Chapter Five Valentine Is a Loaded Gun
1428 Words
~ Harley ~
I wake up already angry.
Not at anyone specific. Just at myself. And the way my chest feels tight like something is waiting to go wrong and hasn’t decided how yet.
The room is quiet in a way that feels staged. Too clean.
My phone says it’s Tuesday.
Valentine’s week.
I groan and shove my face into the pillow, then immediately regret it because his scent followed me home and my pillow smells like him. His cologne. His soap. His heat and skin and something darker that doesn’t have a name.
“f**k!.”
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, replaying everything whether I want to or not.
His hands.
His voice.
The way he didn’t ask, but never once ignored me either.
That’s the part that messes with my head. I’ve been touched before. Clumsy hands. Awkward pressure. Boys who treated my body like a puzzle they were trying to solve fast before someone caught them.
This was different.
This felt deliberate.
I sit up and pull the sheet around myself, suddenly hyperaware of how alone I am—not abandoned. Just alone. Like he meant to leave me behind.
No note.
No number.
No proof I didn’t imagine him.
I check the floor again like it might change its mind and produce something if I look hard enough.
Nothing.
The lack of regret is what scares me most.
I should feel gross. Or embarrassed. Or like I ruined something permanent.
Instead, I feel steady. Bruised in places, yes. Raw. But not ashamed.
That realisation sits heavily in my stomach all morning.
By noon, I’m pacing my aunt’s kitchen like a trapped animal.
Darla, my aunt, keeps glancing at me over her coffee, her mouth opening and closing like she wants to ask something but knows better.
“Did you sleep?” she finally says.
“Yes,” I lie.
She nods. Lets it go. She’s good at that. It’s how she survived raising me after my parents died. Knowing when not to pry. Knowing when I’d bite if cornered.
I grab my jacket and head out before she can say anything else.
The city feels louder than usual. Everything red and pink and stupid hearts taped to windows like some kind of joke I wasn’t invited to laugh at.
Couples everywhere.
Hands linked. Lips brushing. Smug little smiles like the world is gentle to them.
I flip them all off in my head and keep walking.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don’t look at it right away.
I already know it won’t be him.
For half a second, my heart stutters.
Then I pull it out and it’s just a spam text.
I laugh, sharp and humourless, then shove the phone away like it insulted me personally.
Why do I expect him to reach out?
He didn’t ask for my number. I didn’t offer it. We didn’t exchange names or promises or anything that would tether him to me after sunrise.
That was the point.
So why does my chest still tighten every time my screen lights up
I finally glance down.
Group chat. Some girls from school. Talking about Valentine’s plans. Who’s getting what? Who’s pretending not to care. I mute it.
So why does it feel like something unfinished is vibrating under my skin?
By Wednesday, I’m exhausted from thinking.
By Thursday, I’m angry at myself for thinking at all.
By Friday, the city loses its damn mind.
Every shop window is screaming love. Every ad is trying to sell it. Every radio station is playing songs that sound like begging.
I’m standing in line at a coffee shop when the barista wishes the woman in front of me a happy Valentine’s Day weekend and something inside me snaps.
My phone buzzes again.
This time, I check.
Unknown number.
My stomach drops so hard I feel it in my knees.
I stare at the screen, pulse thudding.
It’s probably nothing. Spam. Wrong number. Some i***t.
Still, my thumb hesitates.
I open it.
No message.
Just a missed call.
I stare at it like it might explain itself.
It doesn’t.
I lock my phone and shove it face-down on the table, heart racing like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.
Get a grip.
I leave without ordering.
When I get home, there’s a delivery truck parked out front.
Big. Black. Expensive.
My name is on the clipboard.
That makes my skin prickle and my stomach drop.
“Harley Sinclair?” the driver asks.
“Yeah,” I say, already knowing this is about to ruin my day.
He gestures to the back of the truck and suddenly there are flowers everywhere. Roses. Deep red. Perfect. Too many to count.
Not a cute bouquet.
A statement.
I drag it inside and shut the door behind me, breathing hard
This is not normal.
I crouch in front of the box, staring at it like it might bite.
My first thought is Finn wants to apologise.
I dismiss it immediately.
He doesn’t do subtle. He doesn’t do expensive. He definitely doesn’t do anonymous.
Audrey flashes through my mind next. Some sick joke. Some attempt at guilt.
No.she can't afford this.
My aunt’s eyes go wide behind me.
“Oh my god,” she screams. “Who is that from?”
“I don’t know,” I say automatically.
The driver hands me a card. Thick. Heavy. No logo. No hearts. Just my name in sharp, precise writing.
My hands shake as I open it.
No love message.
No sweet words.
Just a single line.
Happy Valentine’s Week.
That’s it.
No signature.
No explanation.
No apology.
No company logo.
No explanation.
I feel heat crawl up my spine, slow and dangerous.
This isn’t cute.
This isn’t romantic.
This is someone telling me they remember me.
Someone telling me they watched the calendar and decided I mattered enough to mark time.
I slam the card shut and drop it like it burned me.
Darla touches my arm. “Honey, are you okay?”
“No,” I say honestly.
Her brows knit. “Do you want me to send them back?”
I stare at the roses. At how expensive they look. At how deliberate this is. Whoever sent them knew exactly how to make a scene without saying a word.
“No,” I say finally. “I want to know who thinks they can do this.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I keep seeing his mouth when he smiled like he knows something I don’t.
I keep hearing his voice low in my ear, not asking permission, not taking anything I didn’t give.
I tell myself it could be anyone.
Some asshole from the club.
Some rich creep with too much money and not enough sense.
But my body knows better.
My body remembers weight and heat and restraint that wasn’t cruel.
By Sunday, another delivery arrives.
Chocolate this time. Imported. The kind you see locked behind glass.
No card.
No name.
Just confirmation.
I pace my room, chewing on my thumbnail, heart pounding like it’s gearing up for a fight.
This isn’t a coincidence.
This is pursuit.
And it makes my skin prickle with something that feels a lot like fear and a lot like anticipation tangled together so tightly I can’t tell them apart.
Whoever he is or if it's him, he isn’t unsure.
And that scares the s**t out of me.
Because it means he remembered.
Not just my body.
Me.
He isn’t asking if I want this.
He’s waiting to see what I do next.
I stand in the middle of my room, surrounded by evidence of someone who refuses to stay a stranger, and realise something cold and sharp.
The night with him wasn’t meaningless.
I grab my phone, fingers flying before I can stop myself. I scroll back to the missed call. The unknown number.
My thumb hovers.
If I call back, there’s no pretending this is nothing.
If I don’t, I’m stuck wondering.
I hate wondering.
I hit call.
It rings once.
Twice.
Then goes to voicemail.
I exhale, chest tight, and hang up before the beep.
Fine.
I don't know how he got my number but if he thinks he can drop a loaded gesture into my life and disappear again, he’s wrong.
I won’t be bought.
I won’t be handled without a say.
I don’t know who he thinks he is.
But whoever he is, he just made himself a problem.
And I don’t back down from problems anymore.
- Writer
