My lungs loosen, and I let myself melt into his warmth, the smell of him bringing even more comfort. We sit like that until the quad lights flicker on and the air grows cooler, talking about anything and everything, and sometimes nothing at all. When we finally stand, he walks me back toward my dorm. At the entrance, he stops just short of the outside door.
“Text me when you’re inside,” he says, swinging our twined hands back and forth, like he’s not ready to let go just as much as I don’t want him to.
“I will.”
He hesitates for a second, then pulls me toward him slightly, opening his arms and leaving just a second for me to decide if this is okay. I step into him. The hug is quiet and full-body, his arms secure but gentle, his chin resting lightly against the top of my head. His hand spreads across my back, like he’s grounding me to something solid.
“Thanks for walking with me,” he murmurs against my hair.
I breathe him in. “Figured I could bless you with my presence.”
He chuckles low and pulls me in even closer. When he finally lets go, his gaze is warm and steady—but restrained, like he’s holding himself back on purpose.
“Goodnight, Harlow.”
“Goodnight.”
I go inside and glance back once before the door closes. He’s still there, watching me—not like he’s afraid I’ll disappear, but like he’s forcing himself to let me go.
The last couple months I’ve spent my nights talking to a faceless person in a forum to feel seen. But right now, that doesn’t even cross my mind.
For the first time in years, there’s somewhere I’d rather be than in my room alone.
22
GRAYSON
All I’ve been able to think about for the last week is that I shouldn’t be this aware of my phone. It sits in my pocket like a weight I can’t name without turning it into a confession. Heavy enough that I keep checking it without taking it out. Like if I don’t look, the thing I’m avoiding won’t exist. Harlow texts me first, and every excuse I’ve stacked up like sandbags just…collapses.
Harlow: You busy?
I stare at my screen like an idiot. I don’t think I’m supposed to feel this way over a text with two words.
Grayson: no. you?
Harlow: Trying to be normal. Failing.
A slow exhale through my nose. The closest thing to a laugh.
Same.
Grayson: want help failing somewhere quieter?
A pause.
Harlow: Coffee shop?
Grayson: five minutes.
I shove my phone back into my pocket before I can overthink the part where my chest feels lighter just because she texted.
That’s a problem.
Not because she did anything wrong.
Because I’m starting to crave it.
Her reaching out.
