.Perfect Fantasy. |H.S.|

Chapter 35. Skipped a Beat.

.Natalia.

Why can't I get this stupid smile off my face? The memory unfurled with the image of his body pressed to mine against the car, how it all started, chest fitting perfectly with mine as if it was made to be there. A never-ending smile firmly in place; I mindlessly changed channels on the television, just making time, taking not-so-subtle glances at the hallway and waiting for Harry to come downstairs.

As I lay on my back, the television screen paying about as much attention to me as I was paying to it, looking up at the serenity of my surroundings, I wrapped my body with a chunky throw blanket. I really wished for the briefest second that Lily was around for a talk, we'd probably be eating industrial amounts of cookie dough ice cream, squealing like stuck pigs and jumping up and down with excitement, and because I needed just that, I covered my head with the blanket and kicked my legs with pure delight, a huge grin breaking on my face.

"Uh, I guess it's a good morning," Each word came out individually rather than a flowing sentence.

Fuck.

I threw the grey fleece away from me, my hair flying everywhere, and I didn't move, just stared in utter paralysis at Harry standing there by the television, looking down at me and fucking losing his damn self-control, eyes gleaming with sudden mischief. He was showing his all too famous smirk, and I wanted to die.

"What are you wearing? You look like Harry Potter's dad." I shot at him like a comeback, like he was making a rude statement by walking into the room looking like a hag, but I didn't believe it. Not for a single second. He actually looked hot wearing his reading glasses again, a white terry cloth bathrobe that was open to show one of his simple-filled-with-holes old-school band grey shirts, maybe each hole costing a shit ton of money, and some black sweats that fitted his legs tight below his thighs.

There was nothing wrong with how he looked, I knew that. My rioting heart knew it, so did my weak knees, and so did my heat-prickling stomach. I could've taken a clear picture of him casually standing there, print it like a poster to sell and win a lot of money from just this look alone.

I wanted to groan in approval. The best part was that with the light coming from the window, his hair looked like it had some streaks of blonde, making his eyes stand out from behind his lens, and the fucking curl in the front of his stupid head was as perfect as ever.

"Well, shit, you got me." He walked away in a graceful long-legged stride, a dark look and a solitary walk into the kitchen, probably to grab breakfast. I watched him until he'd disappeared from sight, and my throat felt thick and tingly like I'd just swallowed a spoonful of warm spicy syrup, the warm emotion spreading to the rest of my body, and I liked it. I liked it a lot.

He came back to me in no time, a big mug on his naked hand as he wore no rings at morning. "What are we watching?"

I noticed the show at the same time he looked at it too, where a scene of two people naked rolling around in the sheets in a steamy make-out session with some heavy sax noise in the background developed. Well of fucking course! And even though this moment was well beyond embarrassing, it had an intoxicating twist to it, because he kept grinning while motioning for me to lift the blanket, followed by him sitting down almost glued to my body and then wrapping us both in it.

"That's not, uh, I was just browsing..." Then I made a hand gesture, quickly moving my hand from right to left, meaning for him to stop asking questions.

"'Course you were." Understanding dawned on his face and I caught a slight waft of the black coffee the way he liked it.

"You never sleep past noon." I murmured in a low voice.