favorite crime [h.s]

forty four

Easter eggs in this chapter ;)
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Cappuchino has been my number one go-to coffee for years, and I'd only ever order that. So it wasn't hard to answer when Harry asked me what I wanted, because he obviously had to pay for my drink. He kind of had it coming for not buying me that vinyl.

His hands are gripping the counter edge on either side of my body, keeping me a prisoner between his arms while we're standing at the till. I'm mesmerized by the ink across his skin ⎯ it's like art to me. It's a part of who he is and I couldn't imagine him without his tattoos.

There's a little cross in his left hand between his thumb and forefinger, a tattoo which I haven't really paid attention to before.

"Are you religious?" I ask him, turning my head to the side to get a slight look at his face.

"No." He glances at me. "Why?"

"Cause of the cross on your hand." I gaze back at his hand, a lazy grip on the counter but one would know he's strong.

"My parents were very religious," he explains.

I let my finger trace along the back of his hand, feeling each bone beneath my touch. It's a good method to kill time while the nice lady is taking so damn long to make my coffee.

His hands are bigger compared to mine, and it fascinated me in some ways. I subconsciously place mine on top of his, smiling a bit to myself.

Then he pulls his hand away from beneath mine.

"Ali, your coffee," he reminds me and hands me the cup.

"Thanks," I say, warming up my hands as I hold the hot cup in my palms.

We leave the coffee shop, a nice breeze of wind rushing through my hair. I start enjoying these kinds of moments, where Harry and I are doing random unplanned stuff and just see where the moment takes us.

"Found anything interesting about my hands?" He speaks with a hint of tease behind his voice, regarding my staring eyes from earlier.

"I think you have nice hands."

"They're just hands." He frowns, examining his hands as he turns them around repeatedly.

"Well, I like them," I smile.

I attempt to take a sip from my cappuchino, but it's still a bit hot.

"You were the one to be mesmerised by my hands, remember?" I murmur in a soft voice, staring at him in anticipation to him remembering. His eyebrows draw together as if he was trying to remember the memory. "You said I had gentle hands."

He nods, pushing his hands into his pockets. "I remember."

Saying my hands are gentle was the first compliment he's ever given me, and it made me appreciate how much he paid attention to the little things while making me believe he hated me.

If I could, I'd just take his hand and hold it for the rest of the day. We're still walking to the bridge with no specific reason other than it is a nice spot.

With silence clouding us and me sipping my coffee, Harry has grabbed the cigarettes from his pockets and lights one. The smell of smoke already lingers in the air after the first time he sucks on the cigarette.

As much as I don't mind the rather comfortable silence, it feels like I should start a conversation.

"When," I trial off, not knowing how to word this. "When did your⎯"

"When my parents died?" He continues easily, I nod quietly. "I think I was seventeen."

"That's when you joined the Mafia?"