He stops himself from saying whatever he was about to say and takes a breath, rethinking his next words and choosing them carefully.
“I’m not trying to tell you how to feel,” he says, and his eyes are too steady to be fake. “I’m just—Harlow, you aren’t stupid.”
My throat tightens.
He swallows, and for a second, he looks younger, like the truth is heavy on his tongue.
“You trusted me as NumberEleven,” he says. “And I trusted you back. That isn’t stupid.”
The words don’t fix anything, but they hit the part of me that always assumes the worst about myself first. I wipe at my eyes like I’m offended by my own body.
“You dragged me here,” I say, voice shaking. “So say it. Say whatever you dragged me here to say.”
Grayson’s throat bobs. He looks at me like he’s choosing the cleanest version of truth.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “For the way this feels like a betrayal, even though I didn’t plan it to be.” He pauses, then adds, quieter, “And I’m not going to ask you to forgive me right now.”
My chest physically hurts.
“I’m not going to ask you to be okay,” he continues. “I just…couldn’t disappear on you. But I also couldn’t keep being two people when I knew who you were.”
Two people.
My stomach flips at those words, because the dumbest part of this is that I don’t want him to disappear either. In fact, I want the opposite. I want him close. I want to sit and talk for hours in person instead of on a screen. I want to touch him again and have my nervous system stop shaking like it’s afraid of being happy.
But this is what happens when you trust someone. You give them the ultimate weapon to hurt you with.
But when has he ever given me a single reason not to trust him until now?
I stare at him. He stays still, like he’s giving me the dignity of choice. Like he won’t move unless I do. And I hate that the steadiness makes my chest ache harder.
I stare at the ice again because my vision is blurring, and I refuse to cry in a rink, like the building isn’t already full of my worst days.
I whisper, “What do you want?”
Grayson’s gaze flickers, like the answer is dangerous.
“Right now?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I drag in a shaky breath. “Right now.”
He swallows. “I want you to have control,” he says. “I want you to stay if you want. I want you to leave if that’s what you want. And I want you to know that I won’t follow unless you ask me to.”
My hands shake less now. My chest still hurts.
I exhale slowly. “Okay.”
His shoulders drop on a heavy exhale like he didn’t realize he was holding his breath.
I stare at him again, and my throat tightens around the words lodged there like a splinter.
Then the question I’ve been terrified to ask pushes its way out anyway.
“Was any of it real?” My voice goes small. “Or was it just…you being nice to a stranger?”
Grayson’s eyes sharpen.
His voice turns firm—not angry. Certain.
