Life for Isabelle Green is perfect. Except for whatever it is that lurks in the dark when the lights go out.
~~~
Note: This is NOT a paranormal story. No jump-scares, no purple veiny hands and no skeletal figures. Just a lil thrill and romance~
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“Stop!” Zico cries before I shove a spoonful of chocolate ice cream (which is quickly becoming my favourite) into his mouth. I take the opportunity to swiftly steal a large bite of his vanilla softie.
“Hey!” The fallen warrior complains. I shrug and continue to chomp down on my ice cream, swinging my legs back and forth on the park bench.
When we had arrived, I was immediately taken in by the large scrumptious looking buckets, but Zico said that if we put those in the refrigerator at home, we would get caught. When I continued to sulk, he drew a compromise and promised to bring me to the stall at least twice a week. He even agreed, albeit grudgingly, to the third round of ice cream we are currently devouring after a little argument which mostly consisted of him yapping about how I would catch a nasty cold and me pouting. Obviously, I won.
“You’re not playing fair,” he grumbles, holding his softie protectively.
“You’re such a sore loser.” I roll my eyes and scoop out a spoonful from my parfait cup.
He narrows his eyes. “Well, in that case…” He suddenly swings one of his arms behind me, creeping it around my shoulders, and leans across me to grab the spoon that I hold inches away from my face with his mouth. My heart jumps to my throat as I watch him sit back leisurely, licking the remnants of cream on his lips with his tongue.
“Delicious,” he says lowly, flashing me a devilish smile.
“Why, what’s the matter, sweetheart?” He has the nerve to act clueless as I stare at him flabbergasted.
“You!” I say dumbly.
“Who, me?” He smirks.
I cry in frustration and quickly finishing off my ice cream (now hyperaware of the fact that Zico ate from the same spoon), throw away the cup in the nearest bin.
“Wouldn’t you like a fourth round, sweetheart?”
I glunch at his smug face and hop off the bench.
“Ready to go home already?” Zico grins, his face illuminated by the streetlight overhead. I stand transfixed, tracing the sharp contours of his cheeks to his slightly crooked nose and his jaw with my eyes. I look at him, his bronze skin glowing in the light, his chocolate eyes sparkling like precious gemstones. His hair is now dishevelled after our little struggle, and I have to physically refrain from reaching out to comb my fingers through the silky strands and mess it up a little more. I have always thought Zico was handsome, but at this moment, he looks beautiful. So painfully beautiful.
I remember how I would daydream about Prince Charming when I was little. I now realise that this is exactly how I would picture him.
Zico stands up and says something, but I can’t focus. All I can think about as I gaze at him is that this kind, helpful and incredibly stubborn idiot would be someone’s Prince Charming someday and make them happy, and that that someone wouldn’t be me.
