𝐃𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒! | harry styles

𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈

HARRY and I double date with Zoey and Gabe at the Musiquarium Lounge of The Triple Door on Saturday. It's a nice venue with live music, good food, and plentiful drinks; the only reason I've never eaten here before is because of its hefty price combined with my historically thin funds, but tonight Harry brought me here without revealing the location in another attempt to surprise me. The only thing he asked was if I minded if Gabe and Zoey came, too.

We slide into a booth towards the side of the room. It comfortably seats four people. The place is classier than I expected, and I'm glad I wore a black dress instead of the slacks I had debated. I have Zoey to thank, however, because I called her and she gave me very strict instructions on what to wear. This obviously isn't her first time coming here.

The band is already playing when we sit down. Zoey sits so close to Gabe that she's practically in his lap.

She leans over and asks me what I'm drinking. We're sitting beside each other, with the men on the outside, so it's easy for us to hear each other over the music. "I'm feeling like a dirty martini," she says.

"I hate olives." I shake my head as I peruse the drink menu. "Maybe a lemon martini?"

Gabe orders brandy, much to my chagrin. I try not to make a face as the server sets it on the table. The width of Zoey's body isn't enough to keep the smell at bay, or perhaps I'm now hypersensitive to the stench.

Harry rubs my thigh as if he knows what I'm thinking. Zoey sees this despite the dim lights in the room and says, "You guys are so cute together."

"You're one to talk." Cute probably isn't the best word to describe Zoey and Gabe, however; they're so blatantly inappropriate with their affection, even in public, that you often can't look directly at them without puking in your mouth a little. They're kind of like the sun on a clear day, but with more bile involved.

"Please. I know we're cute."

The band is great. They work the crowd with ease, effortlessly making us all feel like part of the show. They're a local group – generally unheard of – but that just makes it more intimate. When it's over, the members stand near the bar or meander through the crowd, talking to fans, drinking, and taking pictures.

Zoey introduces herself to the tall bassist she gushed over during the show and gets me to take their picture with her cell phone. It's so dark that it doesn't turn out well, but she's too drunk to notice. We move outside. Pre-recorded music can be heard faintly in the parking lot, and Zoey grabs my arm and dances us around ballroom style, our heels crunching and fumbling over loose gravel in the lot. When I awkwardly dip her backwards – and manage not to drop us both on the ground – Harry and Gabe and a few other drunk bystanders clap and cheer.

A slower song comes on. I don't think it's romantic or anything, but I can't hear the words to be sure. Harry doesn't care. He pulls me to him and wraps his arms around me. His warmth feels good in the chilly parking lot and I tug his lips to mine, kissing him slowly while we rock back and forth to the music. Everything else fades away in that moment.

When he finally pulls back, he uses his thumb to wipe beneath my eye. Probably clearing away smudged makeup. Somehow, someway, it always smudges when I drink. Then he gently kisses where he wiped and says, "You're so fucking gorgeous."

That's the first time I really get the urge. Three little words hang on my tongue, just waiting to fall out and change everything. Their presence is unexpected, and in my surprise I swallow them back. It's probably too soon, and while I'm not plastered, I've certainly been drinking. Something this life altering shouldn't be placed in the hands of lemon-flavored martinis.