Chapter 1: The Stolen Spot
Five minutes late. I'm power-walking across campus, my canvas bag digging into my shoulder, my lungs burning from the jog from the library where I'd lost track of time in a book on Chicana poets. The poetry seminar is the one class I never miss, the one I actually give a shit about, and I'm going to be late because I couldn't stop reading one more stanza.
I push open the heavy studio door, and the sight hits me like a gut punch.
There's Kendall. In my seat. The one by the window with the good light, the one that catches the afternoon sun just right and makes the whole room feel like it's glowing gold. She's leaning back, her long legs crossed, her sleek dark hair falling over one shoulder, and she's laughing at something. And Harry is beside her. His hand is resting on her thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles through the fabric of her jeans, and he's grinning at her like she's the only person in the room.
I freeze in the doorway, my canvas bag slipping down my arm, and I feel my cheeks flush so hot I swear they could light the whole studio on fire. My usual spot. The one I've claimed since the first week of the semester, the one by the window with the good light, the one where I can see the professor and the whole room and the little corner of the quad outside where the old oak trees drop their leaves in the fall. Kendall is leaning into that light like she owns it, her sleek dark hair catching the afternoon sun, and Harry's hand is still on her thigh, his thumb still tracing those lazy circles, and he's laughing at something she's said, his head tilted back, that easy grin I used to know by heart.
I shove my bag back up my shoulder and force my legs to move. I don't look at them. I refuse. I keep my eyes locked on the far end of the studio, where there's one empty seat tucked behind a tall easel, half-hidden by a canvas propped on a rickety wooden stand. It's a shit spot. The light is wrong, the angle means I'll be staring at the back of someone's head for the next hour, and the stool wobbles when I sit on it. But it's not next to Harry, and it's not in my seat, and right now that's all that matters.
I drop my bag on the floor and sit, tucking my knees against the stool's legs and fumbling for my notebook. My hands are shaking. I hate that they're shaking. I dig my nails into my palm and force myself to breathe.
Professor Delgado is already at the front, her silver hair swept into a loose bun, a stack of printouts in her hand. She's mid-sentence as I settle in, something about the politics of desire in contemporary verse, about how longing is never just longing, it's always tangled up in power and place and who gets to sit where. Her voice drifts over me, a familiar cadence, but I can't hold onto the words. My eyes keep straying, against my will, to the golden window light and the two dark heads bent together in it.
Harry's profile is half turned toward Kendall. I can see the curve of his jaw, the way the sunlight catches the curls at the nape of his neck. He's laughing again, quiet, a low sound I used to hear in the back of Harry's car or over borrowed notes at two in the morning. Kendall says something, her hand brushing his arm, and he leans closer.
I look down at my notebook. The page is blank. I write my name in the corner, Nikki M., and then I press the pen into the paper until the ink bleeds through to the next page.
The lecture continues. Professor Delgado quotes Neruda, then a line from Sandra Cisneros, then something I actually want to hear about, a poem about wanting a body so badly it feels like hunger. I scrawl a note in the margin, the word hunger underlined twice. Then I look
Then I look up, and my heart stops.
Harry's eyes are on me. Not on Kendall, not on the professor, not on the window light. He's staring at me across the studio, his grin gone, his brow furrowed, his green eyes wide with something that looks like guilt and panic all tangled together. He shifts in his seat, his body tilting toward me like he's about to stand up, and I see Kendall's hand close around his wrist, her voice a low murmur I can't quite hear.
I shake my head. Sharp. A single, deliberate movement that says don't you dare.
He freezes. He holds my gaze for a long, aching second, and I can see the war happening behind his eyes. I know that look. I know the way his jaw tightens when he's about to make a choice, and I know which choice he's made every time lately. His shoulders drop. He turns back to Kendall, and his hand settles on her thigh again.
The lecture droning on around me. I can't feel it. I can only feel the hollow ache in my chest, the way my nails keep pressing harder into my palm.
Professor Delgado says something about how longing is always tethered to the one who withholds it, and I write that down, because it's true, because it's cutting me open right now in a room full of paint fumes and easels. I keep my eyes on my notebook for the rest of the hour. I don't let them drift back to the window. I don't let myself give him the satisfaction of watching him pick her again.
But I feel his gaze on me. I feel it like a weight, like a hand on the back of my neck, and it takes everything in me not to look up.
When Professor Delgado finishes and the room erupts into the shuffle of chairs and bags, I'm on my feet before she's even set down her printouts. I shove my notebook into my bag, my fingers clumsy, my heart hammering so hard I can hear it in my own ears. I don't wait. I don't look back. I just move, threading through the easels and the chattering students, heading for the door at the back of the studio, the one that leads into the supply closet and out to the loading dock.
I'm halfway there when a hand closes around my wrist.
"Nikki."
His voice. Low. Quiet. I freeze, my body betraying me, and then he's pulling me sideways, through a door I didn't even register, and the door swings shut behind us with a heavy click.
The supply closet is cramped, barely big enough for two people. Shelves line the walls, stacked with paint cans and turpentine and rolls of canvas, the air thick and chemical and close. A single bare bulb above us gives off a weak, yellowish light. My back is against the shelf and Harry is in front of me, his chest rising and falling fast, his curls a mess, his green eyes searching my face like he's looking for something to grab onto.
"Nikki, I'm sorry," he says, his voice desperate. "She just showed up and..."
"And you let her take my place."
The words come out hot, clipped, and I can feel my hands fisting at my sides, my nails biting into my own flesh. "You keep doing this, Harry. You keep letting her slide into every spot that's mine, every seat, every ride, every conversation. You keep picking her, and I keep pretending it doesn't slice me in half, and I'm done. I'm fucking done."
He takes a step closer, and the space between us collapses. His body is hard against mine, his hips pressing into my stomach, and I feel the heat of him through his shirt, through my thin cardigan. His hands come up, cupping my face, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones, and his voice cracks when he speaks.
"You're not done with me."
The words are a claim, a growl, a prayer. And before I can answer, his mouth is on mine, and it's not gentle, it's not soft, it's hungry, like he's been starving for me and he's only just realizing it. His tongue pushes into my mouth and I hate how easily I open for him, how my body knows his even when my heart has been trying to unlearn him for weeks.
His hands move down. They grip my waist, then slide lower, and he's hitching up my skirt, the thin floral one I threw on this morning, and his fingers find the waistband of my panties, sliding under the fabric. His thumb finds my clit and I gasp into his mouth, my hips jerking forward, my body betraying every word I just said.
"You're so wet," he murmurs against my lips. "God, Nikki. You're soaked."
"Fuck you," I breathe, but my hips are grinding against his hand, and we both know what that means.
"That's the idea."
He pulls my panties aside, and I feel his fingers drag through my slick folds, and then he's sliding one inside me, then two, his thumb circling my clit in that rhythm he knows, that rhythm he's always known, the one that undoes me no matter how hard I fight it. I arch into his hand, my head falling back, my mouth open on a sound I can't hold in.
"Nikki," he groans, his forehead pressing against mine. "I need to taste you."
He drops to his knees.
The climb down is abrupt, and then his face is between my legs, his tongue dragging through my wetness, flat and hot and insistent, and I have to bite my fist to keep from screaming. He eats me like he's starving, like he's been thinking about this for weeks, his tongue circling my clit, his nose pressing into me, his hands gripping my ass to hold me open for him.
"You taste so fucking sweet," he murmurs, and the vibration of his voice through my flesh makes my knees buckle.
He laps at me, long, slow drags that have my thighs trembling against his shoulders, and then he's sucking my clit into his mouth, his tongue flicking fast, and I come apart. My release hits me so hard I see white, and I soak his face, my hips jerking, my fingers tangling in his curls, and he drinks me down like he's claiming every last drop.
He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and burning. He unbuckles his jeans, and I hear the zip, and then his cock is out, thick and aching, pre-cum beading at the tip. He wraps his hand around it, stroking once, twice, and his jaw is tight when he speaks.
"Turn around."
I don't argue. I turn, bracing my hands against the shelf, and the rough wood scrapes my palms. I feel the air move behind me, and then he's pressing against me, the head of his cock dragging through my soaked folds, teasing.
"Tell me you want it," he growls.
"Harry, please."
"Please what?"
"Fuck me. Please, just fuck me."
He slams into me. All at once, so deep I feel him in my throat, and I cry out, the sound muffled by the dusty air. He doesn't give me a moment to adjust. He pulls out and slams back in, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, his rhythm brutal and perfect, and every thrust hits that spot inside me that makes me see stars.
"You're mine," he pants, his voice ragged, his forehead against my shoulder. "Say it."
"I'm yours," I sob, because I am, because I always have been, because no amount of anger can change it.
He comes with a groan, spilling inside me, his hips stuttering, his body shuddering against mine. I feel every pulse of him, and my own release crests with his, my walls clenching around him, my legs giving out so he has to catch me.
We stay tangled together, breathing hard, the chemical smell of the closet filling our lungs. He pulls out slowly, and I feel the wetness slide down my thigh. He turns me around, and his hands cup my face again, his green eyes soft and raw.
"I'll make it right," he says. "I swear to you, Nikki. I'll make it right."
I look at him. I want to believe him. I want to, so badly it hurts.
But I've been burned by his promises before, and I don't know if I can trust him. I just know I'm not done with him yet.
I don't know if I can trust him. The words echo in my head as I push open the closet door, stepping out into the hallway. The air is cooler here, but my skin still burns where his hands were. I can feel the linger of him on my thighs, the evidence of what just happened, and it's all I can do to walk straight, to keep my legs steady, to not let any of the students milling past the studio door see that I'm falling apart.
I hear him behind me, the creak of the closet door, his footsteps on the painted floor. "Nikki."
I stop but don't turn around. "You should go back in there before someone notices you're gone."
"I don't care if they notice. I need you to know I'm serious, Nikki. I need you to know that I'm not messing with you."
I finally turn. He looks wrecked in the harsh light of the hallway, his curls disheveled, his shirt untucked where I'd grabbed at it. His green eyes are still so intense, boring into me like he's trying to make me feel the truth of his words through the air between us.
"You have a funny way of showing it when you're serious, Harry. You picked her. In front of me, in front of our friends, you keep picking her."
He closes the distance between us in two steps, his hands catching my shoulders, his voice low and rough. "That's never what I'm doing. I swear to God, Nikki, she's just someone I know. She keeps showing up and I keep not telling her to leave because I'm a coward. Because I didn't know how to tell you what I actually want."
"And what do you actually want, Harry?" The question comes out sharp, almost a weapon. "Because I've been watching you for months and I cannot figure it out."
He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. "I want you. I've wanted you since we were seventeen and you sat next to me in that stupid English class and called me out for not doing the reading. I've wanted you every day since, and I keep making the same mistakes because I'm too scared to just say it out loud."
My heart is hammering so loud I'm certain he can hear it. "Then say it."
"I want you, Nikki. I want you and I'm done pretending I don't. Tomorrow night. The party at the frat house. I'm going to walk up to Kendall, tell her we're through, and then I'm going to find you and spend the whole night proving that you're the only one I've ever wanted."
His hands are still on my shoulders, his fingers digging in with that desperate intensity. I hold his gaze, searching for any sign of a lie, any flicker of doubt. All I see is that raw, open look he gave me when he was buried deep inside me moments ago.
"You promise?" My voice comes out smaller than I want.
"I promise." He pulls me to him, his arms wrapping around me, his head dropping to my shoulder. "I'm going to make this right, Nikki. I'm going to make you believe me."
I stand there in his arms for a long moment, letting myself feel it, letting the warmth and the raw smell of him sink into my skin. Then I pull back, enough to look at his face.
"Eight o'clock. If you're late, I'm going to assume you changed your mind, and I'm not going to give you another chance."
He laughs, shaky but genuine. "I'll be early."
I turn and walk away then, before I can say anything else, before the urge to crawl back into that closet with him and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist gets too strong. I push through the doors to the loading dock and step out into the afternoon sun, the quad stretched out before me, students walking in clusters, the old oak trees dropping their leaves.
I'm still shaking. I can feel his come trickling down my thigh, and I know I need to get home, need to shower, need to sit with everything that just happened. But as I walk, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see a text from Hanna.