#firstpost

Harry, your ex’s best friend. The bastard who’d helped tear everything apart. Stan had dumped you almost a year ago, but the wound was still fresh because of how it had happened. You’d been blamed for cheating, which was obviously not true. They said you’d been sneaking around with Tommy. Harry was the one who handed Stan the “proof.” Screenshots, clipped and out-of-context texts, a neat little package tied up to make you look bad.

The truth? Tommy had been the one buzzing around you like an annoying fly that wouldn’t stop. It was a constant drip of sleazy jokes, suggestive messages that vanished after a day because he knew how to cover his tracks, cornering you when no one was around just to see if he could push you into giving in to him. He wasn’t even Stan’s close friend. He was just some hanger-on in their circle, but you’d never fed into his bullshit, never gave him what he wanted. 

Toward the end, when you caught on to what Tommy was doing, you left the texts unanswered, scrolled past them, pretended they didn’t exist, thinking silence was safer than stirring up drama. But at first? You did respond to a few of his texts. You didn’t know that those responses would somehow be damning proof of anything because you thought you were just being nice.

Your mistake. You hadn’t saved the messages, hadn’t warned Stan, hadn’t done anything but hope Tommy would finally get bored and move on. Instead, Harry twisted the whole story. By the time you realized what was happening, you weren’t the victim, you were the villain. The liar. The cheater. And Stan, hurt and furious, believed every word Harry put in front of him.

Harry raised his long, tattooed arm and sighed in annoyance as Mrs. Caldwell called him, “Yes, Harry.”

“Yeah. Sorry, but I’m not working with her. Switch me out. I’d rather tank this project than be forced to talk to her.”

You rolled your eyes as the teacher balked. “Mr. Styles, with all due respect, this is not negotiable. Teams are set. You will not be switching. If you choose to not work on this project, you’ll fail the class. This isn’t just a grade for a project. This is your capstone, your final. I suggest you swallow your pride and act like the adult you claim to be. You’re about to graduate from university, not kindergarten.”

Something that felt like vindication spread warm in your chest as you ducked your head, stifling a laugh. Served him right. The arrogant prick finally got put in his place.

★★★

Harry’s number was already in your phone, a leftover relic from the Stan days. Every time you pulled it up, thumb hovering over the message box, your stomach turned. He wasn’t going to reach out first, of course he wasn’t. He’d just sit there, smug, waiting for you to cave. Which you hated.

And you did cave. Because you weren’t the type to coast. You liked being ahead of the curve, projects drafted, a direction, something on paper... Harry was the opposite. He was the kind of student who thought “last minute”, as long as it got done, was just fine.

We need to figure out a topic so we have some idea of direction. Thoughts?

Delivered. Read. Ignored. All day. Then the next.

By the time you realized he wasn’t going to bother, you were already outlining the project yourself, typing notes, sketching a framework. Fine. If he wanted to rot, let him. After his tantrum in class, Mrs. Caldwell would believe you over him without a second thought.

A week crawled by and his silence was loud. No texts, no eye contact, nothing but a wall of deliberate indifference. So you sent him one last message. A final olive branch (because you were nice) before you washed your hands of him and let him choke on the consequences. Summer classes, delayed graduation, all of it. Fuck him.

And it came as no surprise when he left you on read. Once again. But it was no sweat off your back. You gave him a couple of chances and you were more than capable of doing the work on your own. So you buckled down, carved hours out of your free time, and built the whole damn project yourself piece by piece, determined that if anyone was failing, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be you.

.

Saturday night you found yourself relaxed on a couch at Ro’s off-campus house, the place that had become your unofficial second home. Her place was always buzzing with something going on. It was a hangout spot and a “halfway house” for lost students. It was warm, a little cluttered, and of course, weed and beer were always within reach. Exactly what you needed after a week of grinding and, more importantly, celebrating the fact that the project was done.

There were usually some faces you didn’t recognize, drifting in and out of the kitchen, sprawled on the floor, laughing too loud. That was normal because Ro and her roommates treated their house like a soft-landing spot for anyone who wanted to crash, smoke, and just chill.

You had just taken a long drag, the joint burning hot in your lungs, when it vanished. One blink and it was gone, plucked clean from your fingers. You straightened, startled, and followed the thief with your eyes.

And there he was.

Harry fucking Styles. Sliding into the sofa across from where you sat, like he owned the place, inked arm draped lazy across the backrest, joint poised between his fingers as if it had always belonged to him. He inhaled slow, lips wrapping around the paper, green eyes fixed on you. 

Why the hell was he at Ro’s house?

“What the fuck?” You looked around the living room and back to Harry. No one seemed to notice what had just happened.

“S’my weed. I brought it to share with everyone. But for you? That’ll be $20.”

Now heads turned and conversations quieted. The people who sat watching had no idea there was bad blood between you two. Only Ro knew to some extent, and of course she was nowhere to be found.

You scoffed and crossed your arms over your chest as you settled your angry gaze on Harry. “Fine. Keep it. I don’t want your weed anyway. I’ll grab a beer.” You pushed up from the couch, ready to disappear into the kitchen.

But Harry wasn’t done. “No. I meant you owe me twenty. You’ve already smoked half this joint.” He brought it to his lips again, eyes glinting as he took another long drag.

Heat flared through you. “Fuck you.” Your finger stabbed the air toward him like a knife. “You know what? Enjoy that high, because you’re about to fail Caldwell’s class. I finished the project last night, every word of it, and tomorrow she’s going to hear exactly how much you did. Which is nothing. Zero. Which means you don’t graduate.”

A ripple of whispers rose up from your nosy audience now. You couldn’t believe you were arguing with Harry in front of half a dozen near-strangers, airing your dirty laundry like it was printed in a scandal magazine. But so be it.

Harry laughed, a low, mocking sound of disbelief as he shook his head. He leaned forward to stub out the joint in the ashtray, tattoos flexing as he moved. “You wouldn’t. Assignment’s not due for another two and a half weeks. That’s not fair.”

You shrugged and walked away toward the kitchen to grab a beer but Harry was right behind you, slamming the refrigerator door closed just as you’d pulled it open an inch. You turned, Harry’s chest inches from yours, green eyes burning down at you. “You’re not gonna really try and fuck me over me like that, are you?”

You tilted your chin up, lips pulling up in a smirk. “Oh, you fucked yourself over. I’m turning it in Monday. I gave you two chances, Harry. Two. That was more than you deserved.”

Something dark flashed behind his eyes and his mouth tipped in an annoying smirk. “You’re such a fucking brat. Good thing Stan figured you out before he got in too deep. His new girl? So much nicer.” He leaned in just enough for his breath to ghost your ear. “Definitely not like you.”

The jab sliced through you just like he intended it too. But you didn’t flinch, instead, you leaned in closer to him, eyes not wavering from him. “You were jealous. You didn’t like how close Stan and I were. And you know damn well I didn’t cheat. You were probably in on the whole scheme to get us to break up. You couldn’t stand that I had what you wanted.”

His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing, then dipped for a fraction of a second to your mouth. “What I wanted? Jealous?” He let out a humorless chuckle. “You’re delusional.”

You yanked the door open, the force of it making him step back and you grabbed a cold can, cracking it open without breaking eye contact. “You always wanted to believe I cheated. Because hating me is easier than admitting how much I get under your skin.”

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move as you brushed past him. His stare burned into your back as you walked away, shoulders tight, mouth bitter. When you dropped back onto the couch beside Ro, who wordlessly handed you a fresh joint, your pulse was still hammering.

“It’s not Harry’s weed is it?” You asked her just as he walked back toward his spot on the couch, his eyes shooting daggers at you.

“No. This is from last week. The stuff Jerry brought over.”

You smiled smugly and took the joint between your pointer and middle finger and inhaled as you stared at him. You liked that he was so angry because of you.

 “Why is Harry here anyway?” You asked her quietly after you passed the joint to someone else.

“I don’t know. Maybe Karl invited him? He’s been hanging out with Harry a bit.” Ro didn’t know the whole story about how much you hated Harry. She only knew you just didn’t like him after you’d broken up with Stan. She heard bits and pieces. Enough to know you two didn’t get along.

When Harry shifted, the couch groaned under his weight as he stood and strode out of the living room wordlessly. You weren’t sure where he’d gone off to but you hoped that maybe he’d finally left. But, of course, you weren’t that lucky because not long after, when you and Ro went to the basement there he was with a dart in one hand, and a beer in the other. He wore a kind of tipsy confidence that left his eyes bloodshot, hazy, and stoned… maybe a mirror of your own. Then he glanced in your direction and cursed under his breath, jaw tightening.

“You know you could just leave if it’s that bad seeing me,” you called out to him, everyone’s attention suddenly on you. 

Eyes shot between you and Harry. A modern day duel was about to take place and no one wanted to miss a thing. You hadn’t meant to draw the room into it, but Harry had been grinding at your nerves all night and the words slipped free before you could stop them.

“Or you could just pay me the twenty you owe me and leave yourself.”

You put your hands on your hips and walked up to him, everyone watching you both, “And if I don’t pay you?”

Harry’s jaw clenched as he stared down at you, “Then it wouldn’t shock me. You’ve always had a way of twisting things to suit yourself.” His voice dropped lower, sharp and rough-edged. “Now get out of my space. I don’t wanna even look at you.”

“Then stop staring.” you scoffed, chin tilted up in defiance.

“Hey… you two?” Karl spoke up, “Can you chill out? Kinda fucking up the vibe here.”

You softened your stance and moved away toward a stool next to Ro. The last thing you wanted was to make anyone else uncomfortable. You didn’t care if Harry fumed, he deserved it, but the others didn’t.

Harry pointed at you as he took a dart in hand when it was his turn, “She doesn’t get any of my weed. Make sure she keeps her hands off my shit.”

When he aimed at the board you cackled loudly and he missed the target, dart thunking wide on the board. He turned, eyes sharp on you. As if his bad aim was your fault.

“Don’t worry. I’m not gonna touch your weed asshole.”

His nostrils flared as he stepped toward you, every muscle tight. “For fuck’s sake, will you just shut up?”

You stood, meeting his advance with a scowl, nearly chest to chest now, the air between you practically buzzing. “What? You gonna hit me?”

Karl wedged himself between you two, palms on Harry’s chest as he pushed him back. “Enough. Either take this upstairs and sort it out, or leave. Both of you. No one here signed up for World War Three. Jesus, you’re both insufferable.”

Harry didn’t drag his angry gaze from you as he grabbed his stash of weed and stomped away upstairs. You followed behind him silently as you tried to remember where you’d put your purse. You figured you’d just go. There was no point in staying around any longer. You and Harry weren’t built to exist in the same space.

“The fuck is wrong with you? You really think I'd actually hit you?” he barked as you passed. You ignored him and kept walking. Engaging felt pointless.

“What? You can’t hear me now?” His voice grew louder.

You rolled your eyes as you yanked your purse over your shoulder and then dug around for your keys but before you could find them Harry had his hand closed around your upper arm and he pulled you to the small laundry room at the front of the house. The door clicked behind you.

“You’re gonna talk to me now.” He shoved you against the cold metal of the washing machine, his breath close enough that you could feel it on your skin. ”I don’t like you acting like you didn't do anything wrong. All innocent when you know you're not.”

You wrenched your arm free, your purse thudding to the floor as you leaned back, planting both palms on the machine and sneered up at him. “You're a dick who made up a lie about me. You’ll get what’s coming to you when you can’t graduate this semester.”

Harry’s nostrils flared and he stood over you, a palm on the cold surface of the metal washing machine behind you “Fuck. You. You cheated. You lied. I’m glad Stan isn’t with you anymore.”

Something snapped in you. You slapped him, flat palm, hard… and he staggered back, a surprised, involuntary groan ripping from his throat as he pressed a hand to his cheek. For half a beat he stared at you like you were insane. Maybe you were.

“Did that hurt, pretty boy?” you said, grinning viciously as his hand still hovered where you’d hit him. “I hope it bruises and you have to walk around with a mark on your stupid face knowing that it was me who did it.”

“You put another fucking finger on me and I’ll make you regret it.”

A short laugh escaped you, breath hot, pulse thrumming against your throat. You sized him up… the way his shirt clung, the set of his jaw, and the reckless heat in his gaze. “Then back the fuck off,” you shot back. “Why are you standing over me like you’re gonna fight? I’m half your size, you moron.”

He didn’t move for a second, just watched you as his chest rose and fell. Then he removed his palm from his cheek and caged you in fully, your bottom pressed into the washing machine. Outside of the laundry room you could hear muffled music and laughter. But there was nothing funny about whatever was happening in that room between you and Harry right then. It seared, had your heart racing.

His gaze coasted down your frame and back up to your eyes. “You are half my size. So, if I were you, I’d be careful.”

“Why, cause you’re gonna hurt me? Gonna show me who’s boss?” You called him on his bluff.

“I fucking should. You’re acting like a child.”

“Well, you’ve got me cornered.” You spat, shoving at his chest. Hard muscle resisted under your palms, solid and immovable. “I have no choice but to defend myself. And I’ll do it again if I have to.” You shoved harder this time, both hands braced against him, but before you could get momentum, his hand shot up.

His fingers locked around your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His other hand clamped over your wrists, trapping them against the hard bulk of his chest. The warmth of his skin burned through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Last warning. Don’t touch me again.”

“But your hands are all over me,” your words were smushed from your mouth as he kept his fingers pressed into your face.

That earned you a short laugh, hot breath spilling over your cheek. “All over you? Please. In your fucking dreams.”

“Oh fuck you…” you spat. His face was so close to yours that you could smell the beer on his breath and see the specks of gold in his pretty green eyes. Stupid pretty green eyes.

His gaze dropped to your mouth and lingered. “No. Fuck you.” His voice came out deep, guttural, pulsing with something that wasn’t just rage anymore. It was molten, dangerous, red-hot.

“Fuck you, Harry.”

You didn’t know what had shifted but something happened and the tension between you two in that dark laundry room crackled and sparked until everything around you was aflame. His mouth crashed into yours, teeth clashing, lips bruising. He hauled you up onto the washer, metal groaning beneath your weight. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, pulling, as his hips wedged between your thighs. 

You bit his lip, hard, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. His hands roamed, one sliding up, wrapping around the front of your throat, holding you there like you belonged to him.

Everything was fury and molten lava. You grabbed his belt and yanked at it, unfastening, hungry as you felt him slide a hand under your dress and roughly push your thighs further apart.

“What would Stan think,” you gasped against his mouth, “about his best friend doing this to his ex?”

Harry’s laugh came out rough, low in his throat, as he shoved his jeans down just enough to free briefs. “He doesn’t give a fuck about you. No one does.” His words burned, but his body told a different story.

Your eyes dropped, throat tightening when you caught the sizeable lump straining under his briefs. “No one?” you shot back, voice sharp though your pulse was fluttering. “That hard-on says otherwise. Looks pretty damn happy to see me.”

His jaw clenched, but you saw the edge of a smirk on his face, betraying him. He pressed his palm to your mouth, eyes hot. “You don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

You ran your tongue against his palm, smirking under his hand, words muffled nonsense as his fingers slid under the lace of your panties where he learned you were wet. A wicked, menacing grin pulled at his mouth as he stuffed two fingers through your opening.

“Look at you… Hate me all you want, but you're soaked for me.”

A sharp breath shuddered through you as your walls clenched around his thrusting fingers. His touch was rough, invasive, but every drag of his fingers had your hips shifting helplessly.

And then he shoved his briefs down past his hips, cock springing free, thick and heavy, making your eyes widen before you could stop yourself. You’d wanted something to mock, something to cut him down with, but there was nothing laughable about him.

He caught your stare, smirk quirking up. Pulling his hand from your mouth, he gripped your hip hard enough to bruise. “Didn’t see that coming, did you?”

You rolled your eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Doesn’t mean you know what the fuck you’re doing. Bet you don't know how to get a woman off.”

There was a flash of wicked satisfaction across his face as he pulled his fingers free, snagging your panties to the side. “Oh yeah?” he snarled a laugh, rough in his throat. “I’ll make you come, and you’ll have to live with it. That the guy you hate most made you lose it harder than anyone else ever has. So you better enjoy it ‘cause this is all you’ll ever get.”

You reached down, fingers wrapping tight around the root of him, giving him a slow, taunting pull. “Enjoy it? You sure talk a big game for someone with such a tiny brain.”

His gaze dropped, dark and hungry, to where your hand gripped his shaft. He let you guide him, fingers tight around him, sliding the tip against your pussy, painting it through your folds before angling him back against your hole.

You bit down on your lip hard the moment he pressed his cockhead through your wet opening, your muscle stretching and straining wide for him. It was a lot.

He hissed through his teeth as he watched your pussy struggle to swallow him. “You can’t even take me. Figures you act all tough but now here you are whining because it’s too much.”

You grit your teeth, rolling your eyes, defiant even as your body trembled around him. Planting your feet on the washer’s edge, you forced yourself down onto him, inch by inch, jaw tight. “Idiot. You’re not that big.”

But it was a lie, and you both knew it. Every push was a struggle, your cunt clenching, spreading to fit him, sweat dampening your hairline. Harry stood still, smirk painted across his face, drinking in the sight of you fucking yourself down on him.

“Desperate, too,” he groaned, voice a low rasp. “Can hardly get it in, but you’re so needy you’ll wreck yourself trying. If you’d just let me do it we could already be nearly done here.”

“You’re such a dick.” You reached a hand up to his shoulder for leverage, fingernails digging crescents into his skin.

His lips twitched, amused as his tongue swept over them slow. “I am. Big one, too.”

It almost made you laugh. Almost. But you kept a look of disdain on your face as you worked yourself over him. Until he had had enough of your antics and dug his fingers into your hips to hold you still and drove himself in until he was buried inside you, hips flush with yours.

The strangled cry that ripped from you, betrayed your tough act, high and guttural, your nails scraping down his arm.

“That’s more like it. Now let’s finish what you started.”

Your mouth was wide open as you set your eyes on his and he began to fuck into you. At first, he was doing you a favor by slowly stretching you open. His length split you apart with every inch he pressed in until he reared back to his tip, only to fuck himself back into the hilt making you inhale sharply through your teeth.

The sound was slick and wet as he grunted with every thrust, your own gasps breathy and involuntarily pitched up a notch too high. He kept his eyes pinned to yours and you tried your hardest not to show any sign of pleasure on your face but it was impossible when you kept parting your lips to let out a moan. You clung to his arms, muscle and ink under your grip, desperate not to topple backward as each stroke rocked through you.

But his composure was just as thin. He tried to play it cool, jaw set, but the urgent guttural noises he made, and his aching hard cock twitching deep inside you, gave him away.

“Jesus that’s weak. Is that all you got?” You taunted.

Harry swallowed thickly, stilling his hips with his cock seated deep inside you. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He shoved at your shoulder until you leaned back, propping on your elbows, body bared open for him. Grabbing your left leg, he pressed your foot against his chest, his palm locking around your thigh. Then, without hesitation, he drove into you in one brutal thrust, his cockhead slamming against your cervix.

The gasp that ripped from your lungs was raw, punched out of you before you could bite it back.

He did it again and again until he’d gotten momentum and he was pounding into you, his cock coated thick in your arousal. His hips snapped against yours, cock sliding slick and heavy through your walls, each stroke wetter, filthier, your body betraying how much you wanted it.

Your face scrunched, torn between pleasure and pain, every nerve alight. He wasn’t gentle, not with his fat shaft splitting you apart, not with the way his tip bullied past resistance over and over.

With the way he was gripping your right hip and keeping hold of your left thigh you weren’t able to wiggle much as he drilled into you. He was panting, pink lips falling open, gaze dropping to where his cock disappeared inside you, glistening with your arousal.

“Fuck…” he grunted and shot his gaze up to your eyes and then back down to the dirty scene where his bare cock was destroying the pretty pussy of the girl he hated more than anyone.

The truth was that he’d always thought you were way hotter than you deserved to be.  A brat. A liar. He’d convinced himself you were trash. Snobby, fake, guilty of screwing around on his best friend. He’d believed the screenshots because he wanted to believe them. Wanted an excuse to hate the way your laugh pulled attention, the way your lashes batted when Tommy leaned too close at parties.

And now, with you clenched tight around him, the lie and the hate blurred until all that was left was raw, consuming lust. 

Harry snapped his hips harder, faster, making the washer slam against the wall with every thrust. His heavy balls slapped against you, the sound dirty and brutal, and the cry that tore out of your throat was nothing like disdain, rather, it was desperate, broken, aching.

“Oh my god… oh fuck...” you tried to swallow the sounds, biting them back, but Harry’s cock drove through you mercilessly, punishing, deep, every thrust stealing another ragged moan. His muscles were tight and he kept going, unrelenting, until his own groan cracked loose from his throat.

You drew your fingers down, slid them over your clit, and circled fast, your head tipping back. The rush of it was dizzying. Letting him split you open in the laundry room of your friend’s house, of all places. You hated him for this. Hated him for ruining Stan, for turning friends against you, for branding you a liar. For humiliating you. And now here you were, whimpering for him, body betraying the truth you’d never give him out loud.

“That’s it,” he rasped, eyes locked on you as his hips slammed forward. “Knew you’d like it. Gonna hate yourself after this for how much you love this cock.” His words came out shaky, something between tight and breathy. The man was enjoying it too.

His words vibrated through you, and you snapped back, breath catching between thrusts. “Just like you’re gonna hate… yourself for fucking me. For…” a moan tore free, “…your dick getting hard because you couldn’t resist… fuck!” You moaned and continued as you brought your gaze back up to his, “Dragged me in here… so you could finally feel me… bet you’ve been… gagging for it all this time.”

His precise, brutal pounding turned into sloppy, deep thrusts as he dropped his head down and kept his eyes on yours, pupils blown out, pink lips parted, “Fuck you, Y/n.”

“Fuck you, Harry.”

You felt that slippery tingle wind over your limbs, over your thighs, and through your belly as you circled your clit, your fingertips grazing his thick cock as he dragged in and out, strings of slick sticking to his base and your cunt every time he parted his hips from yours just before plunging back in.

He let go of your hip, hand coming up to grab your jaw, and forced your mouth open as his cock drove deeper. His stare burned into yours, before he spit straight into your mouth.

You groaned, shocked, instinct screaming to spit it back, but his lips crashed into yours, tongue shoving in, sealing it. You had no choice but to swallow as he kissed you like a man starved, and the humiliation twisted into pure heat. And that was it for you. Your orgasm hit hard, tearing through you, your cunt clenching around him in desperate, pulsing waves.

Your moans poured into his mouth as he kissed you hard, fucking you through it, hips never slowing, cock dragging every tremor from your body. His own voice broke, moaning into you, raw and guttural, as he felt you clamp down around him.

Harry fucked you through every second of it, long messy strokes, leaving you wrecked, branded, exactly like he promised. He was making sure you’d have something to remember him by.

The minute your body stopped fluttering around him and your tremors eased, Harry dragged himself out of you, fist clamping around his slick cock. Before you could even register the loss he pulled you off the washer and guided you down onto your knees. He grabbed the back of your head, fist furiously pumping himself, cockhead slipping against your lips, and then, held you still, and pressed himself past your lips. The heavy weight of him filled your throat as hot spurts of release hit your tongue. 

You sputtered, swallowing around him as he groaned above you, a sound that was all relief and ruin, cock throbbing against the back of your mouth while his heartbeat thundered under his skin.

Harry drew away from you silently when he’d emptied himself down your throat and put himself back into his underwear, fixing his pants up. But you could see that his chest was heaving, his face was flushed, his eyes glistening.

You used the washer to pull yourself upright on shaky legs, wiping your mouth and tugging your ruined panties back into place. One shoe was gone, maybe he’d pulled it off, or maybe it had just fallen, you couldn’t even remember.

He gave you a quick once over before he spoke. “That was worth about twenty bucks,” he said hoarsely. “No need to pay me for the weed. Call it even.” And just like that he opened the laundry room door and walked out.

You scoffed but your throat was too scratchy to talk back. 

A few deep breaths later you hobbled to grab your purse and you saw Ro standing at the door with her arms over her chest, “Really? Was that necessary?”

“What? Could you… did you guys…” Your stomach dropped.

“Yes. We heard everything. Every word, every noise. The laundry room has a big open vent that leads down to the basement. Jesus, Y/n.”

You were stunned as you covered your face and blinked down toward the floor, “I’m so sorry…”

“Well, at least this means you don’t hate each other anymore.”

If only. She hadn’t heard everything. Not the spit, not the way his words still cut, or the things you'd said back to him. You still hated him. Hated him more, in a way, because now you knew you’d be thinking about him long after tonight… about his hands at your throat, his body against yours, his cock splitting you open. A man you’d tried to forget now burned into your memory.

But at least you knew that it was probably the same for him. He was probably kicking himself for letting it get that far. Probably wishing his cock hadn’t gotten so hard at the sight of you, wishing he hadn’t shown you that you were a weakness he couldn’t control.

You could walk away from it knowing you were both on the same page. That it had been unforgettable but that you’d rather gouge your eyes out than breathe the same air as one another ever again.

And at least you had one final blow, something that gave you the upper hand in the end. That he’d fail the class when you turned in the final project. That he’d be unable to graduate with you and that felt like the kind of vengeance that was justified for someone like him.

With that in mind, you removed your hands from your face to look at Ro, “No. I still hate him. Fuck Harry Styles.”

part 2 >>

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Harry Styles is leaning against the far end of the long mahogany table, deep in conversation with Sofia Laurent. His profile is sharp in the golden morning light streaming through the windows, his expression unreadable. He laughs at something the director says, and it sends an uncomfortable heat crawling up Y/N’s spine.

She hasn’t seen him in over a year.

Not since that night.

The memories slam into her without warning—a wrap party, too much champagne, his voice low and teasing in her ear, his hands finding her waist as they stumbled into the dimly lit corridor of their hotel. The way he kissed her like he had been waiting for it forever. The way she let him. Tangled sheets, desperate touches, whispered names in the dark. And then the morning after—him sitting on the edge of the bed, already pulling his jeans back on, raking a hand through his messy curls. The silence that stretched between them like a chasm.

His cold, distant text hours later: Last night was a mistake. Let’s not make this a thing.

Y/N had responded with nothing but a thumbs-up emoji. Then she’d blocked his number.

Now, he’s right in front of her, and there’s no blocking, no ignoring. Just a long, inevitable collision waiting to happen.

She forces a smile, smoothing a hand down her sweater as she moves toward an empty seat. Someone’s already put name placards at each spot. Of course, hers is directly across from Harry’s.

He looks up as she slides into her chair. Their eyes meet.

Something flickers in his gaze—recognition, hesitation, something she refuses to name. Then it’s gone, and he nods in greeting, cool and professional.

“Morning,” he says. Like he’s speaking to a colleague. Like he doesn’t remember every inch of her skin under his hands.

Y/N swallows down the bitterness rising in her throat. “Morning.”

Sofia claps her hands together, drawing everyone’s attention. “Alright, let’s get started! We’re diving in with the final scene today. I want to establish the emotional stakes right away.”

A production assistant starts handing out script copies. Y/N flips hers open, her fingers tightening around the pages when she sees what’s in front of her.

EMILIA: “It’s always been you.”

LUCA: “Then stay.”

(They kiss. It’s desperate, raw. Years of longing unravel in one final embrace.)

Y/N can feel Harry’s gaze on her before she even looks up. When she does, his expression is unreadable, but his grip on the script is just a little too tight.

Everyone is watching. Waiting.

Sofia leans forward, smiling. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Y/N exhales slowly. They have no choice but to dive in.

Except she already has—just not here, not in this room full of watchful eyes and murmured instructions. No, she’s already drowning, slipping under waves of memory that pull her back to that night.

It had been inevitable. The tension had always been there, simmering beneath the surface, threatening to boil over. It lingered in stolen glances on set, in the way their banter teetered on the edge of something sharper, something that made her pulse race.

But that night? That was when it finally snapped.

The wrap party had been a blur of flashing lights, clinking glasses, and too much champagne. She remembered the way Harry had watched her from across the room, half-smirking, half-serious. She’d pretended not to notice, even as her body betrayed her, drawn to him like some gravitational pull she couldn’t fight.

They’d danced. Not together, not at first. But close enough that when she turned, she could feel the heat of him at her back, the ghost of his breath against her skin.

And then the teasing started.

"Didn’t know you could move like that," he'd murmured against the shell of her ear, his voice thick with something that made her toes curl in her heels.

She’d turned to face him, lifting a brow. "There’s a lot you don’t know about me."

His eyes had darkened at that. "Yeah?"

One more drink. One more shared smirk. One more second of letting the tension coil tighter and tighter until neither of them could stand it anymore.

They’d barely made it out of the venue before it exploded.

A rushed exit. A slammed hotel door.

Clothes peeling away between frantic, breathless kisses.

Harry had been different that night—possessive, desperate. His hands mapped her body like he was trying to memorize her, his lips tracing a path down her throat, her collarbone, lower. She could still hear his voice, raspy and wrecked against her skin.

"You feel so good."

"Been wanting this for so long."

She’d been lost in him, in the way he made her feel like the center of the universe. But when morning came, the warmth was gone.

She’d woken up to sunlight filtering through the hotel curtains, stretching out across sheets that were already cooling beside her.

Harry had been sitting at the edge of the bed, half-dressed, running a hand through his curls.

Something in his posture had been different. Stiff. Guarded.

She’d wanted to reach for him, to trace her fingers along his spine, to whisper something to break the silence.

But before she could, he’d spoken.

"Let’s not make this a thing."

Just like that. No hesitation. No second thought.

Then he’d stood, buttoned his jeans, and walked out the door.

Y/N had stared at the empty space he left behind, the ghost of his touch still burning on her skin. She’d told herself it didn’t matter. That it had just been a mistake. That it hadn’t meant anything.

But then, three days later, she’d seen the pictures.

Harry Styles, arm draped around some model, grinning for the cameras like that night had never happened.

And now, sitting across from him, script clutched in her hands, she wonders how the hell she’s supposed to pretend it still doesn’t hurt.

She doesn’t have long to dwell on it.

The read-through begins, and like clockwork, she and Harry slip into their roles. The dialogue flows, their voices weaving together effortlessly, but it’s the way they look at each other—the tension thick, electric—that makes everyone in the room take notice.

It shouldn’t surprise her. Their chemistry has always been undeniable, even before that night. It was why they were cast together in the first place. But now, it feels different. More loaded.

He delivers his lines with the same careful precision he always does, but his eyes linger too long, his throat bobs when she leans too close. Her pulse quickens, betraying her.

When they reach the final scene—the kiss—Sofia watches them closely, tapping her fingers against the armrest of her chair.

Afterward, as the room empties out for a break, a couple of the studio execs murmur to each other before motioning for her and Harry to stay behind.

The door closes.

“We need to talk,” Sofia says, exchanging a look with the executives.

Y/N folds her arms, already bracing herself. “That’s never a good start.”

One of the execs, a tall man in an expensive suit, steps forward. “We need buzz around this movie. There’s already speculation about you two. We want to lean into that.”

Y/N frowns. “What kind of speculation?”

Another exec, a woman in a sleek black dress, smirks. “Oh, come on. The tension? The history? The way you two look at each other?” She tilts her head. “People think there’s something real there. We think it’s good for the film.”

Y/N scoffs, crossing her arms. “You want us to fake date?”

“Not just fake date,” the man clarifies. “We want the world to believe you’re soulmates. We want red carpets, Instagram posts, candid moments. Full package.”

Y/N shakes her head, the absurdity of it all making her chest tighten. “Are you serious? That’s—”

“Fine.”

Her head snaps toward Harry so fast she almost gives herself whiplash.

He’s standing next to her, hands in his pockets, looking entirely unaffected.

Y/N blinks. “What?”

“We’ll do it.” His voice is steady, final.

She stares at him, stunned. He won’t even look at her.

The deal is made before she can even process it. The studio execs beam, Sofia claps her hands together, and within minutes, their PR team is already setting the plan in motion. By the time Y/N steps outside the meeting room, her phone is buzzing with an email outlining their first official appearance as Hollywood’s hottest new couple.

The Venice Film Festival.

Three weeks later, she stands in front of her hotel mirror, smoothing down the silky fabric of her dress. The deep emerald slip hugs her in all the right places, skimming over curves in a way that should make her feel powerful. Instead, her stomach is twisted in knots.

A sharp knock at the door makes her jump.

She exhales, then opens it.

Harry stands in the hallway, devastatingly gorgeous in a perfectly tailored black suit. The crisp lines, the slightly unbuttoned shirt, the rings that catch in the soft light—unfair.

His gaze drags over her, slow and unreadable.

"You ready?" His voice is even, detached.

"Do I have a choice?" she mutters, grabbing her clutch.

He doesn’t answer.

The red carpet is a blur of flashing lights, shouted questions, and the ever-present hum of cameras capturing their every move.

Y/N can feel the heat of Harry’s hand on the small of her back as they step into the crowd, can hear the low murmurs of speculation from reporters lined along the velvet ropes. She lifts her chin, slipping into the role expected of her—one half of Hollywood’s most talked-about on-screen lovers, now supposedly together in real life.

Harry leans in slightly, voice just above a whisper.

“Smile, love.”

The way he says it—low, smooth, his accent curling around the words—sends a shiver down her spine.

She forces one. It looks real.

The cameras love them, and the world is eating it up. The flicker of their fingers brushing together, the easy way he laughs at something she pretends to say, the way his eyes drop to her lips like they’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.

And then, the questions start.

“Harry, Y/N—are you two dating?”

“You look very comfortable together.”

Y/N opens her mouth to respond, but Harry beats her to it.

“We’re lucky to have found each other.”

The words roll off his tongue smoothly, like he actually believes them.

Y/N swallows, gripping the fabric of her dress.

By the time they’re back in the car, her phone is already blowing up. Twitter is in flames. The headlines are everywhere.

HARRY STYLES AND Y/N CONFIRM THEIR ROMANCE AT VENICE FILM FESTIVAL.

LUCA AND EMILIA, BUT MAKE IT REAL.

The internet explodes.

Her notifications are a wildfire, consuming every corner of her phone. Harry Styles and Y/N CONFIRM their romance at Venice Film Festival. The chemistry is REAL. Fan edits, speculation, analysis of every touch, every glance.

But none of it is real.

And she’s seething.

That night, Y/N storms through the dimly lit hallway of Harry’s hotel floor, fists clenched at her sides. She barely takes a breath before pounding on his door.

It swings open almost immediately.

Harry stands there, now stripped of his red-carpet polish. His suit jacket is gone, shirt half-unbuttoned, tattoos peeking through the undone fabric. His curls are messier than they were hours ago, like he’s been running his hands through them.

“Y/N,” he sighs, already sounding exasperated.

She pushes past him, stepping into the spacious hotel suite. “What the hell was that?”

He exhales heavily, shutting the door behind them. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

She spins to face him. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe the way you told the entire world we’re together without even discussing it with me first?”

He shrugs, undoing the cuffs of his sleeves. “You want this movie to succeed, don’t you?”

Her jaw clenches. “Don’t act like you’re doing this for the movie.” She takes a step closer, glaring up at him. “You’re doing it because it’s convenient.”

Harry’s expression shifts, something flickering behind his eyes—something dark. He mirrors her step forward, closing the distance between them.

“And you’re not?”

Her breath catches. The air between them thickens, electric. His voice is lower now, rougher, and his gaze flickers between her eyes and her mouth.

“You don’t get to act like you care now,” she forces out, but it sounds weaker than she intends.

Silence.

His jaw clenches, and something snaps in his expression.

“You think I don’t care?” His voice is quiet, but there’s something dangerous in it, something raw.

She doesn’t get the chance to answer.

Because suddenly, Harry is on her.

His hands find her face, his mouth crashes into hers, and whatever fight they were having burns away instantly.

It’s all heat, all frustration—pent-up anger bleeding into something dangerous, something intoxicating.

Harry backs her up until she collides with the dresser, the sharp edge pressing into her lower back. His hands find her waist, fingers digging into the silk of her dress, and he lifts her onto the cool wood like she weighs nothing.

Y/N gasps, gripping his shoulders, nails biting into his skin through his half-unbuttoned shirt.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she whispers, even though she knows it’s a lie.

Harry exhales a sharp laugh, lips ghosting along her jaw before he nips at the sensitive spot beneath her ear.

“Say that again.” His voice is low, thick, dripping with something smug—something dangerous.

She doesn’t. Because she can’t.

Not when his hands are already pushing her dress up, fabric bunching around her thighs. Not when his fingers are dragging up the bare skin of her legs, slow, purposeful, teasing.

Not when she’s already aching for more.

Her breath stutters as he palms the inside of her thigh, pushing her legs wider. He’s watching her now, eyes dark, hungry, waiting for her to stop him.

She doesn’t.

His fingers skim higher, over the lace of her underwear, pressing against the damp heat there.

“You hate me, don’t you?” His voice is softer now, coaxing, but there’s something else layered beneath it. Something vulnerable.

She should say yes.

But then he pushes the lace aside and slides a single finger through her slick folds, teasing at her entrance before dipping inside, and her only answer is a sharp gasp.

His lips curl against her skin.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth along the line of her throat. “That’s what I thought.”

She clenches her jaw, refusing to give him anything more, but it’s impossible when he moves his fingers so deliberately, so expertly. Curling, twisting, stroking that spot inside her that makes her thighs shake.

Her head falls back against the mirror behind her, exposing more of her throat to his lips, his teeth. He takes advantage of it, sucking a mark into her skin as he works her open, one finger turning into two, his thumb circling her clit just enough to make her hips jerk.

“Harry,” she chokes out.

He hums, pleased.

She doesn’t realize she’s gripping his arm until his muscles flex beneath her fingertips, his bicep taut as he keeps her steady. Her entire body is trembling, the coil inside her winding so tight, pleasure mounting too quickly for her to stop it.

And he knows.

He knows exactly how close she is, how desperate she’s becoming, how much she needs him.

But he doesn’t let her have it yet.

Instead, he withdraws his fingers, slow and deliberate, watching her reaction like it’s his favorite thing in the world.

Her lips part in protest, but before she can speak, he’s undoing his belt with one hand, shoving his trousers down just enough.

His cock is already hard, flushed and leaking, and when he grips himself, stroking slowly, she nearly whimpers at the sight.

“This what you want?” His voice is rough, teasing, but there’s something else behind it—something just as desperate.

She doesn’t answer.

She just grabs his face and kisses him again, hard, as she hooks her legs around his waist, dragging him in.

Harry groans into her mouth, lining himself up, and then—

He thrusts forward, filling her in one slow, deep stroke.

Y/N gasps, fingers digging into his back.

He stills for a moment, forehead pressing to hers, breathing heavy.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “So tight.”

She swallows hard, barely able to think, barely able to breathe as he pulls back and thrusts in again.

And then again.

And again.

His grip on her tightens, hands curling around her thighs as he sets a steady rhythm, each roll of his hips perfectly precise, perfectly deep, like he needs her to feel every inch of him.

Like he wants to ruin her.

The dresser rocks beneath them, the sound of skin against skin filling the hotel room.

It’s fast, desperate, filthy.

And yet—

It’s also slow. Lingering. Drawn out in a way that makes her chest ache.

He leans in, pressing his lips to her shoulder, her throat, breathing her in like he doesn’t want to let go.

And that’s what makes this different.

Not the way he fucks her, but the way he holds her.

The way his hand comes up to cup her jaw, tilting her head to look at him as he thrusts deep one final time, the coil inside her snapping, her body shattering apart around him.

The way he follows right after, groaning her name into her skin as he spills inside her.

Afterward, the room is quiet, save for the heavy rise and fall of their breaths.

Y/N lies tangled in the sheets, barely able to process what just happened.

She waits for him to leave.

Because that’s what he did last time.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stays.

Y/N barely sleeps.

She should, after the way he wrecked her—after the way they wrecked each other. But her body won’t let her, still thrumming with adrenaline, oversensitive and restless even as exhaustion weighs her limbs down.

It’s not just the sex.

It’s the way he’s still here.

The way his arm is heavy around her waist, pinning her to the mattress. The way his slow, steady breaths tickle the back of her neck. The way his fingers, even in sleep, twitch against her skin, as if his body refuses to stop touching her.

The last time this happened, he left before she could even open her eyes.

Now, she’s the one who wants to leave first.

Déjà vu.

She stares at the ceiling for what feels like hours before she finally moves. Careful, slow, untangling herself from his grasp as gently as she can. His arm is heavy, muscles flexing even in sleep, and she has to hold her breath as she lifts it off of her.

When she’s finally free, she exhales. Swings her legs over the edge of the bed.

Her dress is still on the floor, a heap of silk puddled near the dresser. She moves toward it, keeping her steps light, mindful of every shift in the sheets behind her.

Almost there.

She bends down, fingers just brushing the fabric—

“Don’t.”

Her heart stops.

His voice is hoarse, thick with sleep, a quiet rasp in the dimly lit hotel room.

She freezes.

Her fingers curl into the fabric of her dress, but she doesn’t lift it. Doesn’t turn around.

“Y/N,” he says again, softer this time.

Her breath comes shallow, uneven. She forces herself to stand upright, forces herself to steady her voice.

“I should go.”

Silence.

Then, the rustling of sheets, the mattress shifting.

She doesn’t have to look to know he’s sitting up.

“I don’t want you to.”

It’s barely above a whisper. Like he doesn’t want to say it out loud, doesn’t want to give it power.

Her throat tightens.

Last time, he didn’t say anything at all.

Last time, she woke up to cold sheets and an unreadable text hours later.

Now, he’s asking her to stay.

And she doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that.

Slowly, she turns around.

Harry is watching her, propped up on one arm, hair a mess of curls, lips still swollen from kissing her. His eyes—greener in the dim light—stay locked onto hers, searching.

She grips the dress tighter.

“I don’t know what this is,” she admits, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry exhales, running a hand over his face. “Me neither.”

She nods once, lips pressing together. The moment stretches, tense and fragile, like one wrong move could shatter it completely.

He shifts again, swings his legs over the side of the bed. “But I know I don’t want it to be like last time.”

Her chest tightens.

And for the first time since that night over a year ago, she lets herself wonder—

If maybe… just maybe…

He doesn’t either.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆