Chapter 6: The Jacket's Scent
The morning after the meltdown at Sigma Chi, I woke up in a bed that wasn't mine, wearing a shirt that wasn't mine, with a body that felt like it had been through a war and a ceasefire all at once. Harry was still asleep beside me, his face slack and peaceful in the gray dawn light filtering through the dusty blinds. I watched him for a long moment, tracing the curve of his jaw, the bruise I'd left on his neck that I could already see blooming purple against his skin.
I slipped out of bed, collected my clothes from where they'd been scattered across his floor, and left before he opened his eyes.
It wasn't cowardice. Or maybe it was. I told myself it was self-preservation. The night before had been adrenaline and anger and a desperate need to claim something that had been dangled in front of me for years. But daylight has a way of making midnight decisions feel like mistakes waiting to happen.
The next few days were a strange, suspended purgatory. We didn't talk about it. We didn't really talk at all. A few texts, stilted and careful, full of ellipses and half-finished sentences that neither of us knew how to complete. He was busy with practice, with classes, with the thousand obligations of being Harry Styles, campus icon. I was busy with a paper on Chicana feminist poetry that I couldn't focus on because every time I closed my eyes, I saw the way he looked at me before he pushed into me, all raw hunger and trembling restraint.
Spencer cornered me in the dining hall on Wednesday, her sharp brown eyes missing nothing. "You're avoiding him."
"I'm not avoiding anyone," I said, stabbing a piece of wilted broccoli. "I'm just prioritizing my education."
"Bullshit," Hanna chimed in, sliding into the seat across from me with a tray piled high with carbs. "You've been moping for three days. I saw you staring at your phone like it personally insulted your ancestors."
Aria nodded sagely, twirling a strand of pink-streaked hair around her finger. "It's okay to be scared, Nikki. But you can't just pretend the frat house didn't happen. You walked in there, you annihilated Kendall, you kissed him. It was epic. The group chat is still recovering."
"There's a group chat about us?"
"Of course there is," Emily said, settling beside Aria with her usual serene smile. "There's been a group chat about you two since junior year of high school. The 'Harry-Nikki Will They Won't They' chat. It's very active."
I groaned, dropping my fork. "I hate all of you."
But I didn't. That was the thing. These girls had been my anchors through every storm, every heartbreak, every moment of doubt. They'd watched me nurse my quiet, hopeless crush on Harry Styles for years, and they'd never once told me to get over it. They'd just waited, patient as stone, for him to get his head out of his ass.
"He's a mess right now," Emily said gently. "Zayn says he's been walking around the frat house like a kicked puppy. Won't talk to anyone. Snapped at Louis when he tried to make a joke about it."
That gave me a small, dark satisfaction. Good. Let him stew.
But the satisfaction curdled by Friday. The campus quad was a cathedral of gold and amber, the oak trees shedding their leaves in lazy spirals that caught the wind and danced across the worn paths. I had a blanket spread under my favorite tree, a stack of poetry anthologies beside me, and a thermos of coffee that had gone sadly lukewarm. I was trying to read Adrienne Rich and failing miserably, my mind wandering to green eyes and the phantom pressure of a hand on my hip.
I didn't hear him approach. He just appeared, blocking the sun, his silhouette haloed by the afternoon light. He was wearing a faded band tee and jeans, his curls a riot of dishevelment, and he looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"Nikki." His voice was rough, uncertain.
"Harry." I kept my voice neutral, watching him over the rim of my book.
He reached into his jacket—his worn, brown leather jacket, the one I'd seen him wear since high school, the one with the torn lining and the faint smell of his cologne baked into the hide—and pulled it off. He held it out to me, and something in my chest cracked open.
"Keep it for tonight," he said. No explanation. Just the jacket, and a look in his eyes that was equal parts apology and plea.
I took it. It was still warm from his body. I didn't put it on, just held it in my lap, my fingers tracing the worn seams. "Why?"
He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Because it's getting cold. And I want you to have something of mine. Something that's not... complicated."
"Everything about you is complicated."
"I know." A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. "I'm working on it."
He left before I could say anything else, walking away with that easy, loping stride that had made him the object of half the campus's fantasies. I watched him go, and then, because I was weak and tired of pretending, I slipped the jacket on.
It engulfed me. The sleeves hung past my wrists, the shoulders swimming on my frame. But it smelled like him, that intoxicating mix of cedar and musk and something indefinable that had been haunting my dreams for years. I breathed it in, and for a moment, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, this could work.
The library was my sanctuary. A Gothic cathedral of knowledge, its towering shelves crammed with the accumulated wisdom of centuries, its dusty corners perfect for hiding from the world. I had a carrel on the third floor, tucked away in the stacks, where the fluorescent lights flickered and no one ever came.
Tonight, I was trying to write a thesis statement about the intersection of identity and resistance in Sandra Cisneros's work, and I was failing spectacularly. My notebook was covered in half-formed sentences, cross-outs, and doodles of curling hair and green eyes. The jacket was draped over the back of my chair, and I kept reaching back to touch it, grounding myself in its presence.
I didn't hear the footsteps. I didn't hear anything until the chair across from me scraped back, and Harry dropped into it, his face pale beneath the harsh lights.
"What are you doing here?" I hissed, glancing around the empty stacks. "You're not even in this section."
"I had to see you."
"You saw me this afternoon."
"That wasn't enough." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his hands reaching for mine. I let him take them. His skin was warm, his fingers calloused from years of gripping a ball, and the touch sent static arcing up my arms. "I've been trying to give you space. I thought that's what you wanted. But I can't fucking sleep, Nikki. I can't eat. I can't do anything except think about you."
"You managed to function for years without me."
"That was different. You were there. In the background. A constant I could pretend I didn't need." He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. "But now I know what it's like. Now I know how it feels to have you. And I can't go back."
Something dangerous unfurled in my chest. Want, yes. But also fear. This was moving too fast, and Harry Styles had a history of moving fast and then disappearing when things got real.
"You don't get to do this," I said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. "You don't get to show up, make grand declarations, and then vanish when it gets hard. I've watched you do it to a dozen other girls. I won't be one of them."
His jaw tightened. "You're not like them."
"Prove it."
For a long moment, he just looked at me. His green eyes were dark, searching, almost pained. Then he stood, rounded the table, and pulled me to my feet. Before I could protest, he was backing me against the bookshelf, his body crowding mine, his hands framing my face.
"Prove it," he repeated, his voice dropping to a low, rough whisper. "I've wanted you since I was seventeen years old, Nikki. I've jacked off thinking about you in the shower, in my bed, in the goddamn locker room after practice. I've fucked other girls and pretended they were you. Every time I saw you laugh, every time I saw you smile, every time you looked at me with those eyes like you could see straight through my bullshit, I wanted to pin you against a wall and make you mine."
My breath caught. His words were filthy, raw, and they lit a fire in my blood that I couldn't extinguish.
"Then do it," I said.
He didn't need to be told twice. His mouth crashed against mine, bruising and demanding, and I met him with equal ferocity. My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groaned against my lips, his tongue sweeping into my mouth.
The jacket was still on me. He unzipped it roughly, shoving it off my shoulders so it fell to the floor in a heap of leather. His hands found my waist, sliding under my sweater, his fingers splaying across the bare skin of my stomach. I gasped at the touch, cold and hot at once.
"I've been thinking about this all week," he murmured against my throat, his lips trailing down my neck, his teeth grazing my pulse point. "Fucking you in my room. On my bed. On the floor. Against every surface I could imagine."
"Holy fuck," I breathed.
"Language," he teased, but he was already pushing my jeans down my hips, his fingers finding the waistband of my panties. "You've been walking around campus in my jacket all day, and all I could think about was getting my hands inside you."
I should have protested. We were in a public library, for Christ's sake. But the thrill of it, the danger, the overwhelming need that had been building for days, weeks, years—it drowned out all reason.
He spun me around, pressing me face-first against the bookshelf. The cold metal of the shelf bit into my palms as I braced myself. His body was flush against my back, his breath hot in my ear.
"Spread your legs," he commanded, his voice low and dark.
I obeyed, and he rewarded me with a low, approving growl. One hand snaked around to the front, finding my clit through the damp cotton of my panties. I whimpered, pressing back against him.
"So fucking wet for me already," he observed, his voice thick with satisfaction. "You liked that, didn't you? Me showing up at the library, telling you how much I want you. How much I've always wanted you."
"Yes," I whispered.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, Harry."
He slid my panties aside, his fingers finally finding me bare, slick, and aching. He circled my clit with calloused fingers, and I cried out, biting my lip to stifle the sound.
"Quiet," he warned. "You don't want to get us caught, do you?"
The idea sent a fresh wave of arousal through me. God, I was twisted. But I couldn't bring myself to care.
His fingers worked me expertly, sliding through my folds, teasing my entrance, then pushing inside. I gasped as he added a second finger, stretching me, preparing me. His thumb continued its assault on my clit, and my knees buckled.
"I've dreamt about this," he said, his voice ragged. "The way you feel. The sounds you make. The way you clench around my fingers like you're desperate for more."
"I am," I begged. "Please, Harry. I need you inside me."
He withdrew his fingers, and I whimpered at the loss. But then I heard the jingle of his belt, the unzip of his jeans, and I knew what was coming.
He lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. "Say it again."
"Please," I begged. "Fuck me. I need you inside me."
He pushed in, and I saw stars.
The stretch was overwhelming, delicious, filling me inch by agonizing inch. I cried out against my fist, my whole body trembling. He was bigger than I remembered, or maybe it was just the position, but he felt impossibly good.
"Fuck, you're tight," he groaned, his head dropping to my shoulder. "So goddamn tight."
He didn't give me time to adjust. He pulled out almost all the way and slammed back in, a hard, deep thrust that drove me against the shelf. Books rattled around us, threatening to fall.
"That's it," he grunted, setting a brutal rhythm. "Take it. Take all of me."
I could do nothing but obey. My fingers clawed at the shelf, my teeth sinking into my lower lip to keep from screaming. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing through me, building, building, building.
He reached around and found my clit again, pinching and rubbing in time with his strokes. I was so close, hovering on the edge, every nerve ending screaming for release.
"Come for me, baby," he whispered in my ear, his voice a dark caress. "Let me feel you come around my cock."
That was all it took. My orgasm hit me like a freight train, white-hot and blinding. My body convulsed around him, and I cried out his name, unable to contain it.
He followed moments later, burying himself deep and groaning as he spilled inside me. His body shuddered against mine, his breath hot and ragged against my neck.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. We were both panting, sweaty, spent. The library was silent around us, save for the distant hum of the fluorescent lights and the thundering of our hearts.
Finally, he pulled out, and I felt the loss of him acutely. I turned to face him, my legs shaky, my body still humming with aftershocks.
He was looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Wonder, maybe. Or fear. Or both.
"What now?" I asked, my voice hoarse.
He pulled me into his arms, tucking my head under his chin. "Now you wear my jacket and I walk you back to your dorm, and we figure it out together."
"Together?"
"Together." He kissed the top of my head, and for the first time in years, I allowed myself to believe it.