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"Are you cold?"

It's textbook. This moment - it's textbook. The girl forgets her jacket and shivers in silence, and the textbook boy can't help but notice and hand his coat to the textbook girl despite her textbook denial, his hand lingering on her shoulder for too long, among his other textbook mannerisms. 

Yet he's waited a solid five minutes to pluck up the courage to ask her. He's been aware of her shivers since they began walking, but didn't dare to press - but now he's asking, and now she's answering.

"A little, but I'm fine," she answers, and his eyebrows furrow as her eyes watch the street ahead. He knows this is the part where he ignores her denial and shrugs the coat off anyway, but his muscles are tight and he's anxious in case she denies him again. 

They walk a couple of paces more, and his ideas of textbook initiatives for cold weather begin to fade, and his genuine concern for her shaking body begins to arise.

"Call me cliché, but I think you'll actually turn to ice unless you put this jacket on," he dares to speak up, and she turns to look at him as he shrugs off his jacket before she's even answered.

"How is it cliché?" she asks, eyes shifting to where he holds the jacket in his hand. He's wearing a thick black jumper, still, and so only with the reassurance in her head that he won't be cold for the sake of her warmth, she takes his jacket and slips it on.

He mumbles a reply, but she's slightly preoccupied with the noticeable warmth of his coat from where his body has been, an almost reassuring chill running up her spine in response.

"Where are we going?" he asks now, ring-clad fingers fumbling with the hem of his jumper. He walks comfortably beside her, her occasional reassuring smile enough to ease the typical tension in his shoulders.

"Spontaneity, Camera Boy," her lips twitch as he blows out a breath, forcing an attempt at a smile onto his face. Harry Styles doesn't do spontaneity. 

"I am spontaneous," Harry argues against the point he'd read between the lines of her statement, and catches her raising an eyebrow, "I am!"

"I believe you," she grins, though he's certain she isn't convinced. She's just saying it to make him feel better.

"How do I know you're actually spontaneous?" he asks, a slightly more playful hint to his tone now, "you could just be putting on an act for me."

"You don't deserve something fake," she tells him without hesitation, glancing at him for a moment as she continues to walk. "Have you ever been to Central Park?"

"No," he replies, and she nods. 

They walk in silence for a moment, and Harry starts longing for another conversation with her. He likes to watch her lips when she talks.

"Do people tell you you're attractive a lot?" she asks him suddenly, and his jaw almost drops. She continues looking at him as if she hadn't asked such a question, and he begins to wonder if he'd just imagined it.

"N-no, n-never," he stammers, slightly taken aback by her question, still. 

"Huh.." she trails off, a smile resurfacing at his bright red cheeks and eyes facing the floor, "weird."

She's noticing how easily embarrassed he is. She doesn't mind - she finds it rather endearing, actually. How easy it is to make him flustered, and cause his cheeks to turn bright red. His shoulders often noticeably tense and tight, his fingers often fumbling with something as he walks.

He's noticing how confident she is. She doesn't seem fazed by anything, and it usually that would intimidate him - but somehow, it doesn't. To him, it's almost comforting; reassuring. His nerves still make themselves known - but it doesn't seem to affect a thing. She doesn't taunt him for it.

"Aha!" Sophie squeals in joy, similar to a child laying eyes on the newest toy model in a store, rushing a few paces forward. Harry frowns, eyes squinting to focus on the object in front of them, the source of Sophie's joy.

He frowns, "Table tennis?"

"Ping pong," she clarifies, leaning forward against the table with her palms outstretched in front of her. Harry faces her from the opposing end of the table, unable to stop himself from mirroring her smile as she purses her lips in thought, her face suddenly lighting up as an idea evidently springs to mind, "beer pong."

Harry's eyes widen, and suddenly Sophie is heading towards a well-lit bar on the corner of the street, a mischievous smile on her face. He follows her, his long legs catching up with her easily.

"Is that really a good idea?" he says nervously, and she glances beside her to look at him. 

"Spontaneity," she tells him, sending him a wink which sends a shiver down his spine and another flush to his cheeks. "Plus, what are you so afraid of? Don't you trust me?" she's teasing, but he honestly doesn't know the answer. He's only drank once, and it was a single glass of champagne at his grandmother's funeral.

He's tempted to mutter a 'no', but the butterflies in his stomach which he's unable to determine as nerves are telling him 'yes', as her eyes flicker to his own. 

"Isn't the age requirement over here 21?"

"We'll manage," she pushes the door open, revealing a dimly-lit room full of men forty years or older, some with women on their arms, some without. She doesn't seem to notice the way every man's eyes have fallen to watch her as she passes, and Harry wonders if she really doesn't notice. She seems truly oblivious to how people stare.

"How many beers do I need for a game of beer pong?" she asks, leaning forward to rest her chin in her hand. Harry's lips part in surprise at her frankness. 

The man aged between twenty and thirty behind the counter narrows his eyes, pursing his lips in disgust at the nerve of the girl. "ID?"

Just as Harry expects the man to spit in her eye and turn her away - his frown breaks into a wide grin, a roar of laughter leaving his dry lips. Harry frowns in confusion, as he hears a soft laugh in response from Sophie, as well.

"Very funny, Jem," she rolls her eyes, glancing over to Harry who is tense and confused as ever. "Camera Boy, this is my poor, poor actor of a cousin, Jem. Jem, this is Camera Boy, but you're not allowed to call him that, so it's Harry to you."

"Hey, Harry," Jem smiles politely, and Harry tries to give him a response, but the loudness of the environment and the pure intensity of it all was proving too much for him, and so all he managed was an awkward wave.

"We're playing beer pong," Sophie announces to her cousin, "do you have any of those red cups left from last Christmas?"

"In the back somewhere, I'm sure. Twelve?" Jem asks, and Sophie nods, "give me a sec."

The man disappears into a room tucked a little further behind the bar counter, as Sophie turns around, pressing her back to the counter now. Harry can't seem to tear his eyes from her - her matte, red-painted lips resting in their natural position, her tanned skin holding the beautiful glow it always seems to. Her dark curls are spread over her shoulders, where his coat hangs from them. It suits her, he can't help but notice - the long sleeves that usually cling to his lanky arms are hanging loosely and brushing over her knuckles. 

God, he wants to tell her how pretty she looks, or how lovely his coat looks on her. He wishes he could get the words out, without the fear of rejection or awkwardness - or simply just to get the words out, but he can't. He stays quiet.

Jem returns with some cans of beer, some red cups stacked together and two ping pong balls. Harry steps forward to take the cups and the balls, carrying them in between his fingers. He glances over at Sophie, who is holding the cans of beer. She thanks her cousin, sending him a smile as she saunters back outside, followed closely behind by Harry. 

It's only a short walk back to the table, and it isn't hard for Harry to carry the items in his lanky arms. Sophie, on the other hand, seems to be struggling a little more, but when she catches Harry's stare she simply tilts her head and smiles.

"What?" she asks him, her grin wide, a short chuckle leaving her lips, "you never seen a girl carry half a dozen cans of beer before?"

-

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