“No,” I cut in gently. “Don’t do that.”
Her mouth tightens. “Do what?”
“Take it back because you’re scared you’ll want it too much,” I say quietly.
Harlow goes still. It’s true. She always feels like her wants are dangerous.
I take a slow breath, then step closer—just enough to shrink the space, not enough to trap.
“If you wear my jersey tomorrow,” I say, voice low, “I’m going to think about it for the rest of my life.”
Her throat bobs.
“That’s dramatic,” she whispers.
“It’s honest,” I correct.
Harlow’s eyes glisten—not tears, just that brightness she gets when her body is trying to feel something and not panic about it at the same time.
“I just…” she starts, then stops.
I wait.
She exhales. “I want to feel like I’m choosing something.”
Good God I love this girl.
I nod once. “Okay.”
Then I add, because I’m an idiot and I can’t not say it, “You’re going to look absolutely gorgeous in it.”
Harlow’s mouth twitches. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair?”
“The way you say things like that,” she murmurs. “Like it’s…normal.”
“Itisnormal,” I say, voice steady. “You’re beautiful. Even if you don’t always think so.”
Her eyes snap to mine. Heat rushes up her neck.
Mine too.
I don’t push. I don’t step closer. I just hold her gaze and let the truth sit there between us like a match.
Finally, she clears her throat. “So, is that a yes?”
I blink like I forgot how to breathe.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s a yes.”
Harlow’s shoulders loosen, relief and nerves tangled together. Then she gives me a smile that guts me.
Not wide. Not perfect.
Just real.
“I’ll give it back,” she says quickly. “I’ll wash it. I won’t?—”
