Anywhere With You • {J.C.}

||Thirty-Eight|I'm Not Your Friend||

"I'm not your friend, I never was."
-Automatic Stop

There was banging on the door—Harlow's eyes shot open to the startling sound. Julian was sprawled out, his long arm draped over her small body. He was snoring softly in her ear, his mouth partially opened by her neck.

She looked down at herself; the only shield of modesty she possessed was a blanket over her bare body—she was naked. From the feel of skin sticking to hers, so was Julian.

Harlow sat up, moving Julian's hair out of his eyes. His swollen lips still parted—she could see the bottom of his top teeth as quiet wheezes came from his throat, still passed out. Looking down at him like this, Harlow felt her heart swell. She had missed this—missed waking up to him asleep next to her.

Last night had been interesting. There hadn't been much time to talk before they were acting on impulse. She wondered if it was just a habit, or if there really was something inside of her that needed Julian. It was as if the only way she could have all of him was through sex. Words had never been Julian's forte, that much Harlow knew, but the way he touched her—the way he handled her—made everything clear.

"Jules... Julian." Harlow stroked the side of his face, feeling his slightly perspired skin against her fingertips.

He rolled over—the sound of his groan was cut short by someone banging on the door again.

"What?!" He yelled, facing away from Harlow. She heard muffled voices through the door, wondering if the party was still going. The sunlight begged to differ, shining in through the broken blinds hanging over the window. "Fuck." Julian rose from the mattress, sitting up with a slouch—his hair in disarray, hanging over his eyes.

He had been oblivious of Harlow's presence, until she shifted in the bed next to him. His eyes cautiously wavered her way, looking at her through his thick lashes.

His blood ran cold at the sight of her, his hungover head swarming with even more chaos as his stomach lurched. A flood of fragmented memories came spiraling to the forefront of his mind. It hadn't been a dream, Harlow was actually there—in his bed—naked.

He remembered seeing her last night, but thought he had imagined it. He recalled fighting someone, or maybe almost fighting someone. It was honestly nothing but a blur—a confusing haze of disoriented restlessness.

He had been asshole, that much he remembered. Not necessarily the memory of being an asshole, he just remembered the feeling—that superior dominance induced by testosterone. He felt bigger and badder than everyone else. Alcohol seemed to do that to him, especially when faced with a trigger—that trigger had been Harlow.

He could've sworn it was only a dream; the way he told her how beautiful she was without caring about how sappy it sounded. All of his insecurities had been washed away, lying on top of her and taking her face in his hands, coaxing her to watch him have his way with her. There wasn't a chance in hell he would do that in reality... but, maybe if he were drunk.

No, surely not... right?

Two years was a long time—too long to take control of her in bed the way he had. They were practically strangers now; the way he recalled handling her was something you only did to someone you knew completely, in every way—like a girlfriend.

"Lo?..." Julian spoke barely above a whisper, looking to the naked young woman for answers without looking like an even bigger asshole. He watched as she pulled the covers over her chest—her face falling in disbelief. It may have been two years, but Harlow knew Julian well enough to what he meant in the way he said her name—he didn't remember.