You say my name and I hear three different things. Fondness. Exasperation. Warning.

“Harry,” I purr. Longing. Disdain. Definitely not insecurity. I’m rather proud that I haven’t yet thrown myself all over you. Perhaps being in my cups actually gives me more tenacity than not.

I could kiss her for the scowl that appears on your face.

“And stop it with that ‘maybe-boyfriend’ shite. It’s not cute.”

“I’m always cute!” I hiss, very uncutely. “And I’ll stop when you start acting like one.”

At least back at our flat there are some choice heirloom crockery just waiting to be used for target practice and comfortable joggers. I shove at your shoulder with all my weight to get by - Merlin, it feels like I’m throwing myself at a bloody mountain - nearly ricocheting against some other club goers as I begin my unsteady journey to the exit.

“Keep this up and I’ll be shopping for a new boyfriend next-”

The breath is knocked out of my lungs as you tackle me down onto the couch, crushing me beneath your weight.

“Stop-” Your voice cracks and your hands are shaking, thumbs digging sharply into the base of my bare throat. In a pained whisper you continue, “It’s not funny.”