"This calls for the big guns!" Liz declares, and I'm still clueless as I step out of the shower, towel wrapped around me.

Moments later, Alanis Morissette blasts through the tinny laptop speakers. Of course. Liz knows Alanis is my ultimate comfort soundtrack, and the second Ironic kicks in, I can't help but smile. It's wide, almost ridiculous. I need this. I need to pull myself together.

She's already laid out my black mini dress on the bed and is lining up makeup across the dresser like we're prepping for battle.

"So I'm wearing this?" I ask, raising a brow at the dress.

"Yeah... no need to argue, baby. That, the black pumps, silver jewelry to break it up, and your sparkly clutch."

"You've got it all figured out, then?"

She nods without breaking song. "It's like rain on your wedding day..."

I sigh. Of course she does.

"And what are you wearing, silly?"

She just wiggles her eyebrows.

"Black jumpsuit. Open back," she finally says, with a glint in her eye.

"Poor boy. He doesn't stand a chance, right?"

"Not a chonce," she replies in her best Niall accent, and I burst into laughter.

She sets to work on my hair, curling it into waves, then starts on makeup like she's a Hollywood stylist. Concentration etched across her face.

"Don't move, damn it!" she scolds as I giggle.

"I can't help it."

"You're going out on a date with a hot guy, Ashley."

"Boy," I correct automatically.

"Guy," she shoots back. "Actually, one of the sexiest people alive."

"Oh Lord..." I groan.

"You can roll your eyes all you want. But the truth is still the truth. And you should feel very appreciative of your friend who's busting her ass to make you look smoking."

She stops and tilts my chin up with her thumb, suddenly serious.

"You better leave those dusty inhibitions at the door and just... I don't know, flirt. Smile. Breathe."

"Okay," I say softly—not because I believe her, but because I don't want to disappoint her.

Five minutes later, Oughta Know is playing and Liz declares me "done." I glance in the mirror and, for a second, I see someone else. Not the usual sporty, practical professor. Someone bolder. Maybe even a little bit... sexy?

"You're welcome," Liz says behind me, satisfied.

"Thank you. For this. For everything," I reply, still watching my reflection.

"Stop admiring your hot ass and help me get ready," she laughs, pulling her jumpsuit from the wardrobe.

"I'll do your hair," I offer, and our giggles fill the room again.

Twenty minutes later, we're singing loudly to Crazy when I see the notification light blink on my phone.

H: I'm outside.

Flushed and suddenly awkward, I point to the door and mouth Harry to Liz. She cuts the singing, just barely. I open the door to find him smiling at us.

"Quite the singers, you two!" he grins.

"I love Alanis," he adds, still standing there like a fan catching us mid-performance.

"We rock. I know," Liz answers without missing a beat, slipping on her shoes like this is a totally normal situation.

I glance at her, then at Harry, who's definitely checking out my outfit. And suddenly, I'm very aware of how short this dress is.

"Hi," he says again, voice softer now. He even gives a little wave. He looks like an excited puppy. A tall, unfairly attractive, slightly awkward puppy.

"Hi."

"You ready to go, or...?"

"No, I thought I'd sing a few more numbers first," I joke, grabbing my clutch.

I say goodbye to Liz, who's grinning like she just won the lottery. As I close the door, I hear her shout:

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do—which, to be clear, means anything goes!"

Great. Now I'm blushing. Shaking my head, I lead the way to the lift with Harry trailing just behind.

Okay. This is not a date. I need to get that clear. Not to him—he can think whatever he wants—but to me. This is dinner. Between colleagues. Friends, at best. Two humans working together who also happen to be of the opposite sex. Nothing more.

God, Liz has totally poisoned my brain with all this "hottest guy alive" nonsense. I haven't even looked at him properly. And I won't.

The lift doors close. I clutch my bag like it's the only thing grounding me—until the scent of his cologne hits me. Something warm and slightly spicy, just strong enough to tease.

Damn you, Liz.

"You look amazing, Ashley," Harry says, and for the first time, I turn to actually look at him.

And boy, do I look. He's wearing fitted black jeans, boots, and a silvery satin button-up shirt that only a rock star—or someone annoyingly confident—could pull off. His hair is down in soft, natural curls. He looks... like a man.

Correction: a 21-year-old boy. Right. A boy. Keep it together, Ashley.

"This old thing?" I say, flipping my hair dramatically to make him laugh—and it works. "You look great too, Harry."

It comes out naturally, meant as a polite return compliment. I'm not even sure I mean it until I notice him looking down at the floor, suddenly shy. Thankfully, the elevator dings before either of us has to say anything else.

As we walk outside the hotel, I hold onto my clutch like a life raft. I need to make this clear—this isn't a date. It's just two colleagues having dinner. Two grown adults sharing a meal. Nothing more. End of story.

The valet pulls up with Harry's car, and he opens my door like a gentleman. We slide in quickly, avoiding the paps lingering out front. I'm used to it. I've had dinners with prime ministers and film stars. This is no different. Especially considering the age gap. I mean, it's obvious to anyone watching that we're just friends.

"So... Harry, where are we going?" I ask once we're on the road. The silence is stretching just a little too long.

His eyes stay on the road. "Scarpetta. It's a great Italian place. My friend Anne recommended it a while back—been there a couple times. The food's amazing and the staff mind their business."

Finally, he glances over, just briefly. I feel the shift in the air.

"Can I open the window?" I ask, reaching for the button.

"Feeling hot?" he teases, smirking.

"Yeah... a bit," I say, pushing my hair behind my shoulder.

"You should. You are," he murmurs, almost like it slipped out.

I turn my head to him slowly. "Was that... a line?"

He shakes his head. "No. It's the truth. You're gorgeous, Ash. Don't tell me that's news to you."

I let out a dry laugh. "I know what I am and where I stand, Harry. Men mention it from time to time. But no boy I've worked with has ever commented on it before."

He mockingly turns to glance in the backseat, left and right. "Boy? I don't see a boy here."

I let the breeze cool my skin and don't reply. He's funny. I'll give him that.

"You're funny, Harry," I say, smiling just a little.

"I've been called worse."

Of that, I have no doubt. I remind myself not to fall into his charm. It's probably automatic for him—he's used to girls swooning. I'm not here to swoon.

When we arrive, I blink in surprise. "Oh... I've been here before. With Leo."

"DiCaprio?" he asks, brows raising.

"Yeah. Last year, I think." I say it casually, but I notice his mouth twitch. Not thrilled to learn Leo beat him to it, apparently.

The hostess leads us to a table tucked away in a quieter corner of the restaurant. Privacy. Smart.

The aromas hit me instantly—olive oil, garlic, basil, oregano. Warmth. Home.

I pause, close my eyes, and breathe it in deeply.

"What are you doing?" Harry asks, watching me.

"Having an orgasm," I say without thinking.

His eyes widen slightly, clearly startled. Good. He deserves to be thrown off balance once in a while.

"An orgasm?" he repeats. "Didn't expect that to happen... so soon."

"The food, Harry. The aroma of this place is orgasmic," I clarify, laughing softly.

"Ah. Well, I'm glad I chose it, then."

"Anne's got good taste," I admit as we open our menus.

We place our orders—spinach lasagne for me, some pasta with truffle oil for him—and are left alone again.

This feels like the right time.

"Harry... about this morning," I start, wrapping the napkin a little too tightly in my fingers. "I'm sorry I acted... weird."

He softens instantly. "It's okay. Everyone has their odd moments."

"Still, if I had lost it—the chain and the ring—I would've..." I trail off, my voice cracking just a little.

He doesn't rush me.

"I heard you say something about a wedding ring," he says gently, watching me.

I nod, bracing for the question I know is coming.

"Whose was it?"

"Mine," I say, and his expression shifts.

"You're married?" His tone is filled with surprise, worry even.

"No," I reply quickly. "I'm not."

He lets out a tiny breath. "Divorced?"

I shake my head. "Widowed."

There's a beat of silence. Then he leans in, placing his hand over mine. His thumb rubs gently across my knuckles.

"I'm so sorry, Ashley."

"Thanks," I murmur, appreciating the sincerity in his voice more than I want to admit.

"It makes sense now, you know. Why you reacted the way you did. I'd be devastated too."

"Yeah."

A quiet moment passes.

"You can tell me to fuck off if I'm crossing a line," he says.

I smirk. "Fuck off."

His mock-offended gasp makes me burst into laughter, just as the waiter returns with our food. Tears of actual joy prickle in my eyes now, for the first time in a long time.

"You're such a funny boy, Harry," I say once the waiter leaves.

"Enough with the 'boy' thing. I'm not a boy. I can prove I'm not."

"Oh, settle down. I didn't mean it as an insult. But you need to understand—I'm thirty-nine."

"I don't care."

"You didn't let me finish," I say, raising a brow. "I'm thirty-nine, you're what?"

"Twenty-one. Almost twenty-two."

"Exactly. I'm a grown woman. You're... a young man."

"Better than boy," he mutters.

"Age is just a number, Ash," he adds and digs into his food.

I choose to let the comment slide when we know both it is not.

We eat. We talk. And somehow, the awkwardness dissolves into something... easy. He opens up about the band, about life on the road, the chaos of fame. I tell him about the university, my students, the projects I've worked on.

He listens—really listens.

"Harry, your involvement in this campaign—it matters. People listen to you."

He shrugs, a bit bashful. "It's the least I can do."

"You're just like Leo," I smile.

"Do you like Leo?" he asks, a little too quickly. "Like, like him?"

I blink, caught off guard.

"No. God, no. He's just a friend. Besides I am too old for him." I laugh at my own silly joke. 

"You sound like Anzette," I chuckle. 

"Anzette?" he echoes, clearly confused.

"My daughter."

"Your what?" His fork pauses mid-air, his mouth open in surprise.

And now that is funnier than anything he's said all night.