, but it's just the home page at the moment.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your night or anything," he sits down on the left side of the couch, closest to the door, so I keep a respectable amount of distance between us and sit on the corner cushion. "How was Jackie?"
"She's alright," I take my mustard yellow throw pillow into my lap. "She had a terrible first date, so I went over there and we just had a couple of glasses of wine and talked for a bit."
"Oh, that's too bad about her date," he offers what seems to be genuine sympathy. "She seems like a nice girl."
"She's the nicest," I agree. "Nicer than me and Maya."
His smirk, my favorite expression of his, starts to make an appearance. "You're nice."
I shrug one shoulder. "She's nicer than Maya."
He closes his eyes to laugh softly. "Do you know if she's with Zayn tonight? He said he was going to see her."
"Oh, yeah," I chuckle. "She sent us a text in all caps about how the 'hottie chef' was going to spend the night at her place. We received, in excruciating detail, an entire novel about the first night they spent together. I know too much about your friend."
