When I first started writing about Lia and Harry, it was supposed to be nothing but a one-shot, inspired by one single picture of him. A rude bartender who works across the street from this very socially anxious girl.
And then I got attached to the...
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"Rohan isn't working tonight."
The toneless, husky voice echoed in the dim lights, and Lia's heart skipped a beat as she whipped her head to her left.
Harry walked past her and towards the sink, too occupied carrying a box under one of his arms. When he stopped, he turned his back to where she was and placed the item on the laminated counter, then put his free hand into his pocket and pulled a utility knife, not wasting any other second before using it to tore the cardboard in half.
Lia's belly fluttered.
White t-shirt, black pants. Sleeves short enough for her to admire the multiple tattoos covering his arms, and fabric tight enough for her to follow the movements of the muscles on his back as he pulled a few napkins and straws out of the box.
She only needed a second for things to click inside her, and for her to remember why she decided to go to The Wandering Triplet in the first place.
Harry's unkempt dark brown hair curled on top of his head and also a little bit to the sides, but it seemed shorter on the back. He had clearly gotten a haircut since last week, when she last saw him at the bar, and even though Lia couldn't see his face, she already knew that it suited him.
She knew that he looked good.
Really good.
No, she knew that he looked great.
Unfairly and painfully handsome.
Like a dream.
Like he always did.
Lia sighed.
Harry grabbed the box with one hand and turned around, briefly glancing at her. He didn't say nor did a thing, seemingly completely unamused by her presence as he looked forward and headed back towards the black curtain.
And that's exactly when it hit her: she still hadn't said anything to him.
