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That winter, two months after my seventeenth birthday, I was finally able to meet Harry and move in with him.

I spent all morning preparing myself, making sure I looked presentable. I wasn't necessarily looking for a permanent home, but I knew I wanted Harry to at least have a good first impression. I brushed through my long, chestnut brown hair, which I had freshly washed the night previous. I left it in its natural waves, clipping a few strands off to either side with barrettes.

I didn't put on much makeup other than mascara and a little lip gloss. Fortunately, my skin looked really nice that day, and I was excited to be able to show off my freckles without worrying about a single blemish.

I threw on a white tennis skirt with a baby pink halter top, although it was most likely below zero outside. I was the queen of wearing clothes inappropriate for the weather.

I slipped on a white pair of socks, along with a white pair of converse, and threw on my favorite white jacket before gathering all of my bags to head out of the door. I felt like an angel dressed in so much white, but in reality I was far from that.

The foster care warden led me through the infamous front door, the cold air harshly nipping at my legs and my face.

I could feel my bags leaving imprints on my arms, even through my jacket, and I was desperate just to get into the car, to feel the heat on my skin and to be relieved of all of the weight on my shoulders, literally and figuratively.

My heart fell to the pit of my stomach when I saw Harry get out of his vehicle, a tall, fairly muscular man with chocolate locks and tattoos all over his body. I oddly wanted to examine every little tattoo and chat with him about the story behind each and every one of them.

He quickly made his way over to me, noticing that my bags were beginning to fall from my grasp. He quickly scooped a couple of them up, the weight seemingly nothing to him. I felt small and vulnerable. For once I didn't feel the urge to act up right away.

"Hey." Harry said to me, then signaled to the warden to go inside.

He wrapped his free arm around the small of my back, guiding me to his black SUV. We walked at a quick pace, as I still had a couple heavy bags draped over my arms.

"Hi." I shyly replied, feeling my cheeks heat up, a stark contrast to the frozen air.

I never once felt so vulnerable to a foster parent. It was a strange feeling, but a strangely good one.

"Let's hurry up and put your things in the trunk so we can get you in the heat, alright? We can have a formal greeting afterwards." Harry suggested.

It was at that point in time his thick English accent became clear to me. I could sense a bit of a difference in the word, "hey," but not enough to make it out.

"Do you have an accent?" I asked, stopping dead in my tracks in shock.

Harry chuckled and pulled me along.

"No, you do." He joked, as we approached the vehicle.

He hurried to put my things in the trunk, but I just stood there, speechless.

"I can explain on the way there if you'd like but for now give me your bags please, love."

"Oh, sorry." I apologized.

I quickly handed the bags over to him, and he placed them strategically into the trunk so that way everything would fit.

After everything was taken care of, he made his way to the front of the SUV, opening up the passenger door for me. It looked like a rather large step to get up into the seat, and I had no intentions of flashing him.

Foster Daddy // h.s.Where stories live. Discover now