With Harlow.
With the fact that tomorrow, she’s going to be in the stands with a thousand people and bright lights and noise. The kind of energy that can either feel like a high or like a trap, depending on what your nervous system decides to do with it. And she’s doing it anyway. For Kai, sure. But also—this is the part my chest tightens around—maybe for me.
My stick fumbles a pass, and Coach’s whistle goes sharp.
“BENNETT,” he barks. “You planning to show up, or should I scratch you and let Cooper’s ego play right wing tomorrow?”
Weston makes a wounded noise. “Coach.”
Coach doesn’t look at him. “Skate.”
I shake it off. Clean the next rep. Then the next. I make myself stay in my body. I tell myself I can deal with feelings when the game is over.
The problem is, feelings don’t care about my schedule.
Harlow texts me when I’m halfway back to the apartment.
Harlow: Are you home?
My thumb hovers. I’m always around now. At this point, if she asked me to stand in the middle of traffic with a blindfold on, I’d probably say yes as long as she promised she was okay.
Grayson: yeah. you coming over?
A laugh scrapes out of my throat, soft enough that it doesn’t count as joy.
Harlow: Be there in five
I’m still grinning like an idiot when I shove my phone back into my pocket and take the stairs two at a time. I shouldn’t be this excited about a knock at the door.
But I am.
She shows up five minutes later with her tote bag and that careful posture she gets when she’s stepping into someone else’s space. Not fear, exactly. More an overabundance of caution. She’s wearing a hoodie and leggings, hair down, cheeks pink from the cool air. Her eyes land on me and don’t dart away the way they used to.
It hits me like a punch every time.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey,” she answers, softer.
I step back to let her in. I close the door behind her, and the apartment feels too small immediately. She fills the space now. In my life. In my lungs.
She drops her tote by the couch and looks around like she’s counting the exits out of habit. Then she spots the TV remote on the armrest and the throw blanket Weston left here last time he “stopped by for one second” and stayed for two hours.
Her mouth twitches.
“You live like a boy,” she says.
I blink, placing my hands over my heart, pretending to be wounded. “This is hurtful.”
“It’s an observation,” she replies, deadpan.
I point at her. “That’s just a mean word for it.”
Her eyes flick up, amused. “It’s accurate.”
God. I want to bottle that look and keep it in my pocket for the days that hurt. I clear my throat, trying to act like a person who is not down bad. “You okay?”
She shrugs, but it’s not a dodge. More like she’s weighing the truth.
