Chapter 17 Chapter 16
Logan POV
Campus mornings are supposed to feel quiet.
Fresh.
Simple.
Today the cold air feels like a slap I deserve.
Hood up, backpack slung low, I cut across the quad toward my 8AM lecture. My head feels cracked open—like I didn’t sleep at all, just replayed six stupid words on loop:
Maybe I like when you come find me.
I should never have sent that.
Makes it sound like I feel something.
Makes it sound like I meant it.
I shove the thought down, harder than I should, and push into the lecture hall.
The room smells like coffee and regret. I drop into a seat. Stare at the board. Pretend the blur of numbers means something.
It doesn’t.
Five minutes in, Cole slides into the chair beside me, hair a mess, hoodie thrown on like someone dared him to get dressed.
“You look like you fought a bear,” he whispers.
“I slept.”
“You sure? Because you look like sleep filed a restraining order.”
I grit my teeth. “Drop it.”
He smirks, satisfied. “Hits different when the insomnia’s emotional, huh?”
I don’t look at him. “Cole.”
“Fine. But if you start writing sad poetry, I’m calling a priest.”
I tune him out, or try to.
⸻
Class ends. People pour out. I head toward the café, telling myself I need caffeine—not a distraction.
Then I see her.
Harper.
Standing outside the café steps, scarf loose around her neck, morning sun hitting her hair like it’s spotlighting her on purpose.
And Ryan Brooks is standing way too close.
Delta Chi golden boy, professional smirk machine.
He says something.
She laughs—head tilted back, carefree, so stupidly pretty my chest tightens.
He reaches out, brushes a crumb from her sleeve.
She doesn’t move away.
She smiles.
Something sharp lodges under my ribs like a blade.
Cole’s voice appears at my shoulder. “Oof. Rough moment for you.”
“I don’t care.”
“Mmhmm. That’s why you’re clenching your jaw like you’re chewing steel.”
I force myself to look away first.
Leave before she notices me staring like an idiot.
⸻
Afternoon practice.
Ice hits my lungs like knives.
Perfect.
Coach’s whistle cuts sharp. “Warm-ups! Move!”
I hit the ice hard.
Too hard.
Pass bounces off my stick.
Shot clips the post.
I’m half a beat behind and it feels like drowning.
“Shaw!” Coach barks. “You skating or sightseeing?”
“Skating.”
“Looks like you’re thinking instead. Thinking gets people concussed in March. Fix it.”
“Yes, sir.”
I dig in. Hard.
Sweat burns my eyes.
Legs scream.
Better.
Pain makes sense.
This other crap doesn’t.
Cole skates up beside me. “You good, or you want me to call a medic for whatever emotional aneurysm you’re having?”
“Shut up.”
He grins. “Translation: I’m suffering, please help.”
I pick up speed and leave him behind.
⸻
Locker room. Steam. Noise. Guys laughing, trash-talking, normal chaos.
It feels like static in my skull.
Marco’s bragging about some girl. Zack’s arguing about fantasy hockey. Cole keeps side-eyeing me like he’s waiting for me to combust.
I shower fast and bail before someone tries to drag me into anything.
Caffeine. That’s the plan.
Not…
checking if she’s still around campus.
I walk past the café again.
She’s inside now. Alone. Laptop open, tea steaming, head bent over her notes.
No Brooks.
My shoulders loosen before I can stop them.
I keep walking.
⸻
Night falls early.
Ice House is quiet for once.
Good.
I drop onto a stool at the kitchen counter, staring at my phone like it owes me answers.
Finally open the email from the gala committee.
Her signature at the bottom.
Please confirm vendor deposits by Friday. – H.L.
No greeting. No warmth.
Professionally lethal.
I reply:
Confirmed. Numbers look good. – L.S.
Short. Controlled. Safe.
Hit send.
Regret it anyway.
Phone face-down.
Hands scrub over my face.
This thing—whatever the hell it is—it’s under my skin, and I can’t scrape it out.
⸻
Footsteps on the stairs.
Cole drops into the chair across from me, cracks open a Gatorade.
He watches me a beat too long. “So. Harper.”
I don’t even let him finish the thought. “Not doing this.”
“You say that like you have a choice.”
“Cole—”
He leans back, lazy grin, voice annoyingly light. “Relax. I’m just saying—if you like her—”
“I. Don’t.”
He lifts a brow. “You sure? Because today you looked like you wanted to body-check Ryan into oncoming traffic.”
My pulse spikes. “I don’t care who she talks to.”
“That’s adorable. You should tell your face that.”
I stand too abruptly, stool legs scrape hard. My voice comes sharper than I intend:
“I am not interested in Harper. Will you drop it?”
Silence hits. Heavy.
Cole studies me—grin gone, eyes narrowed like he can see right through the wall I’m building.
“Relax, man,” he says slowly. “Nobody’s accusing you of planning the wedding. Just saying… you keep saying you’re not into her like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
“Cole.”
He stands, hands up. “Message received. Totally chill. Totally not losing your damn mind.”
He backs toward the stairs.
“Just remember,” he adds quietly, “the harder you shove something down, the uglier it hits when it claws back up.”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because the only sound left in the kitchen is my breathing, rough and uneven, and the one truth I refuse to say out loud:
He might be right.
⸻
And I hate that more than anything.