I keep my voice casual, like my heart isn’t trying to punch through my ribs. “There’s a donor dinner this weekend.”
Her brows lift. “Okay?”
“It’s…not fun,” I say because honesty is easier than pretending. “A lot of talking. A lot of people pretending they’re not judging you.”
Harlow’s mouth twitches. “Sounds awful.”
“It is,” I confirm. Then, quieter, because this part matters, “I don’t want to go alone.”
Her steps slow just a fraction.
I keep walking beside her, letting her decide if she wants to stop or keep moving.
“Come with me?” I ask. “As my date.”
Harlow stares at me like she’s trying to figure out if this is a joke.
It’s not.
I don’t let myself fill the space with explanations because I’ll ruin it.
So I just add, honestly, “I want you there.”
Her throat moves. She looks away, then back.
“And if you don’t want to,” I say quickly, “that’s okay. I’ll survive the chicken and the rich people.”
Harlow huffs a small laugh. It’s startled, but it’s real.
Then she says, softly, “That’s…a lot.”
“I know,” I admit.
Her gaze drifts over my face like she’s reading for intent.
“I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable,” I say, and the words come out rougher than I planned. “I’ll keep you close, butif you get anxious or anything, we can leave as soon as you say the word.”
Harlow’s eyes soften in a way that makes my chest ache.
She nods once, slowly. “Okay, I’ll go.”
Relief hits me so hard I almost stop walking.
I don’t. I just breathe it in like I’ve been holding my lungs hostage.
“Okay,” I say back, voice low. “It’s a date.”
Harlow’s mouth twitches. “But if Weston tries to introduce me to rich people like I’m a new dog, I’m leaving.”
A laugh slips out of me, real and brief. “Deal.”
We reach her building.
At the door, we pause in that awkward space where leaving feels wrong.
I want, no,need, to touch her, but I don’t, shoving my hands into my pockets.
“I’ll see you later?”
