She studies me, curiosity building like she’s testing the ice. Like she’s deciding if I’m safe enough to lean into. Good. That’s what we need. I glance at her drink. Then her hands. “You eat today?”
Not a roll call. Not a performance.
Just a check.
Her eyes flash. “Kai already did his check-in.”
“I’m not doing that,” I say quickly. “I’m kinda hungry and wanted to grab something. Was just going to see if you wanted to tag along.”
Harlow holds my gaze for a beat, then looks away like she hates that she cares about the answer at all.
“I tried,” she says. “It’s not a great day, but I managed a bagel and a banana.”
Something in my ribs loosens. Just a notch. Like the part of me that’s been holding its breath all week finally gets air.
“Okay,” I say. “Good.”
Her brows lift. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” I confirm.
Her exhale is sharp, like she’s not sure if she’s relieved or irritated. Probably both. Then she says, like she’s changing the subject but not really, “Weston warned me that you were bad at small talk, but I didn’t believe him until now.”
Weston is dead.
“I’m great at small talk,” I say.
Harlow’s mouth twitches. “Liar.”
I lean back. “Fine. I’m bad at it.”
“Why?” she asks.
“Because it’s boring? I don’t know. It feels kinda pointless. Why talk about the weather when I can ask questions that I actually care to know the answers to?”
She must accept my response as the truth, since silence follows in the moments after.
Harlow breaks it first. “Okay. My turn.”
“Your turn for what?”
She sits up like she’s decided we’re doing this. Like she’s claiming the right to know me the way I’m starting to want to know her.
“Real questions,” she says.
My pulse ticks up.
“Go ahead.”
“When’s your birthday?”
I blink. Not what I expected.
“January twenty-eighth,” I say. “Why?”
Harlow’s gaze drops to her hands like she’s deciding if she wants to hand me something personal.
“Just curious. I want to know more about you.” Then she looks up. “Mine’s soon.”
