Chapter 1: The Jacket's Scent
The afternoon sun filtered through the old oak’s leaves, dappling the pages of my book with shifting patterns of light and shadow. I tried to focus on the words, on Morrison’s prose, but the buzz of the campus quad was a constant distraction. The crunch of footsteps on fallen leaves, the distant cheers from the soccer field, the low thrum of bass from the frat houses—it all felt like the soundtrack to a life I was only half-living.
I flicked a loose curl of blue-purple hair behind my ear, the colors always a little faded, a little rebellious against the amber perfection of the quad. Half-living. You can say that again.
I was deep into a chapter when a shadow fell over the page.
“You look like a girl from one of those broody album covers,” a voice above me drawled. “All thoughtful and shit.”
My spine stiffened before I even looked up. I knew that voice—smug, a little raspy from shouting on the field, laced with a charm that felt like it was manufactured just to get under my skin. Harry Styles loomed over the bench, backlit by the sun, his green eyes doing that stupid twinkling thing. He smelled like fresh grass, cheap aftershave, and something uniquely, infuriatingly him.
“You mean like a stalker’s mugshot?” I didn’t look up from my book. “Go celebrate your goal, Harry. Aren’t the Kappa Sigma groupies waiting?”
He chuckled, a low, warm sound that I refused to let warm anything in me. I heard the soft thump of something heavy and warm landing on my lap. The familiar scent of worn leather and his stupid cologne—sandalwood and something citrusy—wrapped around me instantly.
I looked down. His varsity jacket. The leather was soft from years of wear, the embroidered ‘Delta Tau Delta’ on the chest slightly frayed. A trophy. A fucking flag.
“Keep it for tonight,” he said, his tone dropping, turning intimate in a way that made my stomach twist. “The party’s at ours. It’s gonna be cold later.”
My eyes snapped up to his. “I don’t need your jacket.”
“You’re shivering.”
I wasn’t. The late September air was mild. This was something else, a ritual we’d started in senior year—before everything went to shit. Him offering, me refusing, him insisting, me finally giving in because the heat from his body still trapped in the fabric was a kind of surrender I was too weak to resist.
His smirk softened, just a fraction. His thumb brushed over the back of my hand where it rested on the book. A bolt of pure, unwelcome electricity shot straight up my arm. “Just hold onto it, Nik.” Then he turned, jogging backwards with that easy athlete’s grace. “Don’t be late!”
I watched him go, his long legs eating up the distance toward the frat houses where Kendall Jenner was probably lounging on some porch swing, looking effortlessly bored and beautiful. The sight was a physical ache, a bruise on my ribcage I couldn’t stop pressing.
“You’re gonna set that book on fire if you glare any harder,” Hanna said, plopping down beside me and stealing a sip of my lukewarm coffee. She made a face. “Ugh, no sugar? You’re punishing yourself again.”
I shoved the jacket off my lap like it was on fire. “He’s impossible.”
“He’s a dick,” Hanna corrected, her blue eyes narrowing in the direction Harry had gone. “A dick with a fantastic ass, but a dick nonetheless. You shouldn’t go tonight.”
“I have to,” I muttered, finally closing the book. “Spencer is Liam’s ride, and Aria is dragging Louis, and Emily and Zayn are already over there.”
“And you’re our fifth wheel,” Hanna said, not unkindly. She squeezed my shoulder. “You could stay with me and Niall. We’re just gonna watch crap TV and order sushi.”
The idea was tempting. A safe, quiet evening where I wouldn’t have to watch Harry’s hands, his laugh, the way he’d inevitably gravitate toward the tallest, thinnest girl in the room. But hiding felt like losing. “No,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt. “I’m going.”
I shrugged into his jacket before I could think about it.
It drowned me, the shoulders too broad, the sleeves falling past my fingertips. But it was warm. It smelled like him. And for a second, in the privacy of that scent, I let myself remember. Not the bad stuff.Not the heartbreak. But the before. Study sessions that turned into whispered secrets. His hand on the small of my back in crowded hallways. The way he’d look at me sometimes, like I was a puzzle he was determined to solve. I breathed him in, and it felt like coming home to a house that had already burned down.
The Delta Tau Delta house throbbed. Bass from the speakers pulsed up through the floorboards, vibrating in my teeth. Red plastic cups littered every surface. The air was thick with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and the cloying sweetness of fruit-flavored vodka. Bodies moved in a chaotic, joyful crush.
I was tucked into a corner of the main living room, pressed between Spencer and Aria on a battered leather couch. I had my own cup, something clear and toxic Hanna had handed me with a “bottoms up, buttercup” command.
“He hasn’t even looked at her,” Aria whispered, her pink-streaked hair brushing my cheek. She was watching Harry, who was by the keg, arm slung around Niall’s neck, laughing at something Liam was saying.
“Yet,” Spencer countered, swirling her drink. Her pre-law brain was always calculating odds. “Kendall’s by the stairs. She’s been watching him for ten minutes. It’s a tactical maneuver.”
I followed Spencer’s gaze. There she was. Kendall Jenner. Leaning against the banister, one long, endless leg crossed over the other. She was sipping something from a glass, not a plastic cup, because of course. She looked like she’d been photoshopped into the grimy frat house, all sharp angles and minimalist black dress. She caught Harry’ refraction spacebetween tv stripesnesses friendingintoch fabric ffromthis?
Harry’s eyes did a slow sweep of the room. They passed over me, lingered for a half-second where I sat drowning in his clothes, then moved on. They found Kendall. A slow, appreciative smile spread across his face. My heart dropped into my shoes.
He pushed off from the keg, said something to Liam, and started weaving through the crowd toward her.
“Okay, that’s my cue,” I said, standing up too fast. Beer sloshed over my hand. “I need air.”
“Nikki, wait—” Hanna started, but I was already moving, cutting through the hot, damp press of bodies toward the back kitchen. I needed a wall, a counter, something solid to hold onto.
The kitchen was marginally quieter, just a few people refilling drinks. I beelined for the sink, turning the cold water on and sticking my hands under the stream. I stared at the sudsy pile of dishes, my reflection warped in a dirty aluminum bowl.
“Running away?”
I didn’t have to turn. I knew his presence the way you know a storm is coming—the air pressure changes.
“It’s loud in there,” I said to the sink.
Harry moved closer. I could feel the heat of him at my back. He reached around me, his forearm brushing mine, to turn off the tap. His hand, still damp, came to rest on the counter beside my hip, caging me in. His chest pressed against the back of his jacket that I wore.
“You’re wearing my jacket,” he murmured, his lips close to my ear. His breath was warm and smelled like hops.
“You told me to.”
“I didn’t think you actually would.”
I finally turned, trapped between his body and the counter. His green eyes were dark, intense, stripped of their usual playful glint. Up close, I could see the faint freckles across the bridge of his nose, the little scar above his eyebrow from a long-ago bike accident. I knew every detail of his face. I’d mapped it in my dreams.
“Why did you, Nikki?” he asked, his voice low.
The truth was a lump in my throat. Because it smells like you. Because for a second, I can pretend things are different. “It was cold,” I said instead, my voice barely a whisper.
He searched my face. His gaze dropped to my lips. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird. This was the dance, the dangerous, stupid dance. The push and pull that always ended with me shattered.
Then his eyes flickered over my shoulder, and his body went rigid.The spell shattered. The warmth in his gaze banked, replaced by a frustrated, almost panicked hardness.
Kendall stood in the kitchen doorway, a slim silhouette against the pulsing colored lights of the living room. She didn’t look angry. She looked…amused. Like she’d interrupted something quaint.
“Harry,” she said, her voice cool and smooth. “Liam’s looking for you. Something about a bet on the Pacers game?”
Harry’s jaw tightened. He didn’t move away from me, but I felt his attention, the core of his focus, snap toward her. “Tell him I’ll be right there,” he said, his voice now carefully casual.
Kendall’s eyes slid to me, a dismissive, appraising glance that took in the too-big jacket, my curvy figure, my bright hair. She smiled, a thin, polite curve of her lips that didn’t reach her eyes. “Sure.” She disappeared back into the crowd.
The space between us was suddenly frozen. The heat was gone, replaced by a chilly, humiliating awareness. I had been a momentary distraction. She was the main event.
“Nikki…” Harry started, but the noise was back in his voice, the wall back up.
“Don’t,” I choked out. I ducked under his arm, my chest so tight I could barely breathe. “Just don’t, Harry.”
I pushed my way out of the kitchen, through the living room, past my friends’ concerned faces, and out the front door into the cool, blessed night air. I didn’t stop until I was around the side of the house, in the dark, narrow alley between the frat house and the science building. I leaned my forehead against the cool brick, squeezing my eyes shut, fighting back the hot sting of tears.
I wasn’t going to cry over him. Not again.
I heard footsteps on the gravel behind me.Heavy, familiar.
“Nikki.” It was Harry.
I didn’t turn. “Go back to your party, Harry. To Kendall.”
He grabbed my arm, gentle but firm, and turned me around. His face was stark in the shadows, all hard lines and conflicted anger. “It’s not what you think.”
I laughed, a raw, ugly sound. “What is it, then? You just happened to corner me in a kitchen for fun? To see if you still could?”
His control snapped. “God, you’re so fucking blind!” he hissed, his fingers tightening on my arms. “You have no idea, do you? No idea what you do to me!”
“I do nothing to you!” I shouted back, shoving at his chest. “You ignore me, you flirt with me, you give me your jacket like some kind of promise, and then you go follow her! What is that, Harry? What game are you playing?”
“It’s not a game!” he roared, and then his mouth was on mine.
It wasn’t a sweet kiss. It was a collision. It was anger and desperation and four years of unsaid words. His lips were hard, demanding, almost punishing. I gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine. The taste of him—beer and Harry and want—was overwhelming. My brain short-circuited. My hands, which had been pushing him away, clutched at the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.
A low groan vibrated in his chest. He walked me back until my shoulders hit the brick wall, his body pinning me there. One of his hands came up to cradle my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek, a shocking contrast to the fierce possession of his kiss. The other hand slid down my side, over the curve of my hip, squeezing hard enough to bruise. I moaned into his mouth, arching against him, the friction of our bodies through the thin layers of our clothes setting my nerves on fire.
He broke the kiss, panting, his forehead resting against mine. His eyes were wild, dark pools. “See?” he breathed, his voice ragged.“This. This is what you do to me. You think I can just turn it off?”
“Then why…” I was shaking, my whole body humming.
“Because I’m a fucking coward,” he snarled, and then his mouth was on my neck, sucking, biting, marking me. His hands moved to the hem of my top, yanking it up. The cool night air hit my stomach, then his palm was there, hot and rough, sliding up to cup my breast over my bra.
The cool night air hit my stomach, then his palm was there, hot and rough, sliding up to cup my breast over my bra. He thumbed my nipple through the lace, a sharp, aching bolt of pleasure that made my knees buckle. I cried out, the sound swallowed by the distant thump of the bass and his mouth crashing back onto mine.
“Tell me to stop,” he growled against my lips, his hand moving to the button of my jeans. “Tell me to stop, Nikki, or I won’t be able to.”
I couldn’t. Every cell in my body was screaming for more. This was stupid, reckless, a heartbreak waiting to happen, but the need was a fever in my blood. All the watching, the wanting, the quiet agony of seeing him with someone else—it combusted into this raw, grasping hunger.
“Don’t you dare stop,” I whispered, my voice raw.
That was all the permission he needed. His fingers made quick, frantic work of my button and zipper. He shoved the denim and my panties down over my hips in one rough movement. The cold brick scraped against my bare backside. He didn’t bother undressing me fully, just pushed my top and bra up, exposing my breasts to the night air. His mouth left mine, trailing wet, biting kisses down my neck, over my collarbone, until he took one taut peak into his mouth. He sucked hard, his tongue circling, his teeth grazing. A ragged moan tore from my throat. My fingers tangled in his curls, holding him to me.
His other hand didn’t wait. It slid down my belly, through the thatch of curls, and found me wet and open for him. He swore, a filthy, awed sound against my skin.
“Fuck, you’re so ready,” he muttered, pushing one finger, then two, inside me. The stretch was delicious, a blinding relief. He worked them in and out, his thumb finding my clit, circling with a pressure that was just shy of too much. Pleasure coiled tight and low in my gut, white-hot and urgent.
“Harry… please…”
He understood. He fumbled with his own jeans, the sound of his belt buckle clinking loud in the narrow space. He pushed them down just enough to free himself. I looked down. He was hard, thick, the head gleaming in the dim light from a distant security lamp. For a second, sanity tried to break through. We were in a fucking alley. Anyone could walk by. This was how he treated me—a dirty secret against a wall.
But then he was pressing against me, the blunt tip nudging at my entrance. His green eyes locked on mine, blazing with a possession I’d never seen there before.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice thick. “I want you to see me. I want you to know it’s me.”
He pushed inside.
The feeling was devastating. A full, aching stretch that stole my breath. He was big, and I was tight, and for a moment he just stayed there, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of holding still. His forehead dropped to my shoulder. A harsh, shattered breath gusted against my neck.
“Nikki,” he whispered, my name a prayer and a curse.
Then he began to move.
It wasn’t gentle. It was frantic, deep, punishing strokes that drove me back into the unyielding brick. Each thrust knocked a gasping sound from my lips. The rough fabric of his jeans rubbed against my bare thighs. He gripped my hips, his fingers digging in hard, sure to leave bruises. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting him thrust for thrust.
The world narrowed to the slap of skin, the ragged harmony of our breathing, the intense, building friction where we were joined. He fucked me like he was trying to exorcise something, like he was trying to brand himself into my very bones. One of his hands slid between us, his fingers finding my clit again, rubbing in frantic, perfect circles.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his mouth at my ear. “Come on my cock. I need to feel it.”
His words, the sheer vulgarity of them, tipped me over the edge. Pleasure detonated, a silent, blinding explosion that ripped through me. My body clenched around him, wave after wave of intense, shuddering release. I buried my face in his neck to muffle my scream, tasting salt and sweat.
My climax triggered his. With a guttural groan, he drove into me one last, deep time, his body going rigid. I felt the hot, pulsing rush of him filling me. He held himself there, shuddering, his whole weight pressing me into the wall.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of our labored breaths mingling in the cold air. The distant party continued, oblivious.
Slowly, the reality of what we’d just done seeped in, cold and ugly. He was still inside me. His come was leaking down my thigh. My jeans were around my ankles. I was pinned against a dirty wall by a guy who had, minutes ago, been leaving to see another woman.
The haze of passion cleared, leaving a stark, humiliating clarity.
Harry softened and slipped out of me. He rested his forehead against the brick beside my head, not looking at me. His breathing began to slow. Carefully, he pulled my panties and jeans back up, his fingers gentle now, almost reverent. He smoothed my top down.
I just stood there, letting him, feeling hollowed out and used.
He finally stepped back, fastening his own jeans. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. The Harry from a minute ago—the possessive, desperate one—was gone. In his place was the familiar stranger, already building his walls back up.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” he said, his voice flat.
The words were a physical slap. A laugh, brittle and sharp, escaped me. “Wow. Really? What a fucking revelation, Harry.”
“I’m serious.” He finally looked at me, and his eyes were clouded with guilt and something that looked like panic. “It can’t happen again.”
The hollow feeling filled with a rage so hot it threatened to incinerate me. I pushed off the wall, my legs shaky. “Right. Because you have a model waiting for you inside. Wouldn’t want to complicate things.”
“It’s not about her!”
“Then what is it about?” I shouted, my voice echoing in the alley. “What the hell was this? What is any of it with you? You look at me like I’m everything and then you treat me like I’m nothing!”
He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, tugging at the roots. “You don’t understand. You have no idea what my life is like. The pressure, the fucking… expectations. This,” he gestured wildly between us, “this is messy. It’s complicated.”
“I’m complicated,” I spat, tears of fury finally spilling over. “I’m not one of your easy, uncomplicated sorority girls who’ll fuck you and thank you and not ask for a thing. Is that the problem? Am I too much work, Harry?”
“You’re too important!” The words burst out of him, raw and loud. He looked startled he’d said them. He lowered his voice, forcing control. “Don’t you get it? If I fuck this up with you… there’s no coming back. With them,” he jerked his head toward the house, “it doesn’t matter. It means nothing.”
The logic was so twisted, so fundamentally broken, that I could only stare. “So you’d rather have nothing with me than risk having something? You’d rather share your bed with people who mean nothing so you can keep the person who means something at a safe, miserable distance?”
He didn’t answer. His silence was confirmation enough.
The last fragile strand of hope I’d been clinging to snapped. I wrapped his jacket tighter around me, the scent of him now nauseating. “You’re a coward,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “And you’ve made your choice. Have fun with your uncomplicated life.”
I walked past him, my steps surprisingly steady. He grabbed my wrist.
“Nikki, wait.”
I yanked my arm free. “Don’t touch me. Ever again.”
I didn’t run. I walked back onto the quad, the chaos of the party now sounding tinny and pathetic. I needed to find my friends. I needed to get out of here.
I found them by the front porch, a tight, worried-looking huddle. Hanna saw me first. Her eyes scanned my face, my disheveled clothes, the undoubtedly wild look in my eyes. She saw the tear tracks.
“Oh, honey,” she breathed, stepping toward me.
Spencer was more direct. “What did he do?”
Before I could answer, the front door of the frat house swung open. Laughter spilled out. Harry emerged, followed by Liam and Louis. And Kendall. She had her hand resting lightly on his arm, saying something that made him smile—a weak, distracted version of his usual grin.
He saw us. Saw me. His smile died. Our eyes locked across the crowded yard.
Kendall followed his gaze. Her expression didn’t change, but her hand slid down his arm to intertwine her fingers with his. A quiet, blatant claim.
It was the final nail. A public demonstration.
“Let’s go,” I said, turning my back on the scene.
“We’re taking you home,” Emily said firmly, slipping an arm around my shoulders. Zayn nodded, his usually calm face dark with anger as he glared at his fraternity brother.
We moved as a group, a protective phalanx cutting through the party’s edge. I didn’t look back.
The car ride was quiet. Hanna and Niall were in Niall’s truck ahead of us. I was in the back of Zayn’s SUV, squeezed between Aria and Spencer, with Emily in the passenger seat. No one asked questions. They just let me stare out the window at the blur of dark campus.
When we got to my apartment building, they all walked me to my door.
“Do you want someone to stay?” Aria asked softly.
I shook my head. “I just want to be alone.”
They exchanged looks but didn’t argue. Spencer gave me a hard, lingering hug. “He’s not worth it,” she whispered fiercely. “Remember that.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
Once inside, I locked the door and slid to the floor. The silence was deafening. I shrugged off Harry’s jacket, staring at it like a venomous snake. I wanted to burn it. Instead, I balled it up and threw it into the corner, where it landed with a soft thump.
I felt dirty. Used. Stupid.
I dragged myself into the shower and scrubbed my skin until it was pink, trying to wash away the feel of his hands, his mouth, the evidence of what we’d done. But the memory was etched into my nerves. The pleasure had been real. The connection, in those moments, had felt more real than anything. That was the cruelest part.
Wrapped in a towel, I stood in front of the steam-fogged mirror. My lips were swollen. There was a bruise forming on my neck. I looked exactly like what I was: a girl who’d been foolish enough to believe a moment of passion could change a fundamental truth.
My phone buzzed on the bathroom counter. A text notification lit up the screen.
It was from Harry.
My heart, that traitorous organ, gave a frantic lurch. I shouldn’t look. I should delete it. I should block his number.
My hand moved on its own. I opened the message.
It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t an explanation.
It was three words.
Don’t tell anyone.
I stared at the screen, the cold, clinical light bathing my face. A horrible, hysterical laugh bubbled in my chest. Of course. His reputation. His uncomplicated life. I was a secret to be kept. A mistake to be buried.
The anger returned, colder and more solid now. It hardened something inside me, filling the hollow spaces with something stronger than grief.
I didn’t reply. I placed the phone face down on the counter.
I walked into my bedroom, put on my oldest, softest sleep shirt, and crawled into bed. I stared at the ceiling, at the familiar crack in the plaster shaped like a lightning bolt.
Don’t tell anyone.
He thought he could hide this. He thought he could have his secret in the alley and his perfect, pristine image on his arm. He thought I would just quietly carry this humiliation, this pain, and keep his secret for him.
The Nikki from a few hours ago might have. The Nikki who still hoped, who still saw the boy from study hall in his eyes, would have curled up and died quietly.
But that Nikki was gone. She’d been left against a brick wall.
A new resolve, sharp and dangerous, crystallized in the dark.
He wanted uncomplicated?
Fine.
But I wasn’t going to be his secret. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to be his victim. If he thought this was over, if he thought he could just walk away and leave me shattered, he had another thing coming.
The game had just changed. And he didn’t even know he was now playing.