Harlow’s eyes widen slightly. “Why?”
“Because,” I say bluntly. Then softer, “I want to know.”
She studies me. Cautious. Then she answers anyway.
“When I was nine,” she says, her voice going distant. “Kai took me skating, just the two of us. We got hot chocolate after, and he let me get extra marshmallows.”
My chest does something weird because I can picture it perfectly.
Her small and bundled up, eyes bright on the ice. Kai being…softer. Before captain mode became his armor. Before a teammate took pieces of her that no one should take.
“You remember the marshmallows, huh?” I say, a slight teasing in my tone.
“Of course.” Harlow smiles, a small giggle working its way out. “That was the best part.”
I smile before I can stop it. Harlow’s eyes flick to my mouth like she caught it. And there it is—the moment where she lookslike she’s deciding if she’s allowed to act on whatever this is between us.
I decide for her.
I look away. Give her room.
A beat passes.
Then she says quietly, “Your turn.”
“What?” I ask.
“Tell me something about him,” she says. “About Owen.”
My throat tightens again.
I swallow. Then I give her a truth. One that’s been sitting under my ribs for years. “He always came back,” I say, and my voice goes rough. “No matter how mad we were. No matter what.”
Harlow’s eyes shine. She blinks fast like she hates herself for feeling.
I hate it too. I hate that the world made her someone who has to fight her own softness. I hate that I want to be the place she doesn’t have to.
She clears her throat. “He’d be proud of you, you know.”
The words land low, heavy.
“Yeah?” I manage.
Harlow nods. “Yeah. You work hard, you take care of your friends, and you’re kind. You’re a good guy, Gray.”
I stand before I do something reckless with my feelings. Or worse, blurt out another truth I haven’t figured out how to explain yet. “Walk you to class?”
Harlow’s mouth twitches. “You’re changing the subject.”
“I absolutely am,” I say.
She stands too, laughing, and we step back into the noise of campus together. My shoulder brushes hers when someone cuts too close, and the contact lights my skin on fire. She doesn’t move away, and neither do I.
Halfway down the sidewalk, I force myself to do the thing I’ve been rehearsing in my head since this morning—before I can chicken out.
“Harlow,” I say.
She looks up at me. “Yeah?”
