Stir Me Up [h.s.]

three

The next time Harry sees Willa, he didn't think she'd look so dejected.

He hears the bells chime when the heavy oak door closes behind her. It's a Wednesday, therefore her usual gang of coworkers haven't entered the bar at all this evening. At first glance, Harry's excited to see her, thinking about the last time he saw her and invited her to come in on a non-Friday. But once he sees her blue eyes are a bit dull and her trousers are crinkled from slumping in her office chair long after everybody has left and she just looks, well, sad, he's instantly concerned.

Willa wasn't really thinking all too clearly about her arrival when she looks around the half-full bar. It's a much different scene inside than it normally is on Fridays—the leather booths along the far side of the wall are filled with people eating dinner, the music is a calm acoustic playlist, and Harry is standing alone behind the bartop.

She can feel his eyes on her frame immediately, and while the warmth is still there, she suddenly feels timid under his unwavering gaze. Willa's fully aware that she looks exactly how she feels—complete and utter shit. It's a far cry from how she felt the last time she stepped foot in The Churchill Arms, but she didn't feel like going home, and when she remembers Harry's invitation to come in on another day, she didn't really think twice about changing her route to the bar instead of the tube to head home for the evening.

"Evening Willa," Harry greets her like normal, and he isn't really sure how to play this one out. He really wanted to sound more excited to see her, maybe playful even, but he doesn't want to scare her away. Because even though she looks upset, he still really is glad she came in.

But there's no denying he's worried.

"Hi Harry," Willa mumbles, sliding her heavy Theory trench coat off her shoulders and hanging it around the back of the leather barstool. Her handbag rests on the hook under the bartop, and she realizes then that this is the first time she's ever sat at the bar with Harry in front of her.

He slides a cocktail napkin over in her direction, just like he does with every other customer, and waits patiently for her to look him in the eyes. When she finally does, clear blue eyes squinting up at him with an unknown emotion covering her face, he wants nothing more than to jump over the barrier between them and hold her close.

But he can't.

So he does the next best thing he could think of—ask her what she'd like to drink.

Harry is expecting her to ask for her usual. But she surprises him (something she's been doing quite a bit of lately) and gives him a sad, half-smile. "What do you usually drink when you've had a shit day?"

He frowns at that. "That bad, huh?" He's leaning down over the counter on his forearms, trying to reach her at eye level. She's not backing away, which Harry appreciates, and before he can lean in a bit closer, she gives him a small shrug.

"Yep. I'm officially the sad girl at a bar asking the cute barman to make her feel better with copious amounts of alcohol. Think you can help me out with that?" Willa's head is cocked to the right in question, her blue eyes brightening when Harry's lips form a deep grin.

"You think I'm cute?" He asks, reaching for the nice bottle of Reposado he saves for himself after long nights behind the bar. Harry watches as Willa gives him a genuine smile, and he finally feels the mood begin to lighten around them.

Willa chooses not to answer, instead, her eyes widen at the bottle in his large hands. "Tequila? Are you trying to kill me?"

He laughs, reaching into the ice bin to deposit a few cubes into the highball glass on the counter. "This isn't just any tequila, Willa. Trust me, you'll like it."