I approached the wardrobe and hesitated for a moment before opening it. And there she was—curled up behind the hanging clothes, her small frame shaking with sobs.
She had pulled the hood of her dress over her head, hiding from the world, rubbing her nose with her sleeves like a child trying to wipe away the evidence of her tears.
Would it make me a sadist if I said I found her cute when she cried?
Not in a painful way, but in a way that made her seem vulnerable and endearing.
"What happened, Bambi? Why are you crying?" I asked, letting out a heavy sigh as I gently lifted her out of the cramped space. She felt so light in my arms, almost like she'd disappear if I wasn't careful.
How on earth did she fit inside that tiny area?
I placed her on my lap, her small body straddling mine as I pulled back the hood of her sweater. Her tear-streaked face came into view, eyes red and puffy, cheeks flushed from crying.
She looked up at me, those wide, tear-filled eyes searching mine for something— comfort, reassurance, anything to tell her that it would be okay.
"Can you tell me what happened? I'm not a patient person," I murmured, wiping her tears away with my thumb.
Her skin was warm and soft, a stark contrast to the rough callouses on my hands.
Fucking hell! She felt so delicate, so fragile in my lap, her softness reminding me of cotton.
"I-I broke your watch... w-while cleaning... I AM SO SORRY, PLEASE DON'T KILL ME," she blurted out, her voice shaking with fear.
She clung to my shirt, her tiny hands fisted tightly into the fabric as if she was holding on for dear life.
A watch?
She was crying like this over a broken watch? I could buy a thousand watches like that without blinking an eye, yet here she was, apologizing as if she had committed some grave sin.
"Well, I can buy thousands of watches like that, so stop crying. Can you?" I bounced my knees slightly, trying to calm her down.
She nodded, but her breathing was still ragged, her chest heaving as she tried to get herself under control. Her small frame shook with the effort.
"Really? Y-you're not m-mad at me?" Her voice was hoarse, her throat raw from crying. Her wide eyes, cheeks flushed and nose pink, were almost too much to bear.
She looked like a scared little rabbit, caught in a trap and unsure if it would be let go or killed.
"No, I'm not mad at you," I murmured, my thumb brushing gently over her tear-streaked cheeks.
My eyes traced the contours of her face, lingering on her delicate features. Her chubby cheeks, her slightly trembling lips, the way her brows furrowed in confusion.
She was undeniably pretty, with an innocence that was both alluring and dangerous.
Slowly, I cupped her cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin under my palm. Her face tilted slightly into my touch, her eyes searching mine, perhaps for an explanation she couldn't find in my words.
Her cheeks had a chubbiness to them, giving her an innocent, almost childlike appearance that made her seem even more endearing.
Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion, her eyes widening as she looked at my lips.
It was then that I realized something strange— my lips were curved into a smile.
A real, genuine smile. The unfamiliar sensation was almost jarring, and I quickly wiped it away, letting out a deep sigh.