Chapter Four No Regrets
1401 Words
~ Harley ~
I wake up sore in places I didn’t know could ache like this.
Not bad sore.
Used sore.
I wake up to silence in a place that feels expensive.
The bed is too big. Sheets cold on one side. The room smells like soap and s*x and something sharper I can’t name. My head throbs, but not in the way it should after whiskey and bad decisions. It’s more like pressure. Like my brain is trying to figure out what the f**k happened and why I don’t hate it.
I’m tangled in sheets that feel too expensive for the kind of night I just survived.
Alone.
I sit up slowly, holding the sheet to my chest out of habit even though no one’s here.
For half a second, panic hits. Sharp and stupid.
Then I remember everything.
His hands. His mouth. The way he didn’t ask twice for anything and somehow still made me feel like I chose every single second of it. Like I leaned into the s*x instead of being pushed.
That’s the first thing that hits me.
Fuck,” I whisper.
He’s gone.
It’s nothing like I imagined my first time to be, no weight beside me. No breathing. No hand on my thigh like it was last night. No low voice telling me to look at him. Just silence and sunlight leaking through tall curtains I don’t recognize.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My clothes are folded neatly on a chair. That alone should piss me off. I don’t need courtesy. I don’t need care. I definitely don’t need to feel like I was handled gently after being wrecked.
I scan the room.
Clean lines. Dark furniture. Hotel art that costs more than my entire closet. My dress is folded on the chair like it mattered. My shoes are lined up beneath it, not kicked off like trash. My phone is charging on the nightstand even though I know I didn’t plug it in.
There’s no envelope.
No cash.
Just a note on the nightstand.
One line. Messy handwriting.
Get home safe.
No name.
Of course.
I try to lie to myself but could think of nothing that fits the story I was ready to tell myself.
I swallow and swing my legs off the bed.
My body answers before my brain does. A slow ache between my thighs. Not pain. Not shame. Just awareness. Like every nerve is still awake, still humming, still remembering hands that didn’t hesitate.
Fuck.
I stand there for a second, naked, breathing, feeling real in a way I didn’t expect. I wait for regret to slam into me. For the nausea. For the voice that says I ruined myself or gave something away I can’t get back.
It doesn’t come.
What comes instead is confusion.
That’s worse.
I walk into the bathroom, the marble floor cold under my feet. The mirror shows me a girl who looks different. Same face. Same mouth that’s always been too sharp for people’s comfort. Same eyes that have seen too much disappointment for eighteen years.
But something in my posture is new.
I look… held together.
I turn the shower on hot and step under it, letting the water beat against my shoulders. I expect memories to flood me. Dirty flashes. Embarrassment. That awful cringe that usually follows when I think about men touching me in ways I didn’t choose.
Instead, I remember his hands steady on my hips.
Not grabbing. Not rushing. Just claiming my body like it was already his.
I remember how he looked at me like I was a problem he was happy to solve.
I press my forehead to the bathroom walls and breathe.
I wash up fast, like staying longer might make this real. Like if I linger, I’ll start wanting answers I’m not ready to hear.
This was supposed to feel bad.
That’s what everyone says. First time with a stranger. Drunk. Angry. On your birthday. In a place that smells like money and control. I was supposed to wake up feeling used.
I don’t.
And that scares the s**t out of me.
The mirror shows a girl who looks different. Eyes darker. Mouth swollen. Skin marked just enough to remember.
I dry off and wrap the towel tight, then step back into the room. My phone lights up with notifications I don’t want to read. Missed calls from Finn. A text from Audrey that just says we need to talk.
I laugh. It comes out sharp and ugly.
No the f**k we don’t.
I delete the text. Block her. Block him. My thumb moves fast, no hesitation. That part feels good. Clean. Like ripping off a scab you’re tired of touching.
I get dressed slowly, every movement deliberate. My body feels like it belongs to me again. Not something people comment on. Not something men rate or dismiss or try to have as a booty call.
Just Mine.
When I grab my phone from the charger, I pause. For a stupid second, I check the room again. The bed. The door. Like maybe he’ll be standing there, watching me with that unreadable expression, saying something low and dangerous.
Nothing.
He left without a word.
I don’t know why that matters.
I tell myself it doesn’t as I step into the hallway. As I ride the elevator down alone. As the lobby opens up and the front desk clerk smiles at me like I’m someone important.
I walk out into the city with my head high and my stomach tight.
Outside, the noise hits me. Cars. People. Real life rushing past like last night didn’t happen in a pocket of darkness and heat. I breathe it in, grounding myself, reminding myself who I am.
Harley Sinclair.
The girl who gets cheated on. The girl people talk over. The girl who’s supposed to be grateful for scraps of attention.
Except something shifted.
I can feel it under my skin.
I get home to my aunt’s place and slip inside quietly. She’s not back yet. Good. I don’t want questions. I don’t want that look people give you when they think they know what kind of girl you are now.
I toss my bag on the bed and sit down, staring at the wall.
This should be where I cry.
This should be where I spiral and swear never to drink again and decide men are trash and I’m done with all of it.
Instead, my mind keeps circling one thing.
He didn’t leave money.
I don’t know why that detail keeps punching me in the chest.
He didn’t treat me like a mistake.
He didn’t apologize either.
He just left.
Like last night stood on its own. No explanation needed. No strings. No shame.
That feels worse than regret because it means I wanted something more than s*x.
I don’t even know his name.
That should make this easier.
I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, fingers tracing the sheet. I replay moments I didn’t expect to keep. The way he waited until I looked at him before touching me. The way he told me to breathe like he meant it.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Get a grip.
This was one night. A reaction. A f**k you to Finn and Audrey and every person who’s ever looked at me like I was disposable.
It worked.
I feel different.
Not broken. Not dirty. Not small.
Just… unsettled.
I sit up and grab my phone again, then stop myself before I do something stupid like search for him online. I wouldn’t even know where to start. Men like that don’t leave footprints for girls like me to follow.
Good.
I don’t need him.
That’s what I tell myself as the afternoon drags on. As hunger comes and goes. As my body still hums with awareness I can’t shut off. As my thigh’s still ached and my thoughts keep drifting back to the way he said nothing unnecessary.
Night falls slowly.
I don’t sleep much.
Every time I close my eyes, I expect to feel empty.
I don’t.
And that’s the problem.
Because if I don’t regret it, if I don’t feel used, if I don’t feel ashamed, then last night wasn’t a mistake.
It was a choice.
And I have no idea what it just set in motion.
- Writer
