Chapter 2: The Voicemail
In which I sit alone on rain-soaked bleachers, watch the floodlights flicker over an empty field, and finally say all the things I've been swallowing for weeks—into a phone that may never be answered.
The voicemail beeped. Sharp. Final. A tiny electronic gavel drop.
I opened my mouth, and nothing came out. Just the sound of rain hitting metal, the distant rumble of thunder rolling somewhere past the stadium's east end. My breath fogged in the cold air, visible for a moment before the wind tore it away.
"Hey," I finally said. My voice sounded foreign, scraped raw. "It's me. Obviously. You probably know that. Caller ID and all that."
I paused. Shifted on the wet bench. The cold had seeped through my jeans minutes ago, settling into my bones like something permanent.
"Look, I just—" I stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "I keep replaying that night at the tailgate. The way you looked at her. The way you looked at me, like I was some inconvenience you had to deal with before you could get back to her."
Rain dripped off the edge of my hood, landing on the screen of my phone. I wiped it away with a numb thumb.
"And I keep thinking about how you said 'later.' Later, Harry. Like I was a task on your to-do list. Like my feelings were something you could just... schedule around."
My voice cracked on the last word. I hated it. Hated how small it made me feel, sitting here in the dark, talking to a phone like it was a person.
"I've known you since high school. Ten years, Harry. Ten years of watching you charm your way through everything, through everyone, like nothing ever touched you. And I told myself I didn't care. Told myself you were just some pretty-faced jock who'd never amount to anything deeper than a keg stand and a winning goal."
I laughed, but it came out hollow. Bitter.
"But then Kendall showed up, and you just—" I stopped. Pressed my fingers to my eyes. My hand was shaking. "You just let her between us. Like I was nothing. Like everything we've ever been was nothing."
The wind picked up. The floodlights flickered overhead, one of them buzzing with that dying fluorescent hum.
"And I think that's what hurts the most. Not that you chose her. But that you didn't even see me enough to realize you were choosing."
I heard footsteps on the bleachers behind me. Slow. Measured. But I didn't turn around. Didn't want to see whoever it was, didn't want to explain why I was sitting in the rain, talking to a ghost.
"I've been silent for three weeks," I continued, voice steadying. "Three weeks of no calls, no texts. I wanted you to feel it. The absence. I wanted you to reach out and find nothing, just like I did when I tried to talk to you."
The footsteps stopped. Close. Too close.
"So this is me, saying the things you never let me say. This is me, telling you that I'm not going to be your backup plan. Your safety net. The friend who's always there when it's convenient for you."
I took a breath. Let it out slow.
"This is me, saying goodbye."
I pulled the phone away from my ear. My thumb hovered over the end-call button. The red circle glowed in the dark like a warning.
And then a hand closed over mine.
I froze.
"Don't," his voice came from behind me. Barely audible over the rain. Hoarse. "Please. Don't."
I turned. Harry Styles stood there, drenched to the bone, curls plastered to his forehead, green eyes bright with something I'd never seen before. Something raw. Something terrified.
"How long were you standing there?" I asked. My voice was flat. Controlled.
He shook his head. Water droplets flew off his curls. "Long enough."
"Long enough to hear me make a fool of myself."
"It's not foolish." He stepped closer. His sneakers squelched on the wet metal. "Nikki, it's not. It's the most real thing you've said to me in years."
I pulled my hand back. Stood up. The phone was still clutched in my fist, the voicemail still recording. I hit end-call and watched the timer disappear.
"Where's Kendall?" I asked. The name tasted like copper on my tongue.
He flinched. Actually flinched, like I'd thrown something at him.
"She's not—" he started. Stopped. Ran a hand through his wet hair. "She's not here. She went home. We're not."
He trailed off. The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy as the storm clouds.
"You're not what, Harry?"
"We're not anything," he said. The words came out in a rush, like he'd been holding them in for weeks. "We were never anything. I don't know why I let her hang around, I don't know why I let her—"
"Let her what?" My voice was rising now. I couldn't stop it. "Let her come between us? Let her make me feel like I was invisible? Like everything we've been through meant nothing?"
"No." He stepped closer. I stepped back. My heel hit the next bleacher row. "No, Nikki, that's not—"
"Then what, Harry? Because I tried to talk to you. I tried to tell you how I felt, and you said later. You said later and then you never came back."
His jaw tightened. His hands were shaking at his sides, and I realized he wasn't cold. He was scared.
"I know," he said. Quiet. Broken. "I know I messed up. I know I've been a coward. I've been standing on the sidelines of my own life, watching you from a distance, telling myself I'd find the right moment to—"
"To what?"
He looked at me. Really looked. And for the first time in ten years, I saw him. Not the charm. Not the smile. Not the mask he wore for everyone else.
"To tell you that I've been in love with you since sophomore year," he said. "Since you stood up to that guy in the cafeteria, the one who was screwing over your friend, and you tore him apart with nothing but words. And I thought, that's her. That's the one."
The words hit me like a wave. I staggered under the weight of them.
"You're lying," I whispered.
"I'm not." He took another step closer. I didn't move back. "I've never lied to you, Nikki. Even when I should have. Even when the truth would have been easier than pretending I didn't care."
"Then why—" My voice broke. I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to hold it together. "Why did you let her get so close? Why did you push me away?"
"Because I was scared." His voice cracked too. "Because every time I looked at you, I saw everything I wanted, and I didn't know how to handle it. And Kendall was easy. She didn't ask anything of me. She didn't make me feel like I was falling apart."
I laughed. It came out wet and broken. "So I'm the hard one. The one who makes you feel things."
"You're the only one who's ever made me feel anything real."
The floodlights buzzed overhead. The rain kept falling. And we stood there, two people who'd known each other for a decade, finally saying the things we'd been too afraid to say.
I looked at him. At the water dripping off his chin. At the desperation in his eyes.
"I don't know if I can trust you," I said. Honestly. Openly. "I don't know if I can believe you."
"I know." He nodded. Swallowed. "And I don't expect you to. Not tonight. Not in a week. But I'm asking for a chance. One chance. To prove that I'm not the same guy who let you walk away."
I stared at him. The rain soaked through my hood, trickled down the back of my neck. But I didn't feel it anymore.
"One chance," I repeated.
He held his breath.
"One chance," I said again, "to show me you're not full of shit."
He exhaled. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. That smile I'd seen a thousand times, but now—now it looked different. Vulnerable. Real.
"I won't waste it," he said.
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him. But I'd been burned before. By Kendall. By him. By people who promised the world and delivered nothing but ash.
"Prove it," I said. "Don't tell me. Show me."
He nodded. Held out his hand.
I looked at it. At the rain beading on his skin. At the small scar on his knuckle from a game in junior year, when he'd dove headfirst for a ball and come up bleeding.
"Okay," I said.
I took his hand.
His fingers closed around mine, warm despite the cold. And for a moment, standing in the rain on a neglected soccer field, it felt like the beginning of something.
The walk back to the frat house was slow. Quiet. The storm had settled into a steady drizzle, the kind that soaks you through without you noticing until you're shivering.
Harry kept hold of my hand the whole way. I let him.
The house was loud when we got back. Music thumping. Voices overlapping. The familiar chaos of a Friday night at Sigma Chi.
But the moment we walked through the door, everything went quiet.
Seven faces turned to look at us. Spencer was on the couch, Liam beside her with his arm draped over the back. Niall was mid-laugh, frozen with a beer halfway to his lips. Hanna's mouth dropped open. Aria's eyes went wide. Emily's hand found Zayn's. Louis was standing by the kitchen counter, a knowing smirk already spreading across his face.
"Took you long enough," Louis said.
Harry's hand tightened around mine. "Shut up."
"I'm just saying—"
"Louis." Aria's voice cut through. "Give them a second."
The group exchanged glances. Spencer raised an eyebrow at me, a silent question in her eyes. I gave her a tiny nod. Her lips curved into a small smile.
"Alright, everyone," Liam said, standing up. "Let's give them some space."
"I want details," Hanna whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear. Niall grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the kitchen.
The room cleared out, leaving me and Harry standing in the entryway. Rainwater pooled at our feet. His hand was still in mine.
"I should probably get dry," I said.
"Yeah." He didn't let go. "Me too."
We stood there for a moment longer. The music started up again from the kitchen, muffled through the walls.
"Stay," he said softly. "Tonight. Just—stay."
I looked at him. At the rain still dripping from his curls. At the hope in his eyes.
"Okay," I said.
He led me up the stairs. His room was at the end of the hall, cluttered and messy and so unmistakably him. Posters on the walls. A pile of laundry in the corner. A guitar propped against the desk.
He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and handed it to me. I dried my hair in silence. He did the same, moving around the room with a nervous energy I'd never seen in him before.
"Harry."
He stopped. Turned.
"I mean it," I said. "Don't waste this."
He crossed the room in three steps. His hand came up to cup my cheek, warm and dry now. His thumb traced the line of my jaw.
"I won't," he said. "I swear to God, Nikki. I won't."
He kissed me.
It was soft. Gentle. Like he was asking permission. Like he was terrified of breaking something fragile.
I kissed him back.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice whispered that this was a mistake. That I'd been here before. That people don't change.
But Harry's lips were warm on mine, and his hand was trembling against my cheek, and for the first time in weeks, I felt something other than the cold.
Maybe that was enough.
Maybe that was all I needed.
Maybe that was all I needed.
His mouth was still on mine, soft and searching, when I felt the shift in his hand against my jaw. The tremble had stopped, replaced by a certainty that made my stomach tighten. He kissed me like he was memorizing the shape of my lips, like the rain outside had washed away every excuse he'd ever used.
"Harry," I breathed against his mouth.
"I know." His forehead pressed to mine. His breath came in short, uneven bursts. "I know we should talk. I know there's a thousand things we need to say."
"But you don't want to say them right now."
"No." His eyes met mine, dark and hungry. "I don't want to talk. I want to feel you. For real. For the first time in my life, I want to know what it's like to actually have you."
A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with the cold. My wet clothes clung to my skin, heavy and uncomfortable, but I didn't care. I was too aware of his chest rising and falling, of the heat radiating off him despite the storm that had soaked us both.
"Then don't talk," I said.
I reached for the hem of my hoodie. Pulled it over my head. Let it drop to the floor with a wet slap.
Harry's gaze traveled down my body. The thin tank top underneath was translucent, plastered to my skin. I watched his throat move as he swallowed.
"Fuck," he whispered.
"You've seen me in a bikini before."
"Not like this." He stepped closer. His fingers found the strap of my tank top, tracing the line of it across my shoulder. "Not when I knew I could touch."
I reached for his shirt. The fabric was soaked through, clinging to every ridge of muscle. I tugged at it, impatient, and he helped me pull it over his head. It landed somewhere behind him, forgotten.
My hands found his chest. Warm skin, damp from the rain. I traced the lines of his torso, the way his muscles tensed under my touch. His skin smelled like rain and grass and something else. Something that was just him.
"Nikki." My name on his lips sounded like a prayer. His hands came up to cup my face again, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones. "I've wanted this for so long. I've wanted you for so long."
"Then show me."
His mouth crashed into mine.
This kiss wasn't gentle. It wasn't asking permission. It was hungry. Desperate. A decade of wanting finally unleashed. His tongue swept against mine, and I tasted the rain on his lips, felt the ragged edge of his breath.
His hands moved down my body. Slid under the hem of my tank top. His palms were rough against my skin, and I arched into him, wanting more.
"Off," I gasped. "Take it off."
He obeyed. Lifted the tank top over my head. Tossed it aside.
His eyes raked over me. My breasts. My stomach. The curve of my hips where my jeans sat low. His gaze was hot enough to burn.
"Christ," he muttered. "You're so fucking beautiful."
"Stop staring."
"I can't help it. I've been dreaming about this for years."
He backed me toward the bed. My knees hit the edge of the mattress, and I fell backward, bouncing on the messy sheets. He followed me down, crawling over me, his body pressing mine into the mattress. The weight of him felt incredible, grounding.
"Harry," I said, and my voice came out breathless. "Touch me."
He didn't need to be told twice. His hands found my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples through the lace of my bra. I moaned, arching into his touch, and he ducked his head to kiss the curve of my neck.
"You're so responsive," he murmured against my skin. "I can feel you trembling."
"Shut up and keep going."
He laughed. A low, husky sound that vibrated through my chest. But he kept going. His hands found the clasp of my bra, unhooked it with practiced ease. He slid the straps down my shoulders, exposed me to the cool air and his burning gaze.
"Beautiful," he breathed. "So fucking beautiful."
He lowered his mouth to my breast. I cried out as his tongue circled my nipple, as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin. He sucked hard, and I buried my fingers in his wet curls, pulling him closer.
"That's it," I gasped. "Don't stop."
He moved to the other breast, giving it the same attention, and I was already wet, already aching for more. I could feel myself throbbing between my legs, a desperate pulsing need.
"Harry," I said, tugging at his hair. "Down. Go down on me."
He looked up at me, lips slick, eyes dark with want. "You sure?"
"Fuck yes, I'm sure. I've been thinking about this for years."
He grinned, and then he was sliding down my body, leaving a trail of hot kisses across my stomach. When he reached my jeans, he paused, looking up at me with a question in his eyes.
I nodded.
He unbuckled my belt. Unbuttoned my jeans. Pulled them down my legs, taking my panties with them. I was naked beneath him, and he looked at me like I was the most precious thing he'd ever seen.
Then he lowered his head.
His first lick was slow. Deliberate. His tongue traced the length of me, from my entrance to my clit, and I gasped, hands fisting the sheets.
"Jesus," I moaned. "Harry."
He flicked his tongue across my clit, and my hips bucked off the bed. He held me down with one hand, pressed flat against my stomach, while his mouth worked me with a skill that made my eyes roll back.
"You taste incredible," he murmured against me, and the vibration sent shockwaves through my core. "I could eat you out for hours."
"Then do it," I panted. "Don't stop. Don't fucking stop."
He didn't. His tongue circled my clit, lapped at my wetness, dipped inside me before returning to that sensitive nub. His fingers joined his mouth, sliding into me, curling against a spot that made me see stars.
"That's it," I gasped. "Right there. Fuck, right there."
He worked me higher. Higher. The pressure built in my belly, coiling tighter and tighter, until I was trembling on the edge of release.
"Look at me," he commanded, pulling back just enough to speak. His fingers never stopped moving inside me. "I want to watch you come."
I looked at him. His face was slick with my wetness, his eyes bright with hunger. And something else. Something tender that made my chest ache.
"Harry—"
"Come for me, Nikki. Let me see you."
I shattered.
My orgasm crashed through me like a wave, and I cried out his name, back arching off the mattress. He worked me through it, his tongue and fingers relentless until I collapsed, trembling and breathless.
He crawled up my body. His lips found mine, and I tasted myself on him. It was filthy, raw, and I moaned into his mouth.
"That was—" I started.
"I'm not done."
He was still wearing his jeans, the dark denim tented with his erection. I looked down, then back up at him.
"That's not fair," I said. "You're still dressed."
He smirked. "Why don't you do something about it?"
I pushed him off me. He fell onto his back, laughing, but the sound died in his throat as I crawled over him. I unbuckled his belt. Unzipped his jeans. Pulled them down, along with his boxers.
His cock sprang free, hard and thick, and I wrapped my fingers around it. He groaned, head falling back, hands gripping the sheets.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Your hand feels incredible."
I stroked him slowly. Watched his face contort with pleasure. Then I lowered my head and took him into my mouth.
"Nikki," he gasped, hips bucking. "Oh fuck, Nikki."
I worked him with my tongue, with my lips, taking him deeper with every pass. His fingers tangled in my hair, not pushing, just holding.
"Fuck, you're good at that," he groaned. "Where'd you learn to—"
I hollowed my cheeks, sucked hard, and he cut off with a ragged moan.
"God, just like that," he panted. "Just like that, baby."
I took him to the root, throat relaxing around him, and he cried out, fingers tightening in my hair.
"Fuck, Nikki, I'm gonna—"
I pulled off just before he could finish, replacing my mouth with my hand, stroking him as I looked up at him.
"Not yet," I said. "I want you inside me."
His eyes went dark. "You sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
He pulled me up, positioning me over him. His hands gripped my hips, and I felt the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. I reached down, guided him. Held his gaze.
"Fuck," he whispered. "Nikki."
I sank down onto him.
The stretch was exquisite. He filled me perfectly, and we both moaned as I took him inch by inch. When I was fully seated, I paused, breathless, feeling him pulsing inside me.
"Move," he pleaded. "Please move."
I started to ride him. Slow at first, savoring the sensation. His hands gripped my hips, guiding me. His head fell back, eyes squeezed shut.
"Fuck, Nikki," he groaned. "You feel incredible. So tight. So wet."
I leaned forward, pressing my palms against his chest. The new angle made him sink deeper, and I moaned, rolling my hips.
"That's it," he gasped. "Right there. Fuck, right there."
I moved faster. Harder. The room filled with the sounds of our bodies slapping together, with our breathless moans.
"Touch my clit," I demanded. "Don't stop."
He reached between us, fingers finding my bundle of nerves. He pressed, circled, and I cried out, head falling back.
"Oh fuck," I gasped. "Harry, that's—"
"I'm close," he panted. "I'm so fucking close, Nikki."
"Come with me," I breathed. "Come with me, baby."
He thrust up into me, meeting my rhythm, and the pressure built again, faster this time. Tighter.
"Fuck, Nikki, I'm gonna—"
"Now," I cried. "Come now."
I shattered first, walls clenching around him, and that was all it took. He buried himself deep, crying out my name as he filled me, hot and pulsing.
We collapsed together, tangled and sweaty, the storm outside finally quieting to a gentle patter on the window.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Just breathing. Just the sound of our hearts slowing.
Harry's hand found mine. His fingers interlaced with my own.
"Nikki," he said softly. "I meant what I said."
I turned my head to look at him. His eyes were open, earnest, still slightly glassy with pleasure.
"I know you did," I whispered.
"This isn't just—" He stopped. Swallowed. "This isn't just sex for me. It never was."
"Harry."
"I know you don't trust me yet. I know you've got every reason not to. But I'm going to prove it to you. Every day. For as long as it takes."
I looked at him. At the rain-soaked boy who'd been in my life since high school. At the man looking at me like I held the stars.
"Okay," I said. "Show me."
He kissed me again. Soft. Tender. Like a promise.
And somewhere below, I heard the muffled sounds of our friends laughing, of the party continuing, of the world moving on without us.
But here, in this room, with his arms around me and his heartbeat against my chest, everything else faded into silence.
Maybe this was the beginning.
Maybe this time, we'd get it right.