Paint You Wings // Ashton Irwin [au]

Nine

Ashton's POV

The things I do for this woman. Not that I'm complaining, I actually enjoying doing things for Emmie, even if it includes going grocery shopping, which is probably my least favorite activity.

Making our way inside the supermarket, I pull a shopping cart free from the rest and push it in front of Emmie. "Get in," I demand, pointing down to the metal basket.

Emmie glances from me to the cart and back to me again. "You do realize I'm a twenty-one year old who is capable of walking, right?" She raises an eyebrow, waiting for my response.

"I do, but that's beside the point. Now get in, Emmie." She continues to protest, saying that she's too old to be sitting in a cart when in reality she could pass for someone still in high school, but I don't dare tell her that. To make the situation easier, I lift Emmie into the cart, her loud squeal gaining the attention of the employees and customers.

She crosses her arms over her chest and pouts. "I hate you." She tries to get into a comfortable position and settles on pulling her legs to her chest, hugging them so that there would be room to place the groceries.

"I don't think that's possible," I say, waiting for her to throw a sarcastic remark but instead she just tells me to shut up.

I push the cart, struggling a bit in the beginning; I'm not used to pushing around another person. "Maybe it's a good thing we're making something instead of eating out. Pushing you around is proving to be more difficult than I imagined." I tease. Her eyebrows knit together leaving creases in her forehead, and I can't help but to laugh. "I'm just kidding, Emmie. You're as light as a feather," I say, continuing to put a bit more effort in pushing the cart for it to move.

"Damn straight," she mumbles.

"So what should we make for lunch?" I ask, turning into the canned food aisle.

"What's your favorite food?"

"Probably spaghetti. My mum always made the best spaghetti back home. I don't know how she does it, but it's amazing. I've tried to follow her recipe to make it, but I always screw it up somehow." Emmie laughs, making fun of my failed attempts at cooking.

"Let's make it then," she suggests, sounding excited.

I agree and continue down the aisle, receiving several glances from other customers who are probably wondering why there is a young adult sitting in my cart. Ignoring them, we grab a few cans of tomato sauce and move on to search for the pasta.

"You'd really like her," I say.

"Who?" Emmie looks up and down the shelves in search of the spaghetti noodles.

"My mum." Her eyes beamed when she spots the pack of noodles. She stretches her arm out, grabbing two packs before tossing them into the cart with her. "You remind me a lot of her. You two have the same type of personality; quiet, stubborn and quirky."

She laughs. "I like her already."

"She really is great though. She was the one who raised me and my siblings when my dad left us. She worked so hard for us to grow up living a good and stable life, and she succeeded. It was difficult; she had to work several jobs, but we always pulled through." I look down in the cart to find Emilia resting her chin on her knees.

Fuck. Fuuuuck.

"Shit—no, I mean—" I stop pushing the cart. "I'm so sorry, Emmie. I completely forgot about your—" I cut myself off before I dig myself an even deeper hole. "I'm sorry."

She lifts her head, unfazed by my ranting of my mum. "Ashton, it's really all right. It's been years since that happened, and I'm over it for the most part," she assures.