I hit send. Stared at the screen and immediately regretted it.
The seconds stretched into minutes. No response. No little dots indicating she was typing. Just silence, and the gradual death of my dignity.
She was probably in the shower. Or asleep. Or ignoring me because I spent the last week telling her we needed space, and now I was texting her at one in the morning like a hypocritical asshole.
I set the phone on my chest and closed my eyes. Counted to ten. Opened them again.
Still nothing.
“This is fine,” I muttered to the empty apartment. “Totally normal. Not pathetic at all.”
My phone buzzed.
I grabbed it so fast I nearly launched it across the room.
Harlow: Yes. But you already knew that.
A smile cracked across my face before I could stop it.
She called me out. She knew I was following her the whole time, probably watched me in her rearview mirror, and probably rolled her eyes at my terrible attempt at subtlety.
Owen: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Harlow: Sure, you don’t. That’s why you drove approximately 3 mph behind me for fifteen minutes.
Owen: I was being cautious. Late-night driving is dangerous.
Harlow: Uh-huh. And the fact that you magically took the exact same route as me to get to your apartment, which is in the completely opposite direction?
Owen: Coincidence.
Harlow: You’re a terrible liar.
Owen: It’s true.
A pause.
Harlow: Thank you for coming to get me and for the escort home, even though you’re pretending it didn’t happen.
Owen: Anytime, Har.
Harlow: Careful. I might hold you to that.
Owen: I’m counting on it.
Too flirty. Too much. I watched the message sit there, delivered, waiting to see if I crossed another line I shouldn’t have crossed.
The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Harlow: You should get some sleep. You looked almost as wrecked as I felt.
Owen: Excuse me, I looked ruggedly exhausted. Very different.
Harlow: You looked like you’d been hit by a truck made of hockey pucks.
Owen: That’s not even possible. Trucks aren’t made of pucks.
Harlow: Go to sleep, Owen.
