Daddy issues || h.s

2.2

She hopped from one foot to another as she put the dishes in the dishwasher. The floor was colder then she had anticipated, and now she regretted not putting on socks. In fact, she was almost starting to regret not putting pants on either. But she kept going, dancing around the kitchen in the light of the afternoon sun. 

"Fuck," the word erupted from her plump lips as a plate slipped between her fingers and fell into the sink. A fountain of water poured over her, and her arms got soaked. "Shit," she swore again, because she could feel water seeping through the Band-Aid on her arm. She stopped dancing, her cold feet now standing still on the hardwood floor. The white cloth wrapped around her arm was wet and soggy, so she ripped it off and threw it in the garbage.

 A sigh fell from her lips as she held her arm under water, and saw the last of the superfluous ink run down the drain. 

"Good afternoon," she head a familiar voice say from behind her, and she turned around. He was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest and a small smile playing in the corner of his lips. 

"Good afternoon to you too," she said and smiled back at him. He could feel his heart race in his chest at the sight of her. She was wearing nothing but an old, ratty t-shirt barely long enough to reach past her bum. He could see the tattoo on her thigh, the blue colours of the artwork shining in stark contrast to her milky-white skin, and he wondered what other treasures he had yet to discover on her body.

"Has mom ordered you to bake anything for tomorrow yet?" Adelaide asked, turning of the faucet. 

"Yeah, she has ordered a dozen cookies and at least twenty croissants." Harry answered and left his post at the doorframe. "She mentioned some rumour that I had experience with baking. I wonder who told her." He walked over to her as he spoke, the tone in his voice playful and light, as if he didn't wonder at all.

"Me too," Adelaide said, her voice holding that same playful tone. "Because it was certainly not me." The distance between them had disappeared completely, and he cupped her chin in his hand, his thumb stroking lightly across her cheekbone. 

"I figured," he whispered, his breath fanning over her face.

 She blushed slightly as she felt his hand slowly slide down her neck, past her collarbone, and then along her shoulder, all the way down to her small hand. His lips parted slightly in surprise, and she knew he had noticed.

"Is that?" he asked, too awestruck to form a complete sentence. "Yes," she answered, and the wild butterflies in his heart took to their wings and flew around inside his veins. Because there, embedded deep into her skin, was the cherry blossom he had drawn. It was printed over and over again, stretching from her wrist and all the way up to her elbow. Whoever had put it there had coloured it in, pink shades now playing on her pale skin.

He lifted her hand up to his face, his eyes scanning over the patterns, studying it. His fingers felt like fire against her skin, and she could barely breathe. "Harry," she said, placing her hand on his chest. He hadn't bothered to button his shirt all the way up, leaving his chest bare for all the world to see. "Harry," she repeated. And when he felt her small hand against his chest, it felt as though his heart was going to explode. The butterflies inside of him were too wild, to many, to be kept inside any more.

And so his heart tore wide open.

His pink lips dove down to hers, and as he pulled her closer and felt her body so perfectly against his, he knew.