Chapter 1: The Almost Morning
The first grey light of morning bled around the edges of the blinds, splitting the room into slices of shadow and dull pallor. It smelled like them—sweat, sex, and the vanilla candle she’d blown out hours ago, now just a waxy memory.
Nikki lay perfectly still, her back to the room, and listened to him move.
The shift of the mattress was a subtle earthquake. The rustle of denim being pulled from the floor. The soft snick of his belt buckle. She kept her breathing slow and even, the fakest performance of her life, each inhale scraping against the ache in her chest. She focused on the crack in the plaster on the wall, a hairline fracture that ran from the ceiling down toward her forgotten sociology textbook.
“Shit.” His voice was a husky whisper, rough from sleep and other things. A frustrated patting of pockets. He’d lost his keys again, probably in the tangle of sheets.
She could see him without turning. Harry, bathed in that weak light, his lean torso a canvas of swirling ink, his curly hair a chaotic mess her fingers had been buried in just—how long ago? Three hours? His green eyes would be sleepy, distant already, calculating the walk of shame back to his own apartment across campus.
The bed gave another sigh as he sat on the edge to pull on his boots. The sound was a punctuation mark. The end. Again.
She felt him look at her. A weight on the back of her neck, on the slope of her shoulder exposed above the sheet. It was the same look he gave every time—a mixture of guilt, affection, and a frantic need to be gone before the sun got any brighter, before the world woke up and demanded definitions.
Last night played behind her closed eyelids. Not in a sweet, hazy montage. In sharp, explicit fragments.
His mouth hot and desperate on hers in the doorway, the taste of cheap beer and mint. His hands, those pianist’s hands with their tattooed knuckles, pushing her against the wall, hiking up her skirt. The rough drag of the zipper on her dress giving way.
“Need you,” he’d growled into her neck, and for a moment, she’d let herself believe it was more than just a body he needed. He’d walked her backward toward the bed, their mouths never parting, a clumsy, hungry dance.
She remembered the cool shock of the sheets on her bare back, the heavy weight of him settling between her thighs. The look in his eyes was pure, uncomplicated hunger. No past, no future. Just now. Just them.
He’d entered her in one slow, exacting push that made her back arch off the bed, a choked sound escaping her throat. It was never gentle, not after the first few times. It was a claiming. A reset. A way to burn out the memory of everyone else, even if just for these few hours.
“Fuck, Nikki,” he’d breathed, his forehead against hers, his hips already beginning to move. “You feel so goddamn good.”
And she had. She’d wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper. Meeting each thrust with a roll of her own hips. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, the creak of the cheap dorm bedframe, his ragged grunts in her ear.
He’d shifted then, hooking his hands under her knees, pushing them back toward her shoulders. The angle was deeper, brutal, perfect. She’d cried out, her fingers clutching at the sheets.
“You like that?” he’d asked, his voice dark, a hint of a smirk on his swollen mouth. “Yeah, you do. You take it so fucking well.”
It was dirty talk meant to obliterate thought. And it worked. She’d fractured into a million pieces beneath him, her climax hitting her like a sudden storm, wave after wave pulling her under. He’d followed seconds later with a rough, wordless shout, his body going rigid before collapsing onto her, spent and heavy.
In the wet, breathing silence afterward, he’d rolled to the side, pulling her into the curve of his body. His arm draped over her waist. That was the most dangerous part—the ten minutes of tangled limbs and slow kisses that felt, treacherously, like love.
Now, in the cold morning, the memory was just ash.
She heard the jingle of keys found. The soft thump of his fist against his thigh. He was ready.
Go, she screamed in the silence of her own skull. Just go.
But his footsteps didn’t head for the door. They moved toward the bed. He stopped. She could feel the heat of him standing there, looking down at her pretending to sleep. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage.
His hand brushed her hair from her cheek. The touch was so feather-light, so unbearably tender, it felt like a surgical knife. A sob gathered in her throat, sharp and painful. She swallowed it, a rock of despair.
He hesitated.
That was new. The pause. The arrested motion. She could picture him, his hand on the doorknob, looking back at the shape of her under the thin sheet. A war fought in a single, still second.
Then, the sound of the door opening. A sliver of hallway light, the murmur of a distant shower. A colder draft.
It closed with a quiet, definitive click.
The air in the room changed. It was emptier. It was just her air now.
Nikki opened her eyes. She stared at the crack in the wall until it blurred. Outside, a bird began a hesitant song. She didn’t move. She just lay there, in the ruins of another stolen night, the scent of him already fading from the sheets.
She just lay there, in the ruins of another stolen night, the scent of him already fading from the sheets.
Finally, she moved. The air was cold on her skin. She sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist, and looked at the empty space beside her. The pillow still bore the faint indentation of his head. She pressed her hand into it. It was already cooling.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
A text. Her heart did a stupid, hopeful little leap before she could strangle the feeling.
It wasn’t him. It was Mara: You alive? Waffle House? My treat.
Nikki let out a breath that was almost a laugh. It tasted like tears. She typed back, her thumbs clumsy. Give me 20. Need a shower.
The shower was a punishment. The water was too hot, scouring her skin, turning it pink. She washed her hair, scrubbing at her scalp as if she could erase the memory of his fingers there. She soaped between her legs, the ache a physical reminder. It felt less like pleasure now and more like a bruise. The steam couldn’t warm the hollow place behind her ribs.
Wrapped in a towel, she wiped the fog from the mirror. Her reflection was a stranger—purple hair dark and wet, hazel eyes puffy, a faint red mark on her collarbone where his mouth had been too eager. She traced it. A brand. Temporary.
Across campus, in a quiet apartment that smelled like lemongrass and clean laundry, Harry was already somewhere else.
He’d gotten back just as his roommate, Chris, was leaving for the gym. “Rough night?” Chris had grinned, nodding at Harry’s rumpled clothes.
“Something like that,” Harry muttered, shouldering past into his room.
He peeled off his shirt, tossed it toward a hamper, and missed. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, and his stomach tightened.
Olivia.
Her name glowed on the screen. His ex. The one who got away. The one he’d supposedly gotten over.
He answered. “Hey, you.” His voice was all warmth, smooth where it had been rough with Nikki just hours before.
“Hi.” Her voice was soft, a little sad. “I… I was just thinking about you. About that weekend in the Catskills.”
He closed his eyes. He could picture it perfectly. The rented cabin. The fireplace. Her blonde hair spread over his arm in the morning light. A whole different kind of ache, nostalgic and sharp.
“Yeah,” he said, leaning against his dresser. “That was a good weekend.”
“Were we stupid to end it, Harry?”
The question hung in the air, delicate and dangerous. He thought of Nikki’s bed, her heat, the way she whispered his name like a secret. He pushed it aside.
“I don’t know, Liv. Maybe.”
They talked for twenty minutes. It was all memories and gentle laughter and loaded silences. When he hung up, he felt untethered, pulled in two directions. He opened his texts and scrolled to Nikki’s name. The last message was from two days ago, a meme she’d sent. He typed, hesitated, deleted, then typed again.
Last night was incredible.
He hit send before he could think about it. It was true. It was also a lie. It was just a thing you said.
At Waffle House, Nikki slid into the sticky vinyl booth opposite Mara. The din of clattering plates and grease was a welcome assault.
Mara took one look at her and her face fell. “Oh, honey. No.”
Nikki’s façade cracked. She grabbed a menu, hiding behind it. “Don’t.”
“He stayed over again.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s the biggest deal!” Mara hissed, leaning forward. “He’s using you for a warm body while he’s still hung up on Miss-Perfect-Pinterest. And you’re letting him.”
Nikki’s phone buzzed on the Formica table. The screen lit up.
Harry: Last night was incredible.
She stared at the words. They were a buoy in the cold sea of her morning. He was thinking of her. He’d texted.
“Was it?” Mara asked flatly, reading the message upside down.
Nikki didn’t answer. Her thumbs flew over the screen. It was. You left in a hurry.
The reply was almost instantaneous. Harry: You were asleep. Didn’t wanna wake you. You looked peaceful.
A pretty lie. She’d been painfully, meticulously awake.
Nikki: I’m at Waffle House. Starving.
Harry: Burned calories. ;)
The winking emoji. It reduced it all to a transaction. Calories burned. A workout. Her face flushed, but not with pleasure. With shame. Mara watched her, sipping her coffee, a silent verdict.
Harry: When can I see you again?
The question was a hook, set deep. She felt the pull. The need to say now, always, just come over. To build her entire world around the next time she could get him horizontal and quiet in her bed.
Mara reached across the table and put a hand on her wrist. “Nikki. Don’t.”
Nikki looked at her friend’s concerned eyes, then back at the glowing screen. She typed, her heart a drum against her ribs.
Nikki: I don’t know. I’m pretty busy this week.
She sent it. A tiny act of rebellion. The first in months.
The three dots appeared. They bounced. Then stopped. Then bounced again. He was thrown. Good.
His reply was slower this time. Harry: Yeah. Okay. Hit me up when you’re free.
Nonchalant. Cool. He’d never chase. That was the rule. He just had to exist, and she came running. Until now.
The waitress came. Nikki ordered eggs, bacon, toast. Comfort food for a hollow feeling.
Her phone buzzed one more time. A different notification. Instagram. She tapped it.
It was a story from Olivia. A sunset picture, filter-warm and beautiful. The caption: Some memories just won’t fade. ❤️
And there, in the comments, the first like. A username she knew by heart: harrystyles. A simple heart emoji beneath his ex’s wistful post, published not thirty minutes after he’d texted Nikki calling their night incredible.
The world inside the diner shrank to the size of that screen. The noise faded. She saw it all with a horrible, crystalline clarity. The two timelines. Him leaving her bed, the touch on her hair, the hesitation at the door. Him walking across campus, picking up his phone, calling Olivia. Liking her picture. Texting Nikki. A seamless, split performance.
He was nowhere. And she was stuck in the nowhere with him.
She put the phone face down on the table. The eggs arrived, steaming.
“What?” Mara asked, sensing the new, deeper shift.
“Nothing,” Nikki said. She picked up a fork. Her hand was steady. “It’s nothing.”
She ate. She tasted nothing. The ache inside her wasn’t just heartbreak now. It was the first, quiet spark of anger. It was small. It was fragile. But it was there, burning low and steady beneath the ruin, waiting for air.
But it was there, burning low and steady beneath the ruin, waiting for air.
The fork clattered against her plate. Nikki pushed the eggs away, a sudden grease-induced nausea rising in her throat. “I need to get out of here.”
“You just got here,” Mara said, but she was already flagging the waitress for the check, reading the devastation on her friend’s face.
“I need to walk. Or run. Or scream. I don’t know.”
They split the bill in silence. Outside, the campus was waking up. Frisbees on the quad, the distant chant from the marching band practicing. Normal life. It felt like an insult.
Mara linked her arm through Nikki’s as they walked. “What happened?”
“He liked her picture. Olivia’s. He texted me ‘last night was incredible’ and then heart-emoji’d a fucking sunset memory with her twenty minutes later.” The words came out flat, drained of the initial shock, just stating a pathetic fact.
“Jesus Christ, Harry,” Mara muttered. “The audacity is actually breathtaking.”
“It’s my fault. I know the rules. I just… keep hoping they’ll change.”
“He won’t change. Not until you do.”
They stopped outside Nikki’s dorm. The brick building looked like a prison. Her room, a crime scene. “What does ‘change’ look like, Mara? Telling him to fuck off? Then what? He just… does. And he’s gone.”
“Maybe gone is what you need.”
Nikki didn’t answer. Gone was a vast, terrifying emptiness. This pain, at least, was familiar. It had his shape. She climbed the stairs alone, the silence of her room swallowing her whole. She stripped the bed, shoving the sheets into a ball, trying to suffocate his scent. She opened the window wide, letting the cool air flood in.
Her phone, charging on the desk, lit up.
Harry: Busy how?
Two words. An itch he couldn’t stop scratching. Her rejection, minor as it was, had gotten under his skin. A flare of dark satisfaction warmed her. She let it sit, watching the screen until it went dark.
She painted. It was the only thing that ever truly quieted the noise. She slapped gesso on a canvas, then attacked it with a charcoal stick, violent, sweeping lines. It wasn’t anything. Just feeling. The dark smudge of him. The sharper, angrier lines of her. They tangled in the center, a war on a white field.
Three hours passed. The light in the room changed. Her phone buzzed, a call this time. His name pulsed on the screen. Her heart jackhammered. She wiped her charcoal-dusty hands on her jeans, let it ring four times, and answered.
“Hey.” She aimed for casual, detached.
“Hey.” His voice was a warm murmur. “You painting?”
“Yeah.”
“I can hear it in your voice. That quiet thing you get.” He knew that. He knew the sound of her focus. The intimacy of the observation was a sucker punch. “I’m outside.”
Her breath caught. “What?”
“I’m outside your building. I was… in the neighborhood. Wanted to see you.”
“You’re never in this neighborhood.”
A pause. A soft laugh. “Okay. I wanted to see you. So I came to your neighborhood. Can I come up?”
Every cell in her body screamed yes. It was a gravitational pull, physical and deep. The anger from the morning was there, but it was brittle, and his presence was a heat source melting its edges. She walked to the window, peered down. He was there, leaning against a sad-looking oak tree, head down, phone to his ear. Even from here, the sight of him—the slouch of his jeans, the curl of hair against his neck—unspooled something tight in her stomach.
“Nikki?” he prompted.
“Why?”
“Because last night was incredible. And your text felt… final. I didn’t like it.”
Honesty. A rare currency from him. It disarmed her.
“Five minutes,” she said, her voice barely her own.
“Okay.”
She didn’t buzz him in. She went downstairs, opening the heavy front door. He was right there. Up close, he looked tired. Beautiful, but tired. His green eyes searched hers, and she saw it—a flicker of genuine uncertainty. He wasn’t sure of his welcome. That was new.
“Hi,” he said.
They stood there, on the concrete steps, students flowing around them like water around stones.
“You wanted to see me,” she stated.
“Yeah.”
“You saw me.”
He smiled, a slow, reluctant tug at his mouth. “Smartass.” He reached for her, his thumb brushing a smear of charcoal from her cheekbone. The touch was electric. It always was. “Can I come up? Please?”
The please did it. It was the crack everything flooded through.
She turned, wordlessly, and held the door open.
Her room was different with him in it in the daylight. The stripped bed, the open canvas, the lingering smell of turpentine under the fresh air. It was all exposed. He closed the door and the world narrowed to the ten-foot square of worn carpet between them.
“You really were painting,” he said, looking at the chaotic canvas.
“I told you I was busy.”
He turned from the painting to her. The distance evaporated. He crossed it in two strides, his hands coming up to cup her face. His touch was not gentle now. It was possessive. “Were you busy thinking about this?” he asked, and then his mouth was on hers.
It wasn’t a question. It was an answer. A reset button. Her anger, her resolve, it all crumbled into dust under the familiar, devastating pressure of his lips. She kissed him back, a groan trapped in her throat, her hands fisting in the front of his shirt. This was the language they spoke best. Words lied. This didn’t.
He walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bare mattress. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “Tell me to stop,” he challenged, his eyes dark, his fingers already working the button of her jeans.
She said nothing. She shoved his hands away and undid the button herself, pushing the denim over her hips, letting them pool at her feet. She wasn’t passive this time. This was her ruin, and she would own it.
He watched, his gaze hot, as she pulled her t-shirt over her head. She stood before him in just her underwear, defiant, shaking.
“Fuck,” he breathed. He stripped off his own shirt, his belt clattering to the floor. He kicked off his shoes, shoved his jeans and boxers down in one rough motion. He was already hard.
He didn’t lay her down. He turned her, his hand firm on her shoulder, bending her over the edge of the mattress. The coarse fabric of the mattress cover scratched her stomach. He hooked his fingers in the sides of her panties and tore them, the sound absurdly loud. The cool air hit her skin, then the heat of him, his body covering hers from behind.
One hand tangled in her purple hair, not pulling, just holding. The other guided himself to her. She was wet, shamefully, predictably so. Her body betrayed her every thought.
He pushed inside with a single, deep, unyielding thrust. She cried out, her fingers grasping at the mattress. He was deeper this way, fuller. It obliterated everything.
“Is this what you were busy doing?” he grunted, his hips setting a brutal, immediate rhythm. The bedframe slammed against the wall. “Thinking about my cock?”
“No,” she gasped, the lie torn from her.
“Liar.” He snapped his hips harder, driving her up the mattress with each pound. His hand left her hair, slid around her hip, his fingers finding the swollen, sensitive nub between her legs. He pressed, circled. Expert. Knowing. “Your pussy says you’re a liar. It’s so fucking tight for me. Always so goddamn tight and ready.”
She was fragmenting. The pleasure was a cresting wave, built on a foundation of self-loathing. It was too much. The slap of skin, the crude, filthy words in her ear, the sheer physical mastery he had over her body. She came with a choked scream, her body clamping around him in violent, pulsing waves.
He rode her through it, his pace never faltering. When her knees buckled, he held her up, his arm like an iron band across her stomach. His own climax hit him, a raw, guttural shout against her shoulder. He thrust into her, deep and frantic, spilling himself inside her with a final, shuddering grind.
He collapsed over her, his weight pinning her to the mattress, both of them slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, broken sync.
The silence afterward was different. It wasn’t peaceful. It was saturated. Heavy with everything they hadn’t said.
Slowly, he softened, slipped out of her. He rolled to the side, staying on the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. She stayed on her stomach, faced turned away, feeling the slow, illicit trickle of him between her thighs.
“Nikki,” he said, finally. His voice was wrecked.
She didn’t respond. She just stared at the wall, at the crack in the plaster, waiting for him to leave. The script was written. The performance was over.
But he didn’t move.
After a long minute, his hand found her back, traced the line of her spine. “Stay with me tonight.”
Her whole body went still. He’d never asked that. Not once. The morning was always a given, an exile.
“What?” she whispered.
“My place. Stay with me. Let’s order shitty food. Watch a movie. Just… stay.”
The offer hung in the air, shimmering and dangerous. It was everything she’d wanted. A thread of something real. A night that didn’t end with a closed door.
She turned her head to look at him. His arm was still over his eyes, as if he couldn’t bear to see her reaction. This wasn’t confidence. This was vulnerability. It was the crack in his armor.
And she knew, with a cold, sinking certainty, that it didn’t change a thing. Olivia’s sunset still glowed on his phone. He was still torn. She would just be spending the night in the middle of his war. A more comfortable prisoner, but a prisoner all the same.
Yet the want was a physical ache, deeper than the one between her legs.
His hand stilled on her back. Waiting.
She closed her eyes. The spark of anger from the morning was not gone. It was banked, buried under the weight of him, but it was breathing. She gave it a single, deliberate breath of its own.
Then she killed it.
“Okay,” she said, her voice small in the quiet room. “Okay, I’ll stay.”
He lowered his arm. He looked at her, and his smile was real, relieved, beautiful. It felt like a victory. It felt like a surrender.
He pulled her to him, her back to his chest, his nose buried in her hair. “Good,” he murmured. “That’s good.”
She let him hold her. She watched the afternoon light stretch across the floor, toward the canvas with its furious, tangled lines. She had chosen the cage. For one more night, she had chosen the beautiful, painful, familiar hand on the lock.
But in the dark behind her eyelids, she began, slowly, to picture the key.