The state I'm in COMPLETED

Wild

You know that feeling when someone throws iced water at you out of nowhere? That instant shock, the way your skin rebels with goosebumps rising like tiny protests across your body? Now mix that with sheer disbelief—that was exactly how I felt when Mark casually mentioned that Harry had been at the club.

He was there. Watching. Close enough to see everything, close enough to hit that guy who wouldn't take no for an answer. But not close enough to step in before it happened. Not close enough to say a word to me.

I barely remembered driving home. My hands gripped the wheel, but my mind was miles away, racing through every possible reason why he was there. Why he hadn't come to me. If he'd stayed silent because he didn't care anymore—or if he cared too much.

And then, before I could think twice, before reason could stop me, I grabbed my phone and dialled.

"Valerie..."

His voice alone was enough to break me. That deep, familiar rasp that I hadn't heard in weeks. He didn't sound groggy—because he hadn't been asleep. Mark had been right. He was there. He was close.

I couldn't speak. I just let the sound of him fill the silence between us.

"Valerie...are you alright?" His voice was laced with agony, and I swallowed hard, holding my breath.

"Valerie...talk to me, baby."

The last word shattered me.

"Meet me at my apartment in fifteen."

I hung up before he could respond, before he could change his mind, before I could change mine.

What the hell was I doing?

I had held out for weeks, barely surviving the pain, but surviving nonetheless. I had convinced myself that I was done chasing something that wasn't meant to be. And yet, one phone call, one whisper of my name, and I was right back where I started.

By the time I pulled into the parking lot, my pulse was a chaotic mess, my breath shallow. But nothing prepared me for the sight of him.

Harry leaned against his bike, arms crossed, hair tied back, his helmet resting on the saddle.

He was heartbreakingly beautiful.

I hesitated, feeling small under the intensity of his gaze. He looked at me for a moment—then looked away, his jaw clenching. But the second his eyes returned to mine, all hesitation was gone.

He moved first.

One second, I was standing still, and the next, I was in his arms, his lips crashing against mine.

His hands gripped me like he was afraid I would disappear. His kiss wasn't soft or careful—it was desperate, hungry, as if the weeks apart had only made the need more unbearable.

I melted into him, my fingers burying in his hair, my body molding against his. Words didn't matter. Not now. This was what we had left—the language of touch, the way our bodies spoke in ways our mouths couldn't.

The world blurred as he guided me inside, his hands never leaving me.

He pushed open the door with the spare key he still had. The one I had never asked for back. The one he had never offered to return.

In the dim light of my bedroom, he finally spoke, his voice low, raw.

"Tell me you haven't moved on."

I frowned.

"Tell me you haven't listened to me. That you haven't let me go. I don't know if I could take it."