SINFUL [h.s]

14

this photo will help later in the story
————

I shouldn't be here.

I fucking know I shouldn't be here.

But here I am—again.

The back alley behind Zeke Lane's shop reeks of cigarettes, weed, and something else—a metallic tang in the air that makes my stomach twist, but not enough to turn me away. The first time I came here, it was for Harry. Now?

Now, I don't even bother lying to myself.

The second I step inside, the door clicks shut behind me, locking out the rest of the world.

"You're back," Zeke's voice is smooth, knowing. She's lounging behind the counter, legs stretched out, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, a joint lazily tucked between her fingers.

No surprise in her tone. Like she knew I'd come back. Like I belong here.

I swallow, rolling my shoulders back. "Guess I am."

Zeke smirks, taking a drag, eyes flicking over me. "So, what is it this time, babe? Picking up for your man, or finally here for yourself?"

I hesitate. It's barely noticeable, but Zeke catches it—she always fucking catches it.

"Ahh," she hums knowingly, blowing out smoke. "There it is."

I hate how she reads me like that. I hate how I let her.

But I don't leave.

And that's how it starts.

⸻

Zeke doesn't make me pay.

Not with money, anyway.

"Sit your ass down," she says one night, nodding toward the old couch in the back of her shop. I've been here long enough to stop feeling like a customer and start feeling like something else—something neither of us are really naming.

I roll my eyes, but I sit.

Zeke leans against the counter, rolling another joint. "So, what's the deal with you and Styles?" she asks lazily, flicking her lighter. "That shit real, or are you just his cute little plaything?"

I should tell her to fuck off. I should leave.

Instead, I take the joint when she passes it to me and exhale slowly before answering. "You ask too many fucking questions."

Zeke grins, all sharp teeth and bad intentions. "And you never answer them."

That's our game. She pokes. I deflect.

And we keep coming back.

⸻

I shouldn't let her touch me.

But fuck if I stop her.

It happens slow. A brush of her fingers against my wrist when she passes me a drink. The way her knee presses against mine when we sit too close on the couch. The way she watches me—like she's daring me to make the first move.

I don't.

So she does.

Zeke's breath is warm against my skin when she leans in. "You ever been with a girl before, babe?"

I don't answer.

Her fingers trace the hem of my shirt, skimming over my stomach, slow enough to make my breath hitch. "That a no?"

Still, I don't speak.

Not when her lips skim my jaw. Not when her fingers slip under my shirt, nails dragging over my ribs.

And definitely not when she fucking laughs against my neck, because she knows—she fucking knows—she has me.

"Relax," she murmurs, her voice dripping with amusement. "Not gonna ruin your pretty little relationship."

Relationship.

The word makes my stomach turn. Because what the fuck even is my relationship with Harry?

Zeke pulls back just enough to look at me, fingers still resting on my waist. "Unless," she muses, "you want me to."

And I should leave.

I should get the fuck out, go back to Harry, forget this ever happened.

Instead, I kiss her.

And Zeke?

She fucking smirks against my lips, because she knew I would.