less than lovers (h.s.)

three

I strutted out of my room for the third time in ten minutes, placing my hands on my hips suggestively. "Okay, what do we think of this outfit?"

Harry glanced up at me from his phone and hesitated. I'd been friends with him long enough to know what that look meant—he wasn't a fan.

"Why not?" I whined, beating him to the chase. I looked down at what I was wearing: a cream-colored low cut sweater with skinny jeans and my favorite pair of high-heeled boots. It wasn't exactly Vogue material, but I didn't think it was ugly either. "What's wrong with this?"

"There's nothing wrong with it!" he protested. "Jesus, Jonesy, I didn't even say anything."

"Your face gives away a lot more than you think it does," I informed him.

He sighed loudly, clearly over this conversation that had practically become a staple of our friendship over the past few years. "Can you just hurry up? It really shouldn't be taking you this long to get ready. I've been ready for over an hour."

"Yes, because you can just throw on any shirt and call it a day!" I reminded him. "It's not the same."

Harry rolled his eyes, his favorite pastime. "Whatever. Is this the last outfit?"

"No, I have one more." Then I ran back into my room before he could complain any more. Men, honestly.

I shuffled through my closet for what I hoped was the final time, until my eyes landed on a black skirt nestled in the back. It was pretty simple, but it was shorter than I was used to. I'd bought it a couple of weeks ago, but I hadn't had the chance—or the courage—to wear it yet. It was still warm enough outside for me to get away with no tights, but I hesitated.

"Okay, what do you think of this skirt? Is it too much?" I asked when I returned to the kitchen moments later. "I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard."

This time, when Harry looked up from his phone, there was a funny expression on his face, one I was unable to recognize. His tanned forehead was slightly wrinkled, and his dark green eyes were blinking at an abnormal rate. Once again, before he had the chance to say anything, I exclaimed, "You hate it, don't you? Oh my God, you hate it."

"For Christ's sake," he groaned. The dickhead wasn't even making eye contact with me. If he hated my clothes, the least he could do was look me in the eye. "What's the point of asking for my opinion if you won't even let me give it?"

"Okay, fine. I'm sorry. Tell me your opinion. Please." I dropped down into the chair across from him, waiting for his answer.

For a split second, his eyes dipped down to my lap, towards the slit in my skirt. Then he swallowed, and I was suddenly aware of his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "I don't hate it," he says. "It's a nice outfit, Jonesy."

Unfortunately, I was not so easily convinced. "You don't think it's too short?"

Harry kept his eyes planted directly on the ground, and when he spoke again, his voice came out sounding slightly strained. "No, I don't think it's too short. If you like it, that's all that matters."

"I think I like it." I paused. "Or should I—"

"Jonesy, you're just wasting more time. For fuck's sake."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. So, last time, just to check—you like it?"

He dropped his head in his hands, but before either of us could say anything, there was a loud knock at the door. My eyebrows furrowed in confusion as I looked from Harry to the door. A beat of silence passed between us, before I slowly asked, "Why is someone knocking at the door?"