Harley's POV
I should have stopped.
That thought didn't come after. It was there the entire time.
From the moment she stepped closer to the second she said my name the way she did—soft, uncertain, but not pulling away—I knew exactly where this was going. I knew the line we were standing on, how thin it was, how easy it would be to cross.
And I still didn't step back.
"Sophie…"
My voice had been low, controlled. A warning more than anything else.
She looked at me like she didn't hear it. Or maybe she did—and chose to ignore it.
"You're not thinking clearly," I said.
I meant it. I needed her to understand that.
But she just shook her head, her gaze steady even if everything else about her wasn't.
"I am," she said quietly.
She wasn't.
And we both knew it.
I should have ended it there.
Taken a step back. Created distance. Given her space to breathe, to think, to come back to herself.
But she didn't move. Didn't hesitate.
If anything, she got closer.
And that was the problem.
"You don't mean this," I said.
I gave her every chance I could think of. Every out. Every opportunity to stop before we crossed into something we couldn't take back.
She looked at me then—really looked at me—and whatever hesitation I was holding onto started to slip.
"I do," she said.
And just like that…
Everything shifted.
I don't remember deciding.
There wasn't a clear moment where I told myself this is happening. It was slower than that. Quieter. A series of choices that didn't feel like choices in the moment.
The way she didn't pull away.
The way her hand found mine.
The way I didn't let go.
She said my name again.
Softer this time.
And that was it.
That was all it took.
I remember thinking—
This is a mistake.
And at the same time—
I don't want to stop.
That was the truth of it.
Not one or the other.
Both.
Everything after that felt too real to ignore and too fast to stop. She wasn't pulling away. She wasn't hesitating. And every time I gave her the chance to, she didn't take it.
So I stopped asking.
I told myself I wasn't forcing anything. That she was choosing this. That we both were.
And maybe that was true.
But it didn't make it any easier to justify.
It mattered.
That was the part I couldn't ignore.
This wasn't just something that happened. It wasn't just a moment.
Not for me.
When everything finally settled—when the room went quiet again, when the tension that had been building for days finally broke—I lay there for a while, staring at nothing.
Trying to make sense of what we had just done.
Or maybe trying not to.
She had fallen asleep first.
Curled slightly toward me, her breathing slow and even, like none of it had weighed on her the way it did on me.
I turned my head just enough to look at her.
And for a second…
Everything felt still.
Peaceful, almost.
Like we hadn't just crossed a line that couldn't be undone.
I should have felt regret.
Maybe I did.
But it wasn't the kind that made me wish it hadn't happened.
It was the kind that made me realize how complicated everything had just become.
I reached out before I could stop myself, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.
She didn't stir. Didn't wake.
And that was when it hit me.
She didn't even know what she had just given me.
I pulled my hand back slowly, like the realization itself had weight.
For a moment, I just sat there, watching her, trying to reconcile the version of the night that existed in my mind with the one she would wake up to.
Two completely different realities.
And only one of us knew the truth.
I didn't sleep much after that.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it again—the way she looked at me, the way she said my name, the way she didn't stop me.
Or maybe…
The way I didn't stop us.
By the time morning came, I was already awake, sitting near the window, watching the city come back to life as the first light of day crept through the glass.
Everything felt quieter then.
Clearer.
And somehow… heavier.
I heard her move behind me.
Soft. Slow.
Like she was waking up without fully being aware of it.
I didn't turn around right away.
I wasn't sure I wanted to see her reaction.
"Sophie?"
My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
There was a pause.
Then—
"Mm…"
Not quite awake. Not quite aware.
I turned then.
She was sitting up slightly, one hand pressed lightly to her temple, her brows faintly furrowed.
"I don't feel good," she murmured.
My chest tightened.
"That's not surprising," I said quietly.
She let out a small breath, closing her eyes briefly. "Did I drink that much?"
"Yes."
That part was easy.
Safe.
She nodded slightly, like that answer made sense to her. Then she looked around the room, her expression shifting just a little.
Confused.
Disoriented.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"Morning."
She let out a quiet groan, pressing her hand more firmly against her forehead. "Great."
It was such a normal response.
Automatic.
Like nothing had changed.
And that was when I knew.
She didn't remember.
I watched her carefully, waiting for something—anything—that would tell me otherwise.
A look.
A reaction.
A question.
But there was nothing.
Just the same confusion that came with a hangover.
Nothing more.
My chest tightened.
I forced myself to look away, my jaw setting slightly as I exhaled.
Of course she didn't remember.
"Sophie," I started.
The word felt heavier than it should have.
She glanced up at me. "Yeah?"
I hesitated.
The truth sat right there, within reach. All I had to do was say it.
You don't remember last night.
We—
I stopped.
She was already looking away again, rubbing her temples as she tried to shake off the lingering effects of the night.
Unaware.
Completely unaware.
And suddenly—
It didn't feel like the right moment.
I exhaled slowly, pushing the words back before they could form.
"Nothing," I said instead.
She didn't question it.
Didn't press.
And that somehow made it worse.
I leaned back slightly, my gaze drifting toward the window again as the city continued moving outside.
Everything looked the same.
Normal.
Unchanged.
But it wasn't.
Because now—
I knew something she didn't.
And I wasn't sure if telling her would fix anything…
Or break everything instead.
So I stayed quiet.