Ever Since New York (H.S.) 💌

‎‧₊˚✧ 02 ✧˚₊‧

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New York, New York

(Harry's perspective)

I wake up in my bedroom with a pounding headache. I don't remember how I got here, or anything that happened.

Fuck, how drunk did I get last night?

I look at the space next to me, I guess I didn't take a girl home last night.

Eventually, the pain in my throbbing head gets worse and I decide to get some Advil. I get up from my bed and walk to my master bathroom. When I walk in, on the mirror, in bright red marker, is one name: Dylan. Suddenly the memories of last night come flooding back to me.

There was a girl at the bar, her name was Dylan, and she slapped me.

I remember stumbling out of the bar and watching her drive away. It wasn't in my nature to care so much, but I did. Seeing her speed away only fueled my anger and an obsession started to grow within me. I could feel it bubbling, demanding I chase after her.

My blood begins to boil at the thought. I hated her. I didn't want to want her, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop. It made me furious—how she got under my skin, how those sharp eyes and the quiet intensity she wore like armor messed with my head. She was a complication I didn't need. But there she was, haunting my thoughts, making me feel something I didn't want to feel. And it pissed me off. I despised her for it. For making me weak, for being the one thing I couldn't shake. The more I tried to tell myself she didn't matter, the more she clung to me, twisting that attraction into something darker—something closer to hate.

I raise an eyebrow at the writing, but shake my head and search through the medicine cabinet for some sort of pain medicine. I uncap the bottle of Advil and swallow two tablets dry.

I get out a washcloth and start wiping away the erasable marker. I have no idea where I got the marker from, but now, it sits on my bathroom counter.

As the pain started to recede along with the red marker, memories of her flooded my mind. I hate when I don't get what I want, and last night, I wanted Dylan. Though my memory was fogged, I knew I was acting like a jerk... but who cares? It never created an issue before; usually, girls were all over me. But not her. And that irritated me. How could someone as beautiful as her refuse my offer? I was offering her an escape: a proposal I would have jumped at.

I hate her.

I hate her eyes and her curly brown hair. I hate her lips and the freckles that dotted her nose. I hate how the memory of her plagued my mind and haunted me. For once, I almost regretted my dick-ness. Almost. At least I was self-aware.

I finish wiping the red marker off the mirror and toss the washcloth into the sink, not caring about the streaks left behind. The name "Dylan" still gnaws at me, and I can't shake the annoyance of last night. It's not every day someone rejects me—especially not someone who should've been flattered by my attention.

I look at my reflection, disheveled and grim. My head still pounds, but that's nothing new. I'm used to fighting through hangovers, though this one feels more like a punch to the gut. The marker on the counter is just another reminder of how Dylan made me look like a fool.

My phone buzzes with a message. It's from one of my associates, asking if I'm coming to the brunch we planned. I glance at it and decide I'll go—I need to keep up appearances and put on a show. Besides, I need to bury this rage somewhere.

I grab my coat and head out, determined to drown out the memory of Dylan with some noise and the company of people who don't know how to get under my skin. For now, I'm done letting her haunt my thoughts. I've got bigger things to worry about.

- - -

I met Niall Horan at the rooftop restaurant, a place where the view was more expensive than the food. We shook hands, sat in a reserved corner, and dove straight into business. No pleasantries. No bullshit.

"He wants you to watch over Mikhailov's daughter," Niall said, his voice flat as he sipped his beer. He didn't even blink. Niall's been in this world as long as I have—rugged, handsome, deadly, and unfazed by the mess our lives had become. Edward, my so-called father, adopted him into the family business when we were kids. Now we were both trapped, just playing different roles in the same game.

"What?" I asked, barely masking my irritation. Edward wanted me to be some kind of stalker? I don't have time to babysit some girl.

Niall ran a hand through his blond hair, looking bored. "He wants you to keep an eye on her. Nothing too serious. Figure out her schedule, and her habits. You know, shit like that. Eventually, he plans to kidnap her, maybe worse. It's all part of his grand scheme against Aleksandr."

The surname Mikhailov was enough to make me grit my teeth. But the idea of following this woman around, plotting her eventual abduction, felt like a waste of time. "What's her name?"

"Anastasiya Mikhailov." Niall shrugged like it meant nothing.

I nodded, though the name tugged at something in the back of my mind. "How long?"

"Until he snatches her or kills her. Whichever comes first." Niall said it so casually like we were discussing the weather.

I stared at him, my pulse cold and steady. "I don't see the point."

Niall rolled his eyes. "Look, this wasn't my idea, mate. It's your father's."

"Don't call him that," I cut him off, my voice harder than I intended. That man's not a father to me. Never was.

Niall sighed, clearly tired of the conversation. "Fine. It's Edward's plan. Not mine."

The rest of the meal was just noise after that. Niall and I weren't friends—we were tied by business, nothing more. When the pointless meal dragged to an end, we split, no goodbyes needed.

Driving home, the streets felt too quiet, too still. I glanced at the passenger seat and noticed something small: a pack of markers. It hit me like a punch to the gut.

Dylan.

That girl wouldn't leave my head. Every damn time I tried to push her out, she clawed her way back in. While I sat down to watch TV: Dylan. When I took a call from Edward: Dylan. When I poured myself a drink, the burn did nothing to dull her memory: Dylan.

It made no sense. She wasn't special. Just a pretty face with a sharp tongue and a slap that still stung. But somehow, she stuck, like a wound that wouldn't heal. And it pissed me off. I hate that she's nice—when she's not telling me to piss off. And I hate that I can't stop thinking about her.

What the hell is wrong with me? I kissed her. Shouldn't feel guilty. She didn't want it. Fine. I'll move on. But the way she turned me down, the way she looked at me like I was nothing, just twisted the knife deeper.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to force myself to sleep, to finally get her out of my head. But I knew the truth: I hated her because she made me feel something. And I can't afford feelings. Not in this life. Not with her.

Besides, who the hell gets worked up over a girl named Dylan?

It's ridiculous. I should forget her. I will. She's just another face in a city full of faces. A girl I'll never see again.

And yet, I can't shake the feeling that I'm lying to myself.

ok pookies we hope u enjoyed. and if u didn't shoot urself <3 jkjk we'd never wish that upon anyone. we love u so much. have a wonderful morning, afternoon, and night. xoxox