Her choosing me.
Her showing up in my day like it’s allowed.
And somewhere, deep in the back of my head, there’s the other thread I’ve been avoiding like a bruise.
LittleTooMuch.
The username I haven’t looked at because I can’t look at it without thinking about the way Harlow says maybe like it’s a shield. Without thinking about the way her fingers go white around a cup when a room gets too loud. Without thinking about a dozen tiny things that shouldn’t add up…but they do.
As much as I know I’m right…
I’m terrified that I am. Harlow has trusted me with so much, and the last thing I want to do is break that.
She’s already there when I get to the coffee shop—same window seat, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands like she’s braced for contact with the world. There’s a half-finished drink in front of her. A napkin folded into a perfect little rectangle, like it’s doing the work of keeping her here.
She looks up when I walk in. The second our eyes meet, something in her face eases. Not a smile. Just…less fight. It hits me in the ribs anyway. Harder than it should. Like my body recognizes victory even when my brain refuses to call it that.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she responds.
I go order a coffee I don’t want because having something in my hands makes me look like I belong here. Like I’m not just a guy who walked into a crowded room because a girl asked.
When I sit down, I don’t take the chair beside her. I take the one across.
Not distance like rejection.
Distance like, I’m not here to crowd you.
Her gaze drops to my cup. “Vanilla?”
I blink. “You stalking me?”
Her mouth twitches. “It’s obvious.”
“Rude,” I mutter.
She lifts a shoulder, deadpan. “Accurate.”
Outside, campus is loud with afternoon life—bikes cutting through foot traffic, laughter that bounces off concrete, some guy shouting into his phone like volume equals importance.
Inside, it’s…manageable.
Harlow’s eyes drift to the window. “Did you guys win last night?”
“Mm,” I say. “We did.”
She looks at me like she’s deciding if she can say the thing she wants to say without it becoming a thing.
“Did you score any goals?”
My lips kick up on one side, because yes, I did.
“I did,” I say, choosing to take the humble route and not mentionjusthow great of a game I had. I shrug like it doesn’t matter, because right now, it doesn’t. “It’s easy to be good at the one thing people let you be. I’ve worked hard, and that shows.”
Harlow’s gaze sharpens. “That was…a lot of honesty for you.”
I snort. “I’m full of surprises.”
