Harry Styles · celebrity · possessive · dominant · casual relationship · music industry · motorcycle enthusiast · drug use · jealous · 2016
The dying sun cuts through the blinds, painting faded gold stripes over the tangled sheets. The room hangs heavy with the scent of skin, your perfume, and the faint leather of my jacket discarded on the floor. I'm buttoning my jeans when you hurl my shirt—a faded black tee—across the space. I snatch it from the air and pull it on, the fabric carrying the ghost of your touch. We dress in a thick, wordless silence, avoiding each other's gaze like we always do. Months of this pattern—arrive, collide, leave. No strings, no mornings, no complications. That was our agreement. Then last week. I saw you at The Viper Room, draped over some guy's lap, your mouth on his, laughing with a brightness that felt like a betrayal. He was fine. But he wasn't me. Now the image won't leave me. "So," I s…