Stuck » h.s. (UNDER EDITING)

twenty one

EMMA'S POV:

My hands are on my hips as I stare down at the skillet, waiting for it to heat up. Harry was still sound asleep when I awoke so I left him there because waking him didn't seem right.

Images from last night rush through my mind and I can feel the inevitable smile expanding just a bit. I've been touched by a boy before, but it has never felt like that. There was something about the way his fingers treated my skin as if it were glass that made my insides melt and my heart beat at an abnormal rate. His touch was exhilarating and I found myself craving more and more the longer it went on. A small part of me wonders if he's even going to remember much from last night. The medicine had him so emotionally warped, I wouldn't be surprised if he was wondering why I'm in his house at ten in the morning.

The pancake batter sizzled as it hit the hot surface, spreading out into a decent sized circle. It was near impossible to find the mix because he had it stashed behind everything else in his cabinets. My eyes were scanning the cabinets continuously for what felt like forever while I was trying to find the damn stuff. I wanted to make something nice for him this morning considering the hell filled night we both had last night. Although, his had been much worse than mine.

The feeling in the room unexpectedly shifted, the air seeming harder to find. Somehow I just knew he was behind me. Seeing him wasn't going to be an issue-at least I hoped it wouldn't- I just felt at fault for all that went down. I turned my back to rest on the handle of the oven and held the spatula in my hand. Our eyes held each other's for a considerable amount of time, neither of us daring to look away. I search for any sign of confusion or anger, but all that stirs within his forest green irises is humor. My eyes linger a bit longer before moving to notice a picture frame slightly crooked on the wall behind him. It wasn't a very wide picture frame, more of a tall one. A series of pictures reside in it, mostly being of his mother I'm assuming. The story he told me last night wasn't so much of how she died, but how she lived and I found that admiringfully beautiful. He didn't linger on the bad parts too long, but focused on the silly things like dancing in the kitchen with her.

"I think your food is going to burn," he speaks, gesturing to the stove behind me. He walks slowly around the island and leans across it with his back facing me. I turn and quickly slip the spatula under the spongy circle and lift it onto a plate. "What are those?" he asked. When I set them down on the island counter next to him, his eyes widened slightly and his whole face seemed to light up. "Flap Jacks? I haven't had those in forever!"

"Who even calls it that anymore? It's pancakes," I laugh.

"Did you make it from scratch?" he says with his eyes still lit up.

"No, what the hell do I look like to you? I searched through what felt like a hoarder's house looking for the box of this stuff," I say and toss the container of pancake mix to him.

"I don't even remember buying this! I didn't even know I had it!"

"Probably because it was literally hidden."

The muscles in his back flex when he opens the refridgerator. The shelves were filled with unidentifiable items and the only thing he took out was orange juice. He grabs two glasses from the cabinet and sets them on the counter with a clank, unscrewing the cap on the bottle of orange juice. He pours the orange liquid into both of the glasses and places the bottle back in the fridge. A glass is placed in my hand and Harry smiles weakly at me.

"You know you didn't have to cook. I'm not disabled," he tries to joke which earns a him a glare from me. I follow him to the table, my eyes shooting daggers into his back the entire time. The wooden chairs creak when our weight settles on them.