Lights (2019)

Grazing the Top

The next morning, I wake up with Harry laying almost entirely on me, his head on my chest. He is snoring softly and I try to move out from under him, but he groans and wraps his arms around me tighter. I try to wake him; I brush curls from his face and lightly shake his shoulder.

"Harry," I say in his ear. He doesn't move. I sigh. I say his name a little louder and he jolts up, squinting at me.

"What?" He mumbles, looking up at me. His voice is raspier than usual from sleep.

I smile. "You're lying on me."

He looks down. "Oh." He shifts off of me, onto his side. He huffs slightly falling back into the pillows. I get out of bed, tying my hair up into a ponytail before I brush my teeth.

"It's nearly ten-thirty," I say. "Why don't we make breakfast?"

Harry groans and gets out of bed, sliding a black t-shirt on. "But that's so much work."

"Fine. You can watch, then." I joke as I turn and walk out of the bedroom, leaving Harry while he is brushing his teeth. I hear a loud thumb followed by cursing, before Harry appears jogging to catch up with me. He is still sleepy; he rubs his eyes and yawns.

I open the fridge once we get to the kitchen, pulling out milk and eggs. I turn to the pantry and pull out pancake mix and some vegetable oil. Harry leans against the counter lazily watching me. He smiles and cracks jokes as I mix the ingredients in a bowl. He leans over and swipes his finger in the batter--I hit his hand away.

He puts his finger in his mouth and immediately grimaces. "That was disgusting!"

"What did you think it would taste like?" I chuckle at his aversion to the taste.

"I don't know! Pancakes!" He exclaims. "Maybe you made it wrong?"

"I did not make it wrong, I am following instructions," I tell him with a laugh. "It is pancake mix, not brownie mix-- it doesn't exactly taste awesome."

"Don't even try," he says as I grab a skillet from a drawer and put it on the stovetop.

"What?"

"You'll never make pancakes as good as IHOP."

"I can try," I tease, pouring some pancake batter onto the skillet. I grab some blueberries from the fridge and stir them in the batter. Harry watches me as I cook. I try not to mess up as I flip a pancake. It lands on its side, folding over. I curse and throw it onto a waiting plate in defeat. Harry snorts.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I ask.

"Like what?"

"Like me making pancakes is a joke."

"It is a joke," he taunts.

"All right maestro, you give it a shot then." I cross my arms over my chest.

"Maestro?" He smirks again. "I have been told I am the master of many things."

I move aside and he takes the handle of the skillet in his hand. He expertly flips it in the air, and it lands almost perfectly. I stare at him.

"Where did you learn to do that?" I ask him.

"The IHOP gods have contacted me. " He claims. "Apparently I'm the chosen one."

I laugh. "You wish."

"No, really. They came to me in my dreams last night." He flips another one, then slides it onto a plate. "For you," he says, garnishing it with a blueberry. He winks at me.

"I'm flattered," I say, putting a hand on my chest.

"You should be," he says, pouring more batter into the pan. "Because I'm the chosen one."