I roll onto my side and press my face into the pillow.
Don’t. Don’t do it to me. Not now, you dick.
It doesn’t matter. My mind is already back there. This is out of my control.
That night in Hocking Hills never left me. I just learned how to bury it under work and routine and exhaustion until it stopped screaming. Six years of long shifts, bad coffee, and empty beds did a decent job of keeping it contained.
Now it’s back, sharp and vivid, clawing through every defense I’ve built.
Firelight flickering across her skin. The way her laugh caught halfway through when she realized I was teasing her. The way she tilted her head, studying me like she wasn’t intimidated, like she wasn’t trying to manage me.
Like she wanted to know me. That was the dangerous part.
I’ve had women before. I’ve shared beds, shared bodies, shared moments that were easy to forget by morning. None of them ever got past the surface. None of them ever made me feel like I could lower my guard without consequences.
Harper did.
Her skin was warm under my hands. Solid. Soft. She fit against me like she belonged there, like my arms had been waiting for her without my permission. I remember the exact second it hit me—the realization that if I let myself fall into that feeling, if I let myself believe it could last, I wouldn’t survive losing it.
And then that bitch of a morning came along with the realization that she was not for me. Or rather, I was not good enough for her.
The gray light filtering through the windows. The quiet. The way she smiled at me like the night meant something. The hope in her eyes—careful, restrained, but real.
And then my fear.
It slammed into me, like a fire alarm. Every warning I’d ever learned screamed at once. She was too young. She was my sister’s best friend. She had her whole life ahead of her, and I was standing there like a man-shaped bomb, ready to explode her life.
The face she made when I told her it was a mistake.
The sinking pit in my stomach when I wanted to tell her thatIwas the mistake.
Rigid posture. Angry swallows and nods. The way she held herself together with pride because I didn’t deserve her tears.
I’ve seen devastation before. I’ve watched people lose everything in seconds. But that quiet fracture in her expression is the worst thing I’ve ever caused.
Calling it a mistake was cowardice dressed up as responsibility. I told myself I was protecting her. I told myself she deserved better than me. I never told myself how much it would cost both of us.
I should have told her that I was a piece of shit who never deserved anyone like her. That the night was everything I hadever wanted. That she made me feel… there are footsteps in the hallway.
My chest tightens like someone has threaded wire through my ribs and started twisting. I glance at the clock on my nightstand. It’s just past two.
I should stay in my room. I know that. I should let the night pass and let morning reset the boundaries we’ve drawn. I should protect both of us from the kind of conversation that opens wounds you don’t get to close again.
I sit up anyway.
The hallway is dim, city light spilling through the windows in pale stripes across the floor. Every step feels deliberate, like I’m crossing a line I crossed once before and never fully recovered from.
The kitchen light is on.
Harper stands at the counter, glass cradled between both hands, shoulders slightly hunched like she’s trying to take up less space. She’s wearing one of my old Ohio State t-shirts—gray, worn soft with age, the block O faded nearly white.
My shirt.
The sight of it hits me harder than it should. Like she’s already worked herself into my life in quiet, undeniable ways. Like she belongs here in a way I never let myself imagine.
She looks up, startled, then smooths her expression into something careful. Neutral. Controlled. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
