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“You know, kissing doesn’t normally include tasting someone’s eyelid.” Asta teases, squinting against the setting rays of sunshine, reaching over to squeeze Harry’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture.
“Well, I’ve gotten better now,” Harry says defensively and Asta laughs outright, amused. “I could… show you.”
“Show me, huh?” Asta shifts her gaze away from Harry, staring out across the lake instead. There’s a fluttering in her stomach; anxiousness and excitement twisting together. There’s been a connection between them ever since Harry almost killed Jimmy to defend her, but they’ve never tried to broach the line. She looks back at Harry and he’s still studying her. His gaze is soft and unwavering. It might be unnerving, except it’s Harry. He’s always been able to see her.
“Okay, show me,” she says instead, her insides coiling tighter. The fluttering inside feels more intense, a bird trying to break through its cage. She hopes that by letting it fly, they won’t crash and burn.
She leans forward into his space, just a bit, and watches Harry’s eyes track her lips. Then he leans forward to meet her, lips pressing gently against hers. It’s almost chaste, at first, unhurried and soft—until Harry captures more of her mouth, bringing his hands up to cradle her face as they explore each other’s mouths. Asta inhales sharply as Harry gently sucks on her bottom lip, a swift stab of desire spreading through her.
They break apart, both a little out of breath. Asta can’t lie, she’s a little surprised at how her body has responded. She reaches out and traces a thumb over one of Harry’s cheekbones. “I think your practice has paid off,” she says softly, dropping her hand back into her lap, trying to break the tension. She feels self conscious now; where do they go from here?
“Asta, close your eyes.” Harry is staring at her intently, but so earnestly that she can feel the flush growing on her cheeks. But she does as instructed, feeling Harry lean into her space again.
There’s a pause where nothing happens and then she feels Harry lips brushing first over her right eyelid and then her left, just a whisper of a touch. She grins, keeping her eyes closed, not quite ready to break the spell. The gesture is so tender it makes her ache; it feels like a promise, a new start. She can feel the fluttering in her stomach easing.
“Asta?”
“Yes, Harry?”
“Your eyelids do not taste like potato chips.” Asta chuckles at that, eyes still closed. She breathes deeply, imprinting this moment in her brain forever: the warmth of the setting sun on her cheeks, Harry’s lips skimming over her eyelids, his body settled comfortably next to hers.
“Kiss me again,” she says, and he does.