He hops off the counter and puts his plate in the sink. Hey, he's not entirely lazy and made of bad manners, except for the next bit where he tugs his shirt off as he cross to the couch.
He slings the shirt toward his bed and the pile of clothes near it. "Look," he says as he turns and sinks into the couch, "the way I see it, you have three choices: Go home and marry this loser, talk Harry into sleeping with you, or sleep with me." He has his own preferences, obviously.