destined. | h.s

27. crash course

Ariella's P.O.V

Warmth is something that I have not had a proper daily dose of  ever since U.K and its winter came creeping to me, well not until today, with Harry's heat radiating to me. It was a proper sleep; I thought to myself, it is, honestly. Although, my parents would have contradicted this as soon as a question of permission slips off of my mouth.

It's good. Maybe because knowing each other, we have always planned out the months after this day. On how all of this will lead to.

I feel him shuffle underneath me, and his chest vibrate back to consciousness. And while my thoughts slowly became more redundant he spoke, "Good morning, love."

I closed my eyes for a little, and said, "Good morning to you, too."

The bits of laziness and tiredness came upon us and so we remained like this for a few more minutes. I finally gave up over the feeling of no motion and got to my feet to make myself feel more animate.

"Cook or buy?" He asks. He was like my random beau asking his random maiden for their random food for the random day. But it is pretty unfortunate that we live in hoping that some random paparazzi would show up and make random wrong articles that would randomly spread in the whole wide world in a random minute.

That was a sickening and a repetitive use of an adjective/adverb but anyway.

"I don't really know, anything good I guess." The random maiden replied. Shoot stop being so random. No, stop the randomness. Okay, whatever.

"Cook?" He spoke, now sporting one of the infamous collection of white shirts of Harry Styles.

"Cook." I affirmed.

So we went. And I'm glad we didn't fall into the common cliché of ending up in a food mess. I kept repeating to myself that I'm one anomalous chef, that calling myself one feels like violating the culinary law. But I have to give it to myself today, I did a good job despite obtaining assistance from him from time to time since he was doing some other kitchen thing.

After the putting-things-in-order-and-together process, we were equipped with all the breakfast prerequisites and commended each other for a good job.

He sips off the soup, "I didn't know you can avoid burning down the house,"

I laughed and jokingly with pride uttered, "Duh, I'm a master, and a master simply does not expose her skills."

He poked his tongue out and shook his head.

We kept ourselves in that pace most of the time, and argued who baths first. He said he does not do the ladies-first rule in using the comfort room, but my bolshie, stubborn attitude inherited from who knows who, insisted on it. We were fooling around of course.

"Stop the bickering, we could just go in there together," he laughs along with that smirk.

I shook my head, "Dear no." And walked in there, locking the knob, like I don't trust him (wow, that's deep) and endured the warm sensation of the shower. Do you know the typical human action of being left alone with water pouring over and having to rethink everything about your whole life and questioning why and what could be waiting for me next?

I hated and loved being unaccompanied especially getting to live a percentage of Harry's stardom. I just let life happen outside of me.

After having soap all over me I let it flow off, and with a sudden movement my head begins to throb again. Not because of overthinking, just the lingering sickness that hasn't gone fully. I remained still until it subsided.

I stepped out and he was sitting down the hallway, a hand brushing his locks, and that after-argument face, with the other free-hand taken by the phone. Fixing the new bundle of self laundry in my hand, I settled on his side, looking at him. I don't say anything. I knew he knew my purpose.