Chapter 1: Keys and Chemistry
The key slipped from Nikki’s rain-slicked fingers for the third time, clattering onto the worn welcome mat that simply read ‘FECK’. A gust of wind whipped her purple curls across her face, and she cursed, fumbling in the damp pocket of her jeans for the keyring again. Dublin rain wasn’t romantic; it was a persistent, cold drizzle that seeped into your bones and made cheap brass keys impossibly slippery.
From inside, a muffled thump, then the sharp screech of an un-amplified electric guitar string being tortured.
She finally got the key in the lock, turned it, and shoved her shoulder against the stubborn wood just as the door flew inward.He stood there, backlit by the warm, messy glow of the apartment. Shirtless. A well-loved guitar slung low across his hips, his free hand still on the doorknob.Niall. His messy blonde hair was a halo of unruly strands catching the light, and a slow, familiar grin spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his bright blue eyes.
“Welcome home, roomie,” he said, his voice a warm, lazy drawl that cut through the sound of rain behind her.Her brain short-circuited. Welcome home.The word hung in the air between them, heavy with a new, terrifying weight. All the logistics, the university forms, the financial aid packets—they’d all been abstract. This was concrete. The broad plane of his chest, the faint trail of hair leading down from his navel into the low-slung waistband of his grey sweatpants, the effortless way he inhabited the space… it was all suddenly, overwhelmingly real.
“You’re letting all the heat out,” she managed, her voice tight as she shoved past him, her suitcase catching on the doorframe. The familiar scent hit her—takeout boxes, clean laundry, and underneath it all, the faint, crisp spice of his cologne. It was the smell of him, of their years of friendship, now permanently baked into the walls of this foreign flat.The place was a glorious catastrophe. One of his old neon One Direction posters was tacked precariously next to her framed Frida Kahlo print.A half-eaten pizza box sat atop a stack of her psychology textbooks. In the tiny kitchenette, a single, perpetually untouched ‘World’s Best Gardener’ mug stood sentinel by the sink.
“You made it your own already, I see,” she said, nodding toward the mug she’d bought him as a joke three birthdays ago.
“Found it at the bottom of my bag. Seems right.” He leaned his guitar against the couch, which was buried under a mound of his clothes and her colorful throw pillows.“How was the flight? You look wrecked.”
“Charming as ever.” She pulled her damp sweater over her head, immediately feeling self-conscious in her thin cotton tank top under his gaze.She busied herself with her suitcase. “Flight was fine.Guy next to me snored like a chainsaw. I think I have tinnitus.”
He moved then, crossing the small space in two strides. “Here, let me.” His fingers brushed hers as he took the heavy suitcase handle, heaving it onto the tatty rug. The contact was brief, electric.He was close.Too close. She could feel the warmth radiating from his skin.“So,” he said, not stepping back. “Just the one bed, I see.”
Her heart stuttered. “What?”
He grinned, nodding toward the open door off the living room.“The bedroom.One bed.We did agree to save money, yeah?”
Right. The arrangement.One bedroom, two broke students. They’d laughed about it over fuzzy video calls, a thousand miles apart.It was a theoretical joke then. Now, the reality of a single mattress sat in the quiet room behind that door, a silent, profound presence.“Right.Yeah. Of course.” She forced a laugh that came out as a squeak. “I call not the side by the wall.I need a strategic retreat path.”
“Noted.” His eyes danced. “You want a cuppa?Or something stronger? I’ve got whiskey.”
“Stronger. Definitely stronger.”
She followed him into the kitchenette, a narrow slice of linoleum and laminate. He moved with a practiced ease, pulling down two glasses, his shoulder muscles flexing under smooth skin. She watched the shift and play of them, a topography she’d never allowed herself to study so openly.He handed her a glass, their fingers touching again. This time, neither pulled away immediately.The amber liquid was a shared center of gravity.
“To Dublin,” he said, his voice lower now.
“To not killing each other,” she replied, clinking her glass against his.The whiskey burned a path down her throat, warming her from the inside. A comfortable, charged silence settled between them, filled only by the patter of rain on the window and the hum of the old refrigerator.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” she said softly, leaning against the counter.“Me neither.” He was watching her, his gaze intent. “It’s different, innit? Now that it’s real.”
She just nodded, sipping her whiskey, feeling its heat mingle with the heat gathering low in her belly. The air between them thickened, charged with every unsaid thing, every glance held a beat too long over the years.
He reached out, not for her glass, but to gently tuck a stray purple curl behind her ear. His thumb brushed the sensitive skin of her cheekbone.A jolt went straight through her.
“Nikki,” he murmured, just her name, but it sounded like a question, a confession, everything.
That was all it took.The careful wall of friendship crumbled under the weight of that single touch. She set her glass down with a definitive clink, closed the space between them, and kissed him.
It wasn’t tentative.It was hungry, years of pent-up want exploding into action. Her hands came up to grip his bare shoulders, feeling the solid muscle there. He groaned into her mouth, a low, vibrating sound that sent shockwaves through her, and his arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him.The heat of his skin through her thin tank top was searing.
He tasted of whiskey and Niall, an addictive, familiar combination made suddenly, devastatingly new. His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming, exploring, and she met him with equal fervor, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. He walked her backwards, never breaking the kiss, until the cool laminate of the kitchen counter hit her lower back.
His mouth left hers, trailing wet, hot kisses down her jaw, to the sensitive spot below her ear, down the column of her throat.She gasped, her head falling back. “Niall…”
“I’ve wanted this,” he growled against her skin, his hands sliding under her tank top, rough palms skimming up her ribs. “For so fucking long, Nikki.”
“Me too,” she breathed, the admission freeing. She tugged at his sweatpants, pushing them down over his hips.He kicked them aside, gloriously, unabashedly naked. His cock sprang free, hard and thick, curving upwards. She wrapped her hand around him, earning a sharp, guttural curse from him.He was velvet-over-steel, hot and heavy in her grasp.
He made quick work of her jeans, yanking them and her underwear down in one frantic motion. He hooked his hands under her thighs and lifted her onto the counter. The laminate was cold against her bare ass, a shocking contrast to the blistering heat of his body as he stepped between her legs.
He didn’t ask if she was sure. The certainty was in the desperate way she kissed him, in the dig of her nails into his back. He guided himself to her entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against her wetness.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice rough.She opened her eyes, drowning in the intense blue of his. Then he pushed into her, one slow, devastating inch at a time, stretching her, filling her completely. A sharp, perfect cry tore from her throat.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his forehead dropping to hers, his body trembling with the effort of restraint. “You feel… Jesus Christ, Nikki.”
He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that quickly unraveled into something more urgent. Each thrust knocked a breath from her lungs.The kitchen counter rattled precariously with their motion. His grip on her thighs was bruising, holding her open for him as he drove deeper, faster. The slick, rhythmic sound of their bodies joining filled the small kitchen, a filthy, beautiful counterpoint to their ragged breaths.
She came suddenly, violently, her inner muscles clamping around him in pulsating waves, a silent scream on her lips as her vision whited out. The intensity tore through her, leaving her boneless. He followed seconds later, his own release hitting with a roar torn from his chest, his hips slamming into her a final few times as he emptied himself inside her.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their panting and the hum of the fridge. He rested his forehead against her shoulder, his body still shuddering with aftershocks. Slowly, carefully, he lifted her from the counter, holding her weight effortlessly as he carried her the few feet to the couch, collapsing onto the mound of clothes and pillows with her in his lap.
They sat in the dim light, tangled together, sticky and spent. The rain had softened to a gentle whisper against the window.Her mind, blissfully blank for the first time in months, began to tick forward again.
One semester.One bed.And now, this. Something had been cracked open, something that could not be closed again.He nuzzled into her hair, his arms tightening around her. “Well,” he said, his voice muffled against her skin. “That’s one way to break in the apartment.”
A laugh bubbled out of her, shaky and surprised. It dissipated the last of the tension, leaving only the warm, heavy weight of him around her and the lingering, sharp scent of sex in the air. Her body felt completely rearranged.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “I guess it is.”
He shifted, his softening cock slipping from inside her with a wet, intimate sound that made her cheeks flush. He didn’t let her go, just adjusted their position so she was curled against his chest, his fingers idly tracing patterns on her bare back. The neon glow from his stupid poster cast everything in a pinkish haze.
“We should probably talk,” he said, his voice rumbling in his chest under her ear.
“Do we have to?” she mumbled, hiding her face. The reality was beginning to seep in, cold and practical. They’d just fucked on the kitchen counter. He was her best friend. They lived here. Together.
“Nikki.” His hand stilled on her spine. “Look at me.”
She tilted her head back. His expression was unguarded, serious, the usual easy grin absent. It made her heart thump oddly.
“That wasn’t just… blowing off steam, for me,” he said, each word deliberate. “I need you to know that.”
Her throat tightened. “It wasn’t for me either.”
The grin returned then, slower, sweeter than before. “Good.” He leaned in and kissed her, soft and deep, a world apart from the frantic clash of teeth and tongue from minutes ago. It felt like a promise. When he pulled back, he smacked her thigh lightly. “C’mon. We’re a sticky mess. And my back is screaming from that counter angle.”
He stood, effortlessly lifting her with him, and carried her towards the bedroom. She yelped, clinging to his neck. “Put me down, you show-off!”
“Nope. Chivalry’s not dead.” He shouldered the door open. The room was dominated by a double mattress on a plain frame, covered in a rumpled navy duvet. A single lamp on a milk crate cast a low light. He dumped her unceremoniously in the center of the bed, the springs groaning in protest. “Bathroom’s through there. You first.”
She padded into the tiny, cold bathroom, her legs feeling strangely wobbly. She cleaned up quickly, her mind a buzzing static. When she emerged, wrapped in a towel, he was propped against the headboard, still gloriously naked, scrolling through his phone. He looked up, and the raw appreciation in his gaze made her skin prickle.
“Your turn,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
While he was in the bathroom, she dithered. Put her clothes back on? That felt stupid. She slid naked under the duvet, the sheets cool and smelling faintly of fabric softener. She stared at the water stain on the ceiling, listening to the sink run.
He returned, switching off the main light, plunging the room into near darkness save for the streetlamp glow filtering through the thin curtains. The bed dipped as he climbed in. He didn’t hesitate, turning on his side and pulling her back against his front, his body spooning hers. His skin was warm from the shower, his arm a solid band across her waist.
“This okay?” His breath stirred her damp hair.
“Yeah.” It was more than okay. It felt terrifyingly right. The static in her mind faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of his heart against her back. The rain had stopped. Dublin was silent outside their window.
Just as she was drifting into a hazy, sated sleep, his hand began to move. It started innocently, just a gentle sweep of his palm over her stomach. Then his fingers drifted lower, through the coarse curls, finding her still-swollen flesh.
She gasped, arching back into him. “Niall… you’ve got to be kidding.”
“Not tired,” he murmured, his lips on her shoulder. His middle finger slid through her folds, which were slick again, sensitive. He traced slow, maddening circles around her clit, not touching it directly, just hovering. “Feel how wet you still are. Fuck. You’re incredible.”
She was melting, any thought of sleep vaporized. He played her with the same focused ease he used on his guitar strings, learning her rhythms, her hitches of breath. He found her entrance and pushed two fingers deep inside, curling them, stroking a spot that made her see stars.
“Please,” she choked out, pushing her ass back against him. She could feel he was hard again, his cock pressing insistently against the cleft of her rear.
“Please what?” he teased, his voice thick. He added a third finger, stretching her, the delicious burn making her whimper.
“Fuck me. Properly. In the bed.”
He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean with a filthy, wet sound that sent a fresh jolt of lust straight to her core. Then he rolled her onto her stomach. “On your knees.”
She obeyed, shuddering, pushing herself up. He knelt behind her, his hands gripping her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her ass. He didn’t enter her straight away. He just held the head of his cock at her entrance, teasing, coating himself in her wetness.
“Look at you,” he growled. “All purple hair and perfect curves. Mine.” The possessiveness in his tone should have jarred her. Instead, it ignited something primal.
He pushed in, not with the slow control of before, but with one deep, relentless thrust that buried him to the hilt. The breath left her lungs in a rush. He set a brutal, pounding pace immediately, each drive punching a muffled cry from her into the pillow. The bed slammed against the wall with a rhythmic, urgent thud.
One of his hands left her hip and fisted in her curls, pulling her head back, arching her spine. The slight pain was exquisite, sharpening every sensation. His other hand snaked around her front, his fingers finding her clit and rubbing hard, fast circles.
“You gonna come for me again?” he grunted, his thrusts becoming erratic, harder. “Come on my cock, Nikki. Let me feel it.”
The combination was too much. The deep, filling thrusts, the rough, precise friction on her clit, the possessive grip in her hair—it coiled the tension in her belly tighter and tighter until it snapped. Her orgasm ripped through her, a silent, convulsive wave that clenched around him like a vise.
He swore, a guttural string of filth, and followed her over, his hips stuttering as he drove into her one last, deep time, spilling inside her with a ragged groan. He collapsed forward, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his face buried in the space between her neck and shoulder. They were both slick with sweat, breathing in shattered gasps.
This time, the quiet felt permanent. He rolled off her, pulling her with him, tucking her head under his chin. His heartbeat was a wild drum against her cheek, gradually slowing.
Outside, a car alarm wailed in the distance, then cut off. The old building settled with a creak.
Her mind, finally quiet, focused on a single, mundane detail. She nudged him with her foot. “You left your socks on the floor by the couch.”
His chest shook with silent laughter. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Some things,” he sighed, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction, “never change.” His arms tightened around her. “Now go to sleep, Martinez. Big day tomorrow.”
But as she drifted off, wrapped in the scent and heat of him, she knew with absolute clarity that everything, in fact, had just changed forever.