put me in a movie [sugar daddy au] p.3
The promise sat between them, invisible but solid, like a door quietly opening in the dark. She was still on the floor beside him, and he could feel how tense her body had become—not in fear, but in restraint. She was holding herself together by instinct alone, and he didn’t want to break that. Not yet.
Harry shifted just enough to face her more fully. He didn’t reach for her. He didn’t command or coax. He just looked at her in the low light—watched the way her lashes brushed her cheeks when she blinked, the way her mouth parted slightly as though she had a thousand words she didn’t trust herself to say.
“You’ve been performing your whole life, haven’t you?” he asked, not unkindly.
Y/n hesitated, then gave a faint nod. “It’s how I get by. Smile when it hurts. Be sweet when I’m drowning. Pretend the rent isn’t late again. Pretend I’m not afraid.”
He studied her, eyes unreadable. “And what does it cost you?”
She looked down at her hands. “Everything.”
He leaned forward then, elbows resting on his knees, his voice quiet and steady. “Then give me the version of you that costs the most. Give me the girl who’s tired of surviving.”
A silence stretched out between them—deep, like still water. Y/n looked up at him, eyes shining but not wet. “And what if I don’t know how to do that? What if I forget how to be anything else?”
“You won’t forget,” he said. “You’ll remember. Slowly. Painfully. But you will. You’ll remember who you were before the world made you small.”
The words sank into her, slow and heavy, like warmth finding its way into frozen places.
He stood then, not abruptly, not with force—just with quiet finality—and held out a hand.
“I’m not asking you to follow,” he said. “I’m asking you to walk beside me.”
Y/n hesitated for just a second longer, then placed her hand in his. His grip was firm but not demanding, and when he helped her up, it wasn’t with possession. It was with care.
Just a man and a girl standing in a room, both haunted by the things they never said out loud.
And when he guided her to the velvet couch in the far corner of the room, it wasn’t with the intention to touch her. It was to sit beside her in the quiet, to let the night unfold without pressure or demand.
“Start by breathing,” he said, his voice low, grounding. “That’s enough for now.”
And for the first time in what felt like years, it didn’t feel like a performance.
The silence held, but something inside it was beginning to shift—an undertow stirring just beneath the calm.
Y/n sat beside him on the couch, her body still, but her mind racing, thoughts unraveling in a way she couldn’t control. She was breathing, like he told her to, slow and deliberate, but the weight of his presence beside her made every breath feel more exposed.
She hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected him.
When she’d come here, her body had already prepared itself for a different kind of surrender—the physical kind. The kind that came with a price tag and an understanding. She’d made peace with that before she knocked on the door.
This kind of surrender crept under her skin. It cracked open the parts of her she’d spent years locking away. And as much as she hated it, as much as it terrified her, she couldn’t look away from him.
He was silent now, staring straight ahead, hands resting lightly on his knees. Not touching her. Not even watching her. And yet he saw her more clearly than anyone ever had.
Not a word. Not a kiss. Not a demand.
Just the unbearable tension of being seen.
She turned her head, studying the edge of his profile. The sharp line of his jaw. The small muscle in his cheek that ticked whenever he was holding something back.
“You act like you don’t want anything from me,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet but edged with something sharp. “But I don’t believe you.”
He didn’t look at her, not right away. Just let the words hang there between them, heavy.
Then he turned, slow and precise, and met her gaze.
“I want everything,” he said.
“But not the way you think.”
The air between them tightened.
“I don’t want your body,” he continued. “That would be too easy. Too… shallow. I want the parts of you you’ve never shown anyone. I want the girl who’s furious and broken and exhausted. The one who screams inside her head when she smiles at people she hates. I want her.”
Y/n’s fingers curled against her thighs.
“And what do I do with that?” she asked, voice shaking now. “What the hell am I supposed to do with someone wanting parts of me I don’t even want to look at?”
He leaned in, just enough that she felt the warmth of him again.
“You feel it,” he said. “You let it burn. And you stop running.”
The shift cracked open then—subtle but seismic.
But something more dangerous.
She didn’t realize she was crying until one tear fell to her wrist. And when he reached out, not to wipe it, but to simply see it—to acknowledge it without shame—that’s when she knew:
This was never about sugar or power.
It was about being haunted by everything you’ve never dared to feel… and finally being asked to.
n sat frozen, her hands curled into fists against her legs, his words still pulsing in her ears. The room was warm, but her skin prickled, cold. The heat wasn’t in the air — it was in the stare he pinned her with. Measured. Calculated. Like a fire someone had left burning too long in a locked room.
She wanted to run. Every part of her screamed to. But she didn’t.
And maybe that’s why he moved.
He stood slowly, towering above her now. Not looming — just still. Silent. Watching.
“Stand up,” he said, quiet, unreadable.
Her legs obeyed before her mind caught up, trembling slightly beneath her.
His eyes dragged down her body — not with hunger, but with scrutiny, like she was something he was trying to read through. Or break open.
“You think you’re here for what I can give you,” he said. “Money. Escape. Some sick kind of stability.”
He stepped closer, just once. She didn’t move.
“But that’s not what you’re starving for.”
She swallowed, lips parted to speak — but he cut her off before she could try.
“No. You want something worse. You want to be stripped down so far you forget who you were before the pain. You want someone to reach inside you and take it — all the fear, all the shame, all the things no one ever touched.”
Because somewhere in her — in the bruised, abandoned parts of her soul — he was right.
“You want it to hurt,” he murmured, stepping behind her now. “But not the way you thought.”
His hand didn’t touch her. It hovered above her back — close enough to feel the heat, the threat, the promise.
“You want someone to hurt you right,” he breathed near her ear, “because you’ve spent too long hurting yourself the wrong way.”
Her breath hitched. Her knees locked to stay upright.
He didn’t touch her. Not yet. The cruelty was in the restraint.
“Take off your coat,” he said.
She did. Slow. Controlled.
His face was unreadable — no lust, no smile. Just that sharp, unbearable intensity.
“Tell me something no one knows about you.”
She hesitated. “I—”
“I used to cut the labels out of my clothes so no one at school would know they were second-hand,” she said quickly, breath catching on the confession. “I told them my mom bought everything in Europe.”
He nodded once, slow. “Good girl.”
The words hit her like a blow. Not because of how he said them — but because of what they did to her.
They made her feel. Like someone was listening. Like someone saw.
“Take off your shirt.”
Her hands shook, but she obeyed.
He moved to the table behind her — not for rope, not for cuffs, nothing so cliché. But when he returned, he carried something small in his hand.
He slipped it onto her finger without a word. It wasn’t a gift. It wasn’t a promise.
“You’re mine,” he said. “Not your body. Not your mind. Your truth. That’s what belongs to me now.”
And she nodded — trembling, breathless — because for the first time in years, someone had finally taken something real from her.
And hadn’t thrown it away.
The ring on her finger felt heavier than it should. It wasn’t just gold; it was a sentence, a seal, a brand. Not because it glittered, but because it told the truth — she belonged to someone now. And not the way she thought she would.
Harry didn’t look at her like a man who wanted to possess her flesh. He looked at her like a man who had already dissected her soul and was still deciding what parts he would keep.
She stood, bare to the waist, her skin goose-pimpled from the air and something else — anticipation. Dread. Need.
Still, he didn’t touch her.
Instead, he circled her slowly, each step deliberate, a ritual, as if she were something sacred and fragile and unclean.
“You want me to make you feel small,” he said, voice steady and cruel in its calm. “But not with pain. With truth.”
She swallowed. He was behind her again. She could feel his breath when he spoke next.
“You want me to say what no one else ever dared.”
A pause. Her whole body clenched.
“You’re forgettable.”
The words hit harder than any slap could have. Her jaw tightened.
“You walk into rooms and make yourself quiet. You shrink. You wait to be chosen — and you think that’s virtue. You think invisibility is dignity.”
He came around to face her again. His eyes were cold and bright, like something sharp held to a flame.
“But I see what you’re really doing,” he said. “You’re starving yourself for attention. Waiting for someone cruel enough to notice what’s underneath all that pretending.”
Y/n’s hands trembled at her sides. Her eyes stung, but she wouldn’t cry. Not yet.
“Are you?” she whispered. “Cruel enough?”
He leaned in, close enough that his lips grazed her cheek without touching. “I’m the cruelty you’ve been praying for.”
Her knees buckled. He caught her, not tenderly, but efficiently — like she was a body to be used, not saved. He walked her backward, until her back hit the cold wall, and there he kept her pinned — not with hands, but with presence. With command.
“No more pretending,” he said. “No more performance.”
She couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe.
He grabbed her chin suddenly, fingers firm, not bruising, but unapologetically in control. “Speak.”
“I don’t know who I am when I’m not afraid,” she confessed, voice cracked open.
“Good,” he said. “We’ll kill the girl who lived in fear.”
Then he did something she didn’t expect.
He kissed her. Not with lust. With ownership. Slow. Brutal. Inevitable.
The kiss burned through every version of herself she had learned to wear. It pulled pieces of her up from places she had buried. Shame, hunger, helplessness, hunger again.
He tasted all of it — and demanded more.
And when he finally pulled back, leaving her breathless and dazed, he said, “Now we begin.”
For a moment, there was only the sound of her breathing — shallow and quick, like it didn’t know whether to anchor her or abandon her entirely. The room felt too quiet, too intimate, too charged. And his hand, resting so lightly at her throat, no longer felt like a thrill. It felt like a warning.
Y/n sat motionless, the ring on her finger colder than it had been minutes ago, as if it too had sensed the shift in the air. Something in her — something quiet, usually buried — began to rise. Not strength, exactly. Not bravery. But fear, finally speaking in a voice louder than her hunger.
“I don’t want this,” she said, softly, but it wasn’t a whisper. It was deliberate. Clear.
His hand froze against her skin, the heat of his palm suddenly foreign. Slowly, like he’d been waiting for it, he let his fingers fall away, straightening to his full height in front of her. He looked down at her as if her words didn’t sting him — as if he’d expected them.
“You don’t want this,” he repeated, his tone unreadable, but laced with something dangerous underneath the calm. “Now that you’ve seen what it really is?”
She stood, knees unsteady, her chest tight. She didn’t respond — just shook her head and stepped back, needing to create distance, to feel the space between them again.
“I thought I could handle it,” she said, her voice cracking on the edge of breath. “But I can’t. You’re— It’s too much. All of it.”
A slow smile began to form on his lips, but it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It looked like it had been carved there by something sharp, something ancient.
“Too much,” he echoed, like the words tasted sweet to him. “You finally see me now, don’t you?”
She took another step toward the door. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, louder than his voice, louder than her own thoughts. “I’m leaving,” she said.
Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her. He simply watched.
Then he said it — not loud, but low, like something intimate and private. “Then run.”
He took a slow step forward, though he didn’t come closer. “Run, baby. If that’s what you think will save you.”
She turned then, and she didn’t wait. Her feet moved faster than her mind could catch up. Through the hallway, around the corner — breath snagging in her throat as she passed room after room of things she didn’t recognize. The house felt bigger now. Maze-like. Built for this very moment.
Behind her, she didn’t hear footsteps.
Because his voice still echoed in her mind — not taunting, but certain.
He wasn’t going to chase her.
“I’ll catch you anyway.”
And the worst part — the part that made her blood turn to ice — was that she believed him.
Because this wasn’t about the house. Or the money. Or even the fear that gripped her ribs like a fist.
And the part of her that didn’t want to run at all.
It wasn’t until she crossed the threshold of her apartment that she let herself cry.
The door clicked shut behind her, the lock turning with a soft, final snap, and only then did her shoulders collapse inward. Her legs gave out in the middle of the room, and she sank to the floor in a heap, arms curled around her knees like a child trying to shrink into nothing.
She had run. Really run. Through the halls of his impossible house, down stairs that curved like they had no end, through doors that looked like walls, through gates that should have stayed locked. She hadn’t looked back, hadn’t dared. If she had, she might’ve stopped — or worse, he might have been there, waiting, patient.
But he hadn’t followed.
The next few hours passed in a haze. She peeled off the ring first, tossing it onto the kitchen counter like it burned. She took a shower, too hot, too long, scrubbing at her skin as though she could erase the feel of his gaze, the sound of his voice echoing inside her bones. She dressed in layers, soft cotton and wool, covering every part of herself he had seen, even though he had barely touched her.
She made tea. Didn’t drink it. Turned on the TV. Didn’t watch it.
And as the hours deepened into night, the silence inside her apartment began to settle like dust — thick, clinging, unnatural. She kept glancing toward the window, checking the door, flicking the lamp on and off as if the light might keep her grounded.
She told herself it was over.
That it was just a strange mistake. A rich man’s fantasy meeting her desperation at the wrong time. He would move on. Forget her. Find someone else to brand with his cold affection.
But something didn’t feel right.
The kind of wrong that didn’t make sound, didn’t show itself in creaking floorboards or shadows under the door. It was deeper than that. Quieter. Like the space around her was holding its breath.
When she finally lay down, sleep did not come easily. Her limbs were tense beneath the covers, her eyes open long after the room had gone still. She faced the door, as if watching it would stop anything from crossing the line.
At some point, exhaustion won. Her eyes drifted closed, lashes trembling, breath slowing.
And that’s when she felt it.
That she was no longer alone.
Her body locked into stillness, every instinct screaming to move, but she didn’t. Couldn’t. The air had changed — not colder, but denser, like someone else was breathing with her, like someone had stepped inside her world without making a sound.
From the dark, a voice. Soft. Patient. Familiar.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?”
She gasped and sat up, heart in her throat.
No shadow in the corner. No silhouette in the doorway.
And deep in her chest, beneath the panic, beneath the confusion, something else stirred.
A flicker of truth she couldn’t unsee now — couldn’t deny.
She didn’t want to be free.
She wanted him to take her all the way.
She didn’t sleep again.
Not that night. Not really.
She laid there in the dim light of her bedroom until her eyes began to blur from dryness, blinking through the dark as if it might shift, as if it might breathe. Her fingers gripped the edge of the blanket too tight. Her spine curled inward, like she could protect something he hadn’t yet touched — but she knew better.
There was nothing left untouched.
Even in his absence, he filled the space. Quietly. Methodically. Like smoke curling beneath the door, impossible to see until you were already choking on it.
Every time the floor creaked, she flinched. Every time the fridge hummed, her breath caught. But no one came. No one stepped through the door, no shadow moved behind her, no voice followed.
Not out loud. Not anymore.
The memory of him didn’t fade — it deepened. As if by leaving, she had opened a door she couldn’t close. She’d thought the silence would save her. But silence was how he hunted.
She got out of bed and walked to the bathroom, her bare feet cold on the tile. She flicked on the light and stared at herself in the mirror — wide eyes, pale skin, trembling hands. The same girl she’d always been.
She touched her throat. It still burned from where his fingers had rested, even though there were no marks. That was the worst part. The proof wasn’t on her skin. It was inside her.
She turned on the faucet to break the quiet, cupping cold water in her palms and splashing it onto her face. She kept her eyes down, focused on the sink. When she finally looked up—
But she hadn’t run hot water.
And through the haze, faint and fading, she could swear she saw a shape behind her shoulder.
Just the open doorway. Just the empty apartment. Just her.
But her breath quickened. Her chest rose and fell too fast, heart hammering. She backed away from the mirror, bumping into the wall, dragging herself down to the floor, her legs folding under her like a child’s.
She curled her knees to her chest and pressed her hands to her ears.
“I’ll catch you anyway.”
It wasn’t just a threat. It was a promise. A prophecy.
He didn’t need to be here physically.
He’d already broken past the threshold.
And now — even if she locked every door, burned every trace of him, screamed his name into the sky —
She would never be alone again.
She didn’t know how long she sat on the bathroom floor before her breathing steadied.
At some point, the light above her began to flicker — the soft hum of the bulb above the mirror stuttering in rhythm with her thoughts. She stayed still through it. Made herself count backwards from one hundred. Focused on the cold tile beneath her fingertips. Grounded herself in her body, not his. Not the version of her that curled up under his gaze like she belonged to it.
Her knees ached. Her palms stung where her nails had bitten into them. But she stood.
And when she looked back at her reflection, she didn’t flinch.
That was the first lie she let herself believe.
She left the bathroom, grabbing her phone from the nightstand, fingers flying across the screen in frantic silence. She looked up articles on psychic attachment. Parasocial delusions. She found nothing that matched what she felt — nothing for the feeling of someone living inside you like a second heartbeat, silent but ever-present.
She tried music. Full volume. Anything to drown him out. She turned on every light. Opened every window. She threw out the ring she’d once worn, wrapped in a dish towel and shoved deep into the dumpster outside like it had teeth.
She told herself she was cleansing.
She saged the corners of her room with incense from a store down the street. Wrote his name and tore it into pieces. Took a bath with salt and rose petals like some forum told her would “reclaim energetic autonomy.” She cried in the water, fingers trembling as she scrubbed behind her ears and whispered, he can’t touch me, he can’t touch me, he can’t—
But when she sank below the water, holding her breath in silence—
“You think this is yours?”
The voice came not from the room, not even from her thoughts, but deeper — threaded through the blood in her ears, thudding with the beat of her heart. It was the tone he’d used before, the one that had nothing to do with seduction and everything to do with possession.
Water sloshed over the edge of the tub. Her lungs burned. Her eyes stung.
And still, his voice lingered. Fainter now, but not gone.
Naked and dripping, she fled the bathroom, grabbing her clothes from the floor, dressing with trembling limbs. She left the apartment with no plan, no wallet, just keys clutched in one fist and her phone in the other. The streets were empty at that hour, soft and silver beneath the city lights. She walked fast. Then faster. She didn’t stop until her body couldn’t keep going.
She ended up at a friend’s house she hadn’t spoken to in weeks.
They let her in without question, took one look at her face and didn’t ask. She curled up on their couch under a borrowed blanket, and for the first time in days, she almost believed she’d escaped.
There were no mirrors there. No windows big enough to reflect anything but shadows.
And the silence, for a while, was only silence.
She drifted into sleep before she meant to, her body surrendering to the exhaustion of the fight.
But just before she slipped under—
Barely there. A ghost of breath against the curve of her ear. As if someone had leaned down in the dark, unseen by anyone else, and whispered into her sleeping form:
“You can burn my name. Tear up the walls. Sleep in someone else’s bed. But you’ll never be clean, baby.”
There was no one in the room.
But her skin burned with something invisible, and her throat ached with the weight of a truth she could no longer fight:
He hadn’t followed her.
Because she wasn’t haunted.
The apartment was cloaked in shadow, the faint glow of the streetlights outside filtering through the curtains and casting long, uneven shapes across the walls. The silence was so thick it pressed against her ears like a physical weight. Y/n’s breath came shallow, each inhale trembling as her eyes scanned every corner, every darkened space that could conceal him.
Suddenly, the faintest creak sliced through the stillness—the soft groan of the door opening just enough to let in a silhouette that moved with a deliberate, unhurried grace. The air shifted; a chill curled along her spine even though the room was warm.
Harry stood framed by the doorway, the dim light tracing the strong lines of his jaw, the curve of his collarbone just visible beneath the open neck of his shirt. His dark hair was tousled, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that made her heart stutter—intense, calculating, and utterly still.
He didn’t speak at first. Instead, he took a slow step forward, the subtle sound of his footsteps against the hardwood floor echoing like a heartbeat she hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for.
Y/n felt her body freeze—her limbs heavy, caught between the urge to flee and the undeniable gravity pulling her toward him.
Finally, his voice broke the silence. Low, steady, and quietly ruthless. “I told you,” he said, his gaze locking onto hers with a weight that made her feel exposed and strangely protected all at once, “you can run, but I’ll catch you anyway.”
He closed the distance with measured steps, his presence filling the room like smoke curling around her skin. The calm certainty in his posture made her realize this wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.
“I’m not here to ask for forgiveness,” he continued, his voice a dark velvet whisper that wrapped around her like a binding spell. “I’m here because you belong here—with me.”
Her throat tightened, a knot of emotions twisting inside her—fear, confusion, longing—all colliding in a breath she couldn’t release.
She glanced toward the door behind him, her supposed sanctuary now feeling smaller, more fragile. Then back to him, her eyes searching for something—defiance, maybe, or clarity.
“Why?” she whispered, voice trembling as if she were exposing the rawest parts of herself.
He reached out slowly, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch lingering just long enough to send a shiver down her spine. It wasn’t rough or demanding, but it was undeniably his. Possession and promise all wrapped into a single, silent gesture.
“You don’t have to understand,” he murmured close to her skin, his breath warm against her cheek, “you just have to accept it.”
Her heart hammered painfully as she swallowed hard. She wanted to scream, to push him away, to run from the magnetic pull of everything he represented. But when her eyes met his, she saw something she couldn’t deny—the man who had haunted her nights, the man who had torn down every wall she’d built.
She saw the man who had already claimed her—not just her body, but the very parts of her she’d kept hidden.
And in that moment, the space between them wasn’t empty anymore.
Her breath caught again, the words hanging between them like a weight that threatened to crush her. You just have to accept it. The phrase echoed in her mind, twisting and turning, refusing to settle.
She wanted to resist. To push back against the way his eyes stripped her bare without a single touch. To tell him she wasn’t his — not like this, not now, not ever. Yet the part of her that had been suffocating under loneliness and desperation for so long stirred with something she barely recognized: a flicker of surrender.
Her hands trembled at her sides, fingers curling into fists as she fought the pull. Her heart pounded wildly, each beat a clash between rebellion and yearning. Was this fear? Or something darker—something thrilling in the way he held her without chains, yet bound her tighter than any lock?
She took a tentative step back, searching his face for a trace of softness, for a hint that this was a choice, that she could say no and walk away. But his expression was unreadable—calm, patient, and terrifyingly sure.
The room seemed to shrink around her, the shadows pressing closer as if to swallow her whole. And yet, within that pressure, she felt an unexpected clarity. The lies she’d told herself to stay safe—the walls she’d built to keep the world at bay—began to crumble under the weight of his gaze.
Her mind raced, tangled in memories of every time she had hidden, every time she had begged herself to be invisible. Could she really accept this? Could she allow someone to see the pieces she’d kept shattered, broken, and forgotten?
Tears welled unbidden in her eyes, blurring her vision. Not from pain. Not from weakness. But from the raw ache of wanting—wanting to be seen, wanted to be claimed, even if it terrified her.
Harry’s voice softened, barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to say anything.”
His words were a balm and a blade. She closed her eyes, fighting the storm inside. The fight wasn’t over. It would never be over. But the choice was no longer just about running or fighting—it was about who she would be if she stayed.
And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be the girl who ran.
Her eyelids fluttered closed, but the storm inside her eyes refused to calm. Every nerve ending burned with a thousand silent screams, the fragile walls she’d built over years of solitude now trembling on the brink of collapse. She had wanted control—over her life, her body, her pain—and here he stood, dismantling it with a glance so sharp it sliced through every scar she’d tried to hide.
The room felt suffocating and endless all at once, the air thick with unspoken truths. She could still feel the ghost of his touch—the faint heat where his fingers had grazed her skin—a cruel reminder that the hold he had was not just physical, but something far more insidious. It was the kind of claim that settled deep inside her bones, entwining with the parts of herself she hadn’t dared to face.
Her breath hitched as memories flashed unbidden—nights spent alone, empty rooms echoing with silence, the gnawing ache of being unseen. And now, here he was, like a storm breaking through a drought, fierce and relentless, forcing her to confront the hunger she had denied.
Fear tangled with something darker beneath her ribs, a trembling mix of revulsion and craving that she didn’t want to understand but couldn’t ignore. The thought of surrender terrified her—not because she was weak, but because she was so achingly aware of what surrender meant. It wasn’t loss. It was transformation. It was the death of the girl who had fought to survive, and the birth of something new. Something raw and unguarded and terrifyingly real.
Her fists clenched tighter at her sides, nails biting into her palms as if to anchor herself to the present, to the fragile thread of autonomy she still held. But even as she willed herself to pull away, to break free, she knew that part of her had already crossed the line—had already been claimed in a way no running could undo.
A tear slipped down her cheek, hot and stubborn, catching in the hollow beneath her jaw. She tasted the salt and thought of all the lies she’d told herself: that she was invisible, that she was untouchable, that she was enough on her own.
The truth, whispered in the dark between them, was that she wasn’t.
Harry’s voice, soft but commanding, broke through her storm once more.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he repeated.
His presence was no longer just an intrusion—it was the axis around which her world now spun. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to fight it or surrender, but she knew with terrifying clarity that nothing would ever be the same.
Her heart beat a ragged rhythm, echoing the fragile fracture within her soul.
And in that shattering silence, she realized the fight was only just beginning.
Her body trembled subtly, the adrenaline coursing through her veins tightening every muscle and sharpening every nerve ending. The weight of his gaze was heavier than any touch, pressing down on her like an unseen force that rooted her to the spot, even as every instinct screamed at her to run.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides, knuckles pale beneath the skin, fingers trembling from the effort to hold back. She swallowed hard, the sudden dryness in her mouth making each breath a conscious effort, shallow and uneven. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, heart pounding in her ears louder than the quiet hum of the room.
As he stepped closer, the air between them thickened, charged with a tension that made her skin prickle and her stomach coil with nerves and something deeper, more tangled. She could feel the faintest warmth radiating from his body, an electric current that seemed to crackle just beneath her skin.
Her legs felt unsteady beneath her, as though they might give out at any moment, but she fought to keep herself upright. Every fiber of her being was alert, alive, aching with the strange mixture of fear and magnetic pull that made her want to retreat and yet—paradoxically—stay.
Harry’s hand lifted slowly, not reaching for her, but hovering near her face. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair back with deliberate slowness, a touch so light it barely disturbed her skin—but enough to send a shiver cascading down her spine. Her breath hitched, chest tightening with the sudden surge of sensation.
Her eyes fluttered shut briefly, heart thrumming erratically, as she fought to steady the storm inside. When she opened them again, she met his gaze—steady, unflinching, commanding. There was no room for argument in his look. No invitation, only quiet possession.
Her lips parted slightly, a soft exhale escaping as she unconsciously leaned into the faint pressure of his fingers. The warmth lingered, and with it came the fragile flicker of surrender she had tried so hard to deny.
Yet beneath the surface, a pulse of defiance still beat strong—a reminder that while she might bend, she was far from broken.
His fingers lingered at the edge of her cheek, the faintest pressure tracing the line of her jaw. She held her breath, every muscle taut beneath her skin, caught between the instinct to pull away and the magnetism that rooted her in place. Her eyes searched his face, looking for a crack—something human, something soft—that might give her permission to break the spell.
But there was only that calm certainty in his gaze, a silent command that wrapped around her like a shackle.
Without moving his hand, he lowered his voice to a near whisper, dark and steady. “You’re already here,” he said, “even if you don’t want to be.”
Her throat tightened. She wanted to deny it, to say she was more than this, more than the sum of his claim, but the truth pressed down on her chest like a weight she could no longer lift.
“I’m not yours,” she said, voice barely more than a breath, but the words felt hollow.
Harry’s smile was slow, almost cruel in its patience. “Not yet,” he murmured, and then his hand moved—just a brush of his thumb along her cheek, feather-light but charged with something raw and deliberate.
Her skin flared under his touch. She shivered, part from the contact, part from the vulnerability it exposed.
She blinked, trying to steady herself, and in that brief moment he stepped closer, closing the small distance between them until the heat of his body was undeniable. The scent of his cologne—spicy, dark—wrapped around her senses, overwhelming and intoxicating.
“You’re fighting,” he said, voice rougher now, “but every fight only makes me want you more.”
Her pulse hammered wildly, mind spinning with the contradiction of wanting to flee and wanting to fall deeper into whatever this was.
She swallowed hard, lips parted, breath trembling.
And when his gaze dropped to her mouth, slow and deliberate, she felt the last of her defenses crumble—not because he demanded it, but because, somehow, she wanted to surrender.
The space between them shrank with every passing second, a taut thread pulling tighter and tighter, ready to snap but somehow holding on. Her skin still tingled where his thumb had brushed her cheek, a spark that refused to die down no matter how much she willed it away. She could feel the heat radiating off him like a slow-burning flame, dangerous and tempting.
Neither of them moved. Neither spoke.
Her eyes flickered to his lips, slightly parted as if he were about to say something—something that would change everything. But the words never came. Instead, he held her gaze with that steady, unblinking intensity that made her feel stripped bare beneath his stare.
The silence between them stretched, heavy with unsaid things. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, every breath a small battle against the overwhelming pull settling in her bones. She wanted to break it—to look away, to run, to scream—but her body betrayed her, rooted to the spot by a force she couldn’t name.
His hand lingered, hovering just inches from her face, a silent question without words.
Her own fingers twitched at her sides, the fight flickering inside her like a fragile flame struggling against a gathering storm. She wanted to resist, to push him away, but the raw ache beneath her ribs whispered otherwise.
Slowly, impossibly slowly, he bent just a fraction closer, his breath warm against the shell of her ear.
“Say my name,” he murmured, voice barely audible, thick with promise and command.
Her heart slammed in her chest, eyes wide, body tense and trembling.
The room seemed to hold its breath along with her.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to deny. But all that came out was a breathy, fragile whisper—
And in that single word, the distance between them shattered.
When her whispered name fell from her lips, it was like releasing a secret she had barely admitted to herself. The silence shattered instantly, replaced by a current so electric it thrummed through the room, twisting the air between them into something thick and almost suffocating.
Harry’s eyes darkened, shadows pooling in their depths as he closed the remaining distance without hesitation. His hands came up, strong and sure, one settling at the curve of her waist while the other traced a deliberate path along her neck, fingers tightening ever so slightly—an unspoken claim.
Her breath hitched, caught in the rawness of the moment as his mouth met hers with a slow, demanding pressure. The kiss wasn’t soft or hesitant; it was heavy, possessive, like a force that bent her will beneath its weight. His lips molded over hers, rough and insistent, claiming territory with every movement.
She wanted to pull away, to scream at herself for falling into this, but her body betrayed her completely—arching toward him, trembling under the weight of something dark and dangerous she hadn’t known she craved.
His tongue slipped past her lips, exploring, claiming, igniting a fire deep inside that flickered between pain and pleasure. The taste of him was intoxicating—bitter and sweet, familiar and foreign all at once.
His hands tightened just a fraction, a reminder that this wasn’t a kiss born from tenderness, but from power. From possession. From a hunger that refused to be denied.
Her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, clutching as if holding onto something solid while the world spun beneath her. The line between fear and desire blurred until it vanished altogether, leaving only the dark pulse of something neither of them could name, but both recognized.
When they finally broke apart, their breaths mingled, ragged and uneven.
Harry’s voice was a low growl, raw and full of promise. “You’re mine.”
The words weren’t a question.
And in that moment, she understood that the darkness between them wasn’t just around them—it was inside her now, irrevocably, a part of who she had become.
Harry’s lips lingered near hers, the faint heat of his breath stirring a restless ache deep inside her. His eyes never left hers, dark and unwavering, as his hand slid down from her neck to grip the small of her back with firm, possessive pressure. The strength in his touch tethered her, grounding and overwhelming all at once.
He moved with a slow certainty, closing the remaining space until her body pressed fully against his. Every inch of her skin seemed to ignite under his touch—the subtle brush of his chest, the steady beat of his heart against her own. She could feel the hardness beneath his shirt, the unmistakable promise of power waiting just beneath the surface.
Without breaking eye contact, he traced a finger down her jawline, tilting her face up so their lips met again—this time with a deeper hunger, more urgent, as if he was marking her with every kiss. His mouth claimed hers with a dark insistence, rough and commanding, leaving no room for doubt or escape.
Her breath hitched, body trembling with the conflict swirling inside her—wanting to resist, wanting to give in, wanting everything and nothing all at once.
His hands roamed deliberately, mapping the curve of her waist, slipping beneath the fabric of her shirt to press against bare skin. The contrast of cool air and the heat of his touch made her shiver, caught in the pull of desire and fear tangled together.
When he finally pulled back, his gaze dropped to her lips, swollen and parted, before returning to lock onto her eyes with a fierce intensity.
“You don’t have to say it again,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “I know.”
And with that, he leaned in once more, capturing her mouth in a kiss that promised possession—not just of her body, but of every piece of her she thought was hers alone.
Harry pulled back just enough to look at her—really look, as if peeling back every layer she tried to hide behind. His eyes gleamed with a knowing sharpness, that mischievous flicker of irony playing at the corners of his mouth.
“I see you,” he said slowly, deliberately, voice low and laced with something almost cruel in its clarity. “I see how much you want my body.”
She swallowed, cheeks flushed, heart pounding from the lingering heat of his touch.
But then, with a tilt of his head and a sly, almost imperceptible smirk, he added, “And, ironically…” —his gaze darkened even further— “I don’t want yours.”
The words hit her like a shock—half a challenge, half a punishment.
He stepped back, distancing himself just enough to make the space between them ache.
“It’s never been about your body,” he murmured, voice dropping to a whisper thick with meaning. “It’s about what you think you want. About the parts of you you hide—even from yourself.”
Her breath caught, confusion and something raw bubbling beneath her skin.
He paused, the playful edge slipping from his expression, replaced by a steady, almost ruthless certainty.
“So, don’t mistake desire for possession,” he said quietly. “You want me. But I don’t want you—not in the way you think.”
And just like that, the tension twisted, tangled into something darker—a game where he held all the cards, and she was left guessing what came next.
Harry’s eyes bore into hers, unblinking and sharp as a blade. The air between them thickened, charged with an almost cruel electricity that made her skin crawl and burn at the same time.
He stepped forward again, closing the distance but never touching—just enough to remind her he controlled the space, the moment, the game.
“You think this is about bodies,” he said, voice low, deliberate, each word measured like a stone dropped into a still pond, sending ripples through her very core. “But it’s not. It’s about control. About who holds the power when no one else is watching.”
His gaze flicked down to her lips, then back to her eyes, darkening further with intent. “You want me. That’s obvious. But what you don’t realize is how much I want to own the parts of you you think are untouchable.”
Her breath hitched, heart hammering like a warning drum in her chest. The thrill of fear tangled with something darker—something like a silent surrender she wasn’t ready to admit.
He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to echo inside her skull. “You’ll learn that wanting isn’t enough. That desire can be twisted until it breaks you.”
His words were a promise and a warning—sharp edges wrapped in silk.
“And when I take what I want,” he said, voice growing harder, “it’s not because you gave it. It’s because I took it.”
The challenge in his eyes was undeniable. There was no negotiation here. No room for mercy.
Only the raw, dark gravity of possession.
Without waiting for a response, Harry closed the final distance between them, his hands gripping her waist with an iron certainty that left no room for doubt. The heat of his touch burned through the thin fabric of her shirt, pressing her body flush against his with deliberate intent.
His eyes locked onto hers, dark and commanding, daring her to resist as his mouth descended with slow, heavy pressure onto hers once more. This kiss was different—less teasing, more claiming. His lips crushed against hers with a weight that crushed the last defenses she clung to, his tongue tracing a possessive path that left no question of who held control.
She trembled beneath him, caught between the desire that ignited in her core and the fear that twisted her gut into knots. Her fingers curled into the collar of his shirt, clutching at him as if to anchor herself, even as every part of her screamed to pull away.
His hands slid up her back, gripping firmly beneath her shoulder blades, pressing her closer still. The pressure was unrelenting, a physical reminder of the dark ownership he claimed—not just of her body, but of her will.
His voice rumbled against her lips, low and dangerous. “You’re mine,” he whispered, each word a vow and a command. “No more running. No more hiding.”
The room seemed to shrink around them, the only sound the ragged mix of their breaths and the pounding of her heart, wild and captive all at once.
In that moment, surrender wasn’t weakness.
The night was heavy with stillness, the city sprawling beneath Harry’s penthouse window like a glittering web of lights and shadows. From this height, the world seemed distant and unreal, a place he could observe without ever truly being part of it. The pulse of music from a far-off club, the muffled honks of traffic, the occasional flicker of neon signs—all blended into a quiet hum that barely registered against the blank space inside him.
He sat alone in the dimly lit room, the leather chair beneath him creaking softly as he shifted his weight. His fingers idly scrolled through his phone, flicking past endless images of perfect smiles, curated lives, and tired attempts at connection. None of it caught his interest. None of it stirred anything beyond a flicker of boredom.
Not some polished, airbrushed portrait made for the cameras, but a raw, unfiltered glimpse of someone who wore exhaustion like a second skin. Her eyes were rimmed with fatigue, her expression guarded but real. She wasn’t trying to be anything but herself, and that made her stand out like a beacon in the endless sea of façades.
He studied her photo longer than he intended, drawn to the unspoken story etched into the lines of her face. There was a weight there—a quiet desperation, a struggle that didn’t seek sympathy but silently demanded to be seen. And for the first time in a long time, Harry felt a flicker of something dangerous stir within him.
His thumb hovered above the keyboard, fingers tense with the decision he was about to make. He didn’t know why he was drawn to her, didn’t understand what he expected to find. Maybe it was the challenge. The rawness. The way she seemed so utterly out of place in the world he inhabited.
He typed slowly, deliberately, as if the words themselves carried a power he wasn’t quite ready to wield.
The message was simple. Uncomplicated. But beneath the surface, it held a promise and a threat all at once.
He didn’t wait for second thoughts. He pressed send.
The screen blinked—message delivered.
And in that instant, the quiet game he had been playing with himself shifted. What started as a flicker of boredom became a pulse of intent, a thread that would pull them both deeper into something neither fully understood yet.
Because Harry Styles wasn’t a man who sought connection for comfort or companionship.
And once he had set his sights on something, there was no turning back.
Harry’s fingers brushed against her skin with deliberate weight, tracing slow, possessive patterns that left her breath hitching in her throat. The room around them seemed to dissolve, collapsing into a space where only the raw, electric tension between them existed. His eyes never left hers—dark, intense, unyielding—holding her captive without a word.
She wanted to pull away, to reclaim whatever scraps of control she still had, but her body betrayed her, frozen beneath his touch. Every nerve ending sang with a fierce mixture of fear and something dangerously close to craving. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low murmur that vibrated through the air like a promise—and a warning.
“You think you want this,” he said slowly, “but you don’t understand what you’re really asking for.”
His lips brushed against the hollow of her neck, breath warm and uneven, sending a shiver spiraling down her spine. His hand tightened slightly at her waist, pulling her impossibly closer.
“Because once I have you,” he whispered, “there’s no going back.”
The weight of those words hung between them, thick and suffocating, as if the room itself was holding its breath. And as much as she wanted to fight, to scream, to run, something deep inside her—a dark, aching part she’d long tried to bury—stirred awake.
Harry’s presence was a storm she couldn’t outrun, a darkness that claimed her not despite her resistance, but because of it.
And in that fragile, breaking moment, she knew she was lost.
taglist: @angeldavis777 @sstylezzz @amyluvsmatt
