Little White Lies

Meg Horan still lived at home with her brother Niall and their parents it was a house full of noise, half-folded laundry, and the smell of old family dinners. And Harry Styles? He practically owned the place.

He was Niall's best mate since forever. Always coming and going like he lived there, stealing leftovers from the fridge, drinking milk straight from the carton, flopping onto the sofa like it was his. And maybe, in some ways, it was.

Meg had known him since she was thirteen. Back then he was all curls and cocky grins, always teasing her, pushing her buttons. And she? She was off-limits.

Until that one night.

It started in the kitchen small, cluttered, a little too warm. She was cooking. He kept getting in the way. Sneaking bites. Flicking water at her. She smacked his arm, laughing. He caught her wrist, pulled her closer, still smiling.

Then something shifted.

The laughter died. His grip didn't loosen. Their eyes locked and the heat rising, breath hitching, hearts racing.

They didn't speak. They didn't need to.

Because they both felt it.

His eyes dropped to her lips. Her hand stayed on his chest. The space between them disappeared like it had never been there.

And then he kissed her.

Soft at first. Slow. Careful. Then deeper. Hungrier. Hands tangled, bodies pressed, breath caught between gasps and moans.

It should've stopped there.
But it didn't.

Now? It's hotel rooms booked under fake names. Stolen weekends. Her name moaned into pillows. Saucy texts that light up her phone late at night and cuddling for hours wrapped in the sheets.

They sneak glances across dinner. Touch under blankets. Share whispered promises behind locked doors.

Because once it started, once that line was crossed there was no going back.

He's her brother's best friend.
She's the only girl he's ever really wanted.
And now they can't stop.

Because once you taste the forbidden.
Lying just becomes part of the thrill.