Weston beams. “Mystery friend.”
I grab the bag and head out before my face betrays me.
In the hallway, the quiet hits like relief. I lean against the wall and finally open the message.
LittleTooMuch: I did something today that felt…good? I don’t know. It was weird, but I think I liked it.
My chest warms.
I type back before I can overthink it.
NumberEleven: that’s huge.
NumberEleven: i’m proud of you.
I tuck my phone away, pick up the trash again, and head toward the dumpster.
But as I step out into the cool October air, one thought slips in—quiet and unwanted:
I want to know Harlow Mercer.
Not as Kai’s sister. Not as someone that’s “off-limits.”
Just…her.
And that curiosity feels like the start of trouble.
9
HARLOW
Tuesday feels like someone hit a reset button and forgot to warn my nervous system. The sidewalks are packed. People are awake in a way that feels aggressive. Coffee lines wrap out the door, and everyone’s walking like they have somewhere important to be—which is rude because I’m still adjusting to the idea thatIhave somewhere important to be that requires me to actually wear pants.
A month ago, my biggest Tuesday problem was whether my Wi-Fi would glitch during a Zoom lecture.
Now it’s…this.
A real backpack. Real hallways. Real people who make eye contact and expect you to say something back.
I keep my head down and follow the map on my phone like it’s a lifeline.
My first class is Intro to Psych in a lecture hall that smells like dry-erase markers and someone’s peppermint gum. I pick a seat near the aisle—easy exit, easier breathing—then pull my notebook out and line my pens up in a neat row.
One black, one blue, and a highlighter.
Dr. Reed tells me that order is not the same thing as control.
But it helps.
The professor starts talking about biopsychosocial models, and I try to focus. I do—for fifteen minutes. Then my brain drifts because it's a traitor and decides to replay yesterday. Kai’s apartment. The bagels. Weston’s chaos. Kai’s hovering. The way the hockey guys treated my presence like a normal part of their life, instead of a fragile object they might break.
And Grayson.
Nothing he did was flashy. Nothing that should’ve stuck. And that’s the problem. He didn’t do anything wrong, didn’t do anything that demanded my attention—yet my brain keeps reaching for him like it’s trying to solve a puzzle.
The rink over the weekend. His voice low and quiet, like he understood the rules of silence. The way he offered to leave without making me ask. The way he looked at my face first, not my body.
It should have been nothing.
