The silk sheets still smelled like him. His cologne—earthy and expensive—lingered on your skin, warm from the hours spent tangled together beneath the city’s sleeping lights. You stirred once, limbs lazy in the sprawling king-size bed, but didn’t fully wake.

Harry had already slipped from beneath the covers. He always did. Quiet steps across the marble. The low hiss of the rainfall shower behind the frosted glass. He never liked to be idle in the mornings, not even after nights like that—when his hands had gripped your thighs like lifelines and his mouth had memorized your name in the dark.

Steam curled through the half-open bathroom door as he stepped out, towel slung low on his hips, his hair wet and slicked back. He moved without urgency now, calmer these days—lighter in the way he carried himself. You were part of that.

Then came the buzz. The phone vibrated against the nightstand with a familiar insistence. A name lit up the screen like a ghost he no longer feared: Lucy.

He looked at it, jaw tight, and then at you—still fast asleep, one hand curled near your mouth, the other lost in the tangle of sheets you’d kicked off hours before. His mouth softened.

He answered.

“Harry?” Her voice cracked like frost on glass. Fragile. And far too late.

He didn’t speak at first. Just watched you. The rise and fall of your breathing. The slight crease between your brows. The comfort of being known and chosen—not for what he had, but who he was beneath it.

“Please,” Lucy continued, “I… I just need to talk.”

His voice, when it came, was low. Firm. “You don’t get to need me now.”

She faltered. “Harry—”

“I’m not that man anymore,” he said. “And you’re not the woman I once waited for.”

His gaze never left you. Not for a second. Not even as he hung up. Because Lucy had been the one to leave. To choose chaos over quiet. A gamble over something real. She gave up the penthouse, the loyalty, the man who would’ve done anything to be hers—if only she’d seen him.

But you… You had never once made him feel like a bank account or a backup plan. You loved him like he was breakable. Like he was human. And maybe for the first time, he believed he was worth that kind of love.

The phone stopped ringing. The city kept humming beyond the glass. He walked over to you—slow, careful not to wake you just yet. Then, with a hand still damp from the shower, he brushed your hair back from your face and whispered the only truth that mattered anymore.

“She’s gone,” he said quietly, more to himself than you. “And I’m right where I belong.”