Jupiter Falls ✓

o18| lighthouse

Chapter 18 
This chapter is dedicated to babyboyegas  because I love her comments and engagement. Also, she did have a good story up before, but I see it's gone? Nevertheless, she's awesome. So this one's for you. ❤️

I never really liked carrying flour, and I still don't. No matter how cute, the person who asked me to carry it is. I placed the white paper bag of flour on the kitchen counter and huffed in annoyance then specs of flour flew into my face, great.

We'd just got out all the things needed to bake a birthday cake for Joe. We're not exactly sure how old he is now—because he doesn't say, but I'd say he's over forty.

"Jupiter, here—" Harry says handing me a bowl, I take it and he nods, "start putting the flour in."

Glancing over at Harry, I can't help but giggle at how adorable he looks. He has his hair up in a bun, a regular patterned loose shirt on, black jeans on too—but what pulls at my heartstrings is the apron pulling the kitchen look all together.

As this was technically his sister's house, that was her apron, and there are pink hearts all over the white apron. 

Staring at Harry read the recipe off his phone screen, mouthing words like, three... eggs.... and then the small little looks he makes at the food when he finds what he's looking for, like right now—the 'o' shape of his mouth at realising half of the vanilla essence in the bottle is gone. Pure sweetness and well, fuck.

I was a goner.

I find myself looking down at my task so quickly, I nearly knocked the flour off the counter—and why did I look away so violently? Because the object of my staring looked up, and nearly fucking caught me.

I open the flour bag and look up to Harry—who was already looking at me—smug smile and all, "how much flour do I put in the bowl?"

"Measure two of those cups over there," he says nodding towards a floral printed mug sitting a few centimetres away from the bowl.

"Okay," I respond and do it. By the time I'm done, Harry's got another bowl filled with stuff, I assume the recipe told him to use.

After about twenty-five or so minutes of this back and forth with the instructions and shit, we finally put the metal trays of the mixture in the oven and sat down.

We actually weren't shitty bakers, if I say so myself. Although neither of us knew the recipe, we could follow one well enough.

We were sat on two wooden chairs in the kitchen, around the tiniest little circular kitchen table I've seen—clearly for one or two people. I can just imagine Harry sitting here alone in the mornings eating his breakfast alone, scrolling through his phone too. The look of being engrossed in such mundane things—they're actually things I'd like to see—to experience with him.

Eat breakfast with him on this little button shaped table, laugh about things on the Metro (although it's a shitty newspaper—its free five days a week) around the table with him.

"What are you thinking about?" He asks, forcing me to look at him. His eyes were focused, zoned in on me. His gentle beating heart, reflected in the soft breaths leaving is ruddy lips. His relaxed slow expression holding me mellow in his eye line. Then I gulped a long, slow, slow, slow gulp.

A morning dew of light, that would slip through a window and illuminate a room. The type of harsh light that would shimmer at the edges of sheer brilliance, like the tip of an ice cream cone, fanning out towards the top—transparent almost. Those small gentle pieces of wool escaping the sleeve of your favourite jumper... and what makes you hold that breath, that gulp is where this is coming from.