Harry Styles imagines

I hate you(short)

WARNINGS: Swearing

The house was warm, and smelled of a warm vanilla and some of my old cologne. A mix between the lovers inhabiting the small room in a twisting and turning home we had built. The lights were off, except for the soft flicker of a candle dancing on the oven top, wax pooling in a thin circle around the blackened wick. It looked untouched and almost empty, yet lived in, loved, used. 

Curling my fingers around the glass body, my lips jutted out and blew softly, watching the smoke dissipate into the air in a swirling spin. I inhaled deeply, smelling the lovely pumpkin spice scent she had kept from past years, insisting she would use it. It smelled lovely, just like her. The warmth the extinguished flame reminded me of her personality, and how much I longed to wrap myself up in her limbs and hold her there. 

I had ignored her for a week, only texting her when I usually would so she wouldn't worry. All too avoid the rambling I always did, just so she wouldn't know how soon I had come back, booking the soonest flight to reunite our family. Now, the week was over, and my jet black suitcase and withered green duffel bag laid wrinkled and stuffed with months worth of clothes in them, sitting still by the door with no intent to move anytime soon. 

Placing the candle down from my grasp, the soft clink of the glass touched the glass echoed through the kitchen, the thick walls stopping the rhythmic twang from slipping into the stairway and ringing in my wife's ears. My eyes flicked from the pink carpet on the curved stairs and the freshly washed stove, wax spilling out of the sides from the impact and onto the sleek black. My heart pounded for a moment, waiting for a familiar shuffle to sound from the peak of the stairs, and a little faint call of my wife's voice, hypnotizing and dripping with honey as always. Sweet and soft, only room for love. 

When no noise came, my shoulders slumped, foot lifting to my hand, I felt my back hunch and my elbow extend. My fingers danced around the cool zipper on the side of my scuffed brown boots, the silver tab slipping past my index with a soft hum to the end of the seam. The zipper separated smoothly, the boot falling flat off of my foot and onto the tile silently, nothing but a soft thud reaching my ears. Too muffled to stir anyone except for myself.

The second one came off much quicker and quieter, the dirty bottoms of my crew socks sunk into the coolness wrapping around the tingle of skin, my feet missing the warm from the old shoes y/n had got me so long ago. 

I treaded lightly across the tile to the sleek wood floors, lightly tinted and smooth, dented with memories and accidents of playtime and naptime escape heists I used to take part in with our beautiful little girl, almost 4 now. I was always her partner in crime, while y/n would chase with a smile adorning her beautiful face, cheeks red and lips upturned while her eyebrows rested easy without a line of stress to furrow between them. 

My little girl, Ivy, had my curls, so beautiful and bouncy. They shined like the moon, a feature she had from y/n. Her eyes were a soft green, enchanting and sweet like mine. they swam in emerald and sage, while her cheeks painted themselves a bright pink dotted with sun kissed freckles and the shine from the tip of her button nose. Her hair was a warm h/c that reflected y/n's, and her smile was almost just as warm. She had my teeth but she bared my lovers smile. She had her mothers crinkles my her eyes when she smiled too big, and she had the same giggle as her too. She had my nose, and liked to scrunch it the same way when she smelled bad things or tasted something bitter. She was the perfect little girl and y/n and I couldn't have wanted a better daughter. Most nights were spent laying in bed, our little girl wrapped up to her moms chest while she dozed off into a state of sleep and consciousness. She would rake her fingers through her curls while I sang the melody of a tune made just for the three of us, and soon she would be out like a light.  It was moments like those where y/n couldn't help but whisper a string of prayers and praises into her ears, kissing her temples sweetly and rocking her slowly. She was our little girl, but no one could love her more than y/n could.