Puck The Halls | Jack Hughes

FIVE

MIRACLE
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IF DEATH WAS A FEELING, I THINK IM FEELING IT. I trudged down the stairs of my childhood home, wearing nothing but an oversized black t-shirt that was faded to a washed grey with half the print rubbed off. It came to my mid thigh, just long enough that I could wear it with no pants, but not long enough that I didn't put a pair of gym shorts under it just in case.

I had on my favourite pair of winter socks and a pair of ankle cut tan Ugg's. My hair was a mess on top of my head, thrown up in a lazy bun on top off my head. I didn't often wear my glasses, since I wore contact now, but I did this morning, not feeling like putting in any effort after my night at the Hughes party.

I was absolutely not dressed to impress and it was obvious as I dragged myself into the kitchen mid yawn.

My brain pounded painfully against my skull, a reminder of the various mistakes I made the night before. Drinking red wine had been my first mistake, and then there was the tiny little white stick of death that went and ruined it all.

Everything past that joint was a haze. I vaguely remember bits and pieces, mostly feelings. I could remember the feeling of the living room carpet, hands on my waist and something else. Something not so good. Lips against my own.

That wasn't the bad part though, no, the bad part was the name I vaguely remember whispering.

Jack's name.

A shiver ran down my spine as a blurry memory flashed behind my eyes. Knuckles brushing the skin of my cheek, breathless moans, Jack's name.

"Morning, sunshine," my eyes snapped open, latching immediately to the deep blue gaze of the last person I wanted to see this morning. He was standing against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his chest casually as he leaned back, smirking at me like he knew something that I didn't. I felt nauseous. "Looking dapper this morning, I see."

I frowned deeply, scrunching my nose, his smirk only grew. "What are you doing here?" I frowned, but it honestly came out as more of a squeak.

Amusement flickered in his eyes as he raked his eyes over my body, taking in every detail. I felt small under his gaze, shy, nervous. I hate it.

He sighed, letting breath out through his nose before snatching a mug off the counter. My mug. My frown deepened into a scowl. "That mug isn't yours."

"Oh?" He asked, raising a single eyebrow. He brought the mug to his lips, taking a sip of his coffee. "You mean this mug?"

"You did that on purpose—you know what—" I waved my hands in front of me frantically, watching as he bit back a full blown grin. He was enjoying this. "—Jack, why are you here? Why are you in my house? It's too early for me to be dealing with your fuckery."

"To be clear," he mused, smirk still coating his lips. I wanted to punch him. "I can use the mug?"

I groaned, tossing my arms up and my head back. He laughed, bright and happy and unfortunately, beautiful. He was like a puppy that had continuous energy all of the time. How was he even functioning after last night? I felt like I'd been hit by three trucks and then a bus, and I definitely looked worse than I felt. But Jack, he looked as though he'd just come from a fucking sports model photoshoot for Men's Fitness. I hated him.

"Come on," he chuckled, turning to top up his mug of coffee, then reaching into the cabinet above him that I'd never been able to reach without jumping on the bench first, pulled down another mug, a Christmas mug, poured another cup of coffee and handed it to me. I frowned at the bright red and green mug, before reluctantly taking it. "Everyone's outside, and Luke's in some mad shit for throwing a party—made my day."