Still The One

Sixteen

We mistake sex for romance. Guys are taught that pushing a girl against a wall is romance. Sex is easy, you can do it with anyone, yourself, with batteries. Romance is when someone you like walks into a room and they take your breath away. Romance is when two people are walking next to each other and all of a sudden they find themselves holding hands, and they don’t know how that happened. – John C. Moffi

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Sixteen
Three years ago – March 31, 2015

I scooted myself closer to his sweatshirt, and cuddled into the warmth and the aroma of his body spray and deodorant. Assorted into the mix was the pleasant odor of clean laundry. What once was an unidentifiable musk was now a familiar, remedying scent. From him I could smell security; the knowledge that he was there and would never leave my side.

He pulled me in closer, and then coddled me fondly while I nuzzled my cheek into the fabric. I could feel the faint touch of his lips on the top of my head, as he clicked the buttons of the remote. His other hand was busy; letting its fingers dance on the surface of my arm, tickling with each tenuous touch. They roamed from the beginning of my wrist, to the tip of my elbow, which stimulated a lovely set of goose bumps against my pale, lurid skin. Harry was continuing to caress me, going on for twenty minutes by now. He seemed to like the effect his impact had on me.

From the television screen, the sound of a woman’s shrill, piercing screams erupted rather loudly – a harshening alarm that caused me to jump. Harry immediately switched the channel. I felt his heartbeat quicken, from the close distance of my crown to his chest. I smirked in disbelief. “No.”

Harry gazed his focus down onto me, while I shifted my head backwards to see his face. The lines of his forehead were crinkled in confusion. He replied, “What?”

“You weren’t really afraid of that, were you?” I teased with a wild grin.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Hey, you were the one that jumped. And you know I don’t really like scary movies.”

He told me this a few times, but it was always kind of funny to hear him say it. There he was, my loving protector, who couldn’t stand watching a horror film for more than five minutes. I curiously asked, “What does that apply to? Vampires and werewolves? Maybe ghosts?”

“Now you’re just being mean,” Harry was pointing out, arching his eyebrow and pinching my cheek.

I threw my head back, laughing. “Not at all, babe. I was just wondering why you changed the channel so quickly.”

“I told you already – I’m just not a fan of scary movies.”

I beamed. “Yeah, my big softie.”

He was scoffing loudly, moving himself into a more upright position. “Softie? Sweetheart, you’re lying down on my rock-hard abs.”

I felt his robust torso beneath my back, my elbows dug into his solid chest. Then I turned around completely to give him a reassuring kiss. “You’re absolutely right.”