Chapter 28 Chapter 27
Harper POV
I don’t feel my legs as I go up the Alpha Chi stairs. I’m floating, or sinking, or just moving on autopilot.
A couple sisters are in the hallway in pajamas, mascara smudged from studying, hair in buns. They stare when they see me — wide-eyed, knowing, concerned.
One opens her mouth.
I shake my head fast — too fast.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Please. Not tonight.”
They nod, soft sympathy on their faces, and step aside.
I get to my room and close the door gently, like the world might shatter if I make a sound.
Then I lean back against it and breathe like I just escaped something and ran right into something worse.
My lips are still warm.
My heartbeat hasn’t found a rhythm.
It keeps stumbling like my body hasn’t caught up to reality.
He kissed me.
Not an accident.
Not a convenience.
Not kids in a closet wondering who moves first.
Logan Shaw kissed me like he wanted to consume a moment before it could consume him.
My hands shake.
It was nothing like the clumsy, shy, eighth-grade dare kiss we shared once — the one burned into my childhood brain like proof that maybe someday he’d look at me again.
This one?
This one felt like oxygen and fire and revenge and hunger.
Like every unsaid thing between us finally broke surface.
And I hate him for it.
And I hate myself for feeling anything about it.
I sit on the edge of my bed, press my palms over my face. My body is buzzing and numb at the same time.
Why did it feel like that?
Why him?
Why now?
Why can’t he just stay in his lane, live in his world of puck bunnies and ego and chaos, and leave me in mine where everything makes sense?
Why did I like it?
God, I liked it.
More than I should.
More than is healthy.
More than is forgivable.
And he had Sophia in his room not even a day ago. I walked into that. I saw him. I saw her. And then today, he kissed me like he had the right.
It’s not fair that the memory of his mouth on mine is louder than the memory of hers on his.
I collapse backward on the bed and stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling — little plastic ghosts from a president before me. A girl who must have once been 18 and terrified and covering it up with ambition like I did.
Freshman year I faked it until I made it.
I walked in here shaking and left everyone thinking I belonged.
I do belong.
I built myself here.
I am not the shy library girl hoping someone notices her.
Except one person did. And it ruined me.
I flip onto my stomach and bury my face in my pillow and yell into it because I cannot cry again.
By 3:00am, I’m still awake.
Staring at the ceiling.
Overthinking.
Hating myself for feeling anything.
Hating him for lighting a match and walking away like he didn’t see the flames.
Fine.
We’re doing this.
I sit up, grab my phone before my courage collapses, and type:
What the hell was that?
My thumb hovers.
I send it before good decisions can intervene.
And immediately want to throw my phone out the window.
He’s not awake.
Logan Shaw does not lie awake thinking about things.
He shoves feelings in a locker and beats them up.
He is sleeping.
He is out.
He is not—
My phone buzzes.
I freeze so hard my heart misses two beats.
His name on the screen feels unreal.
Logan:
You tell me.
No.
No no no.
My stomach flips and sinks at the same time. I wasn’t supposed to get a reply. I wasn’t supposed to know he’s awake too.
Another buzz.
Logan:
I can’t sleep.
Shock hits me first.
Then anger — hot, defensive, protective.
I type fast:
Harper:
Why? Puck bunny curfew hit early?
I expect silence.
Instead:
Logan:
No.
I breathe once, shaky, and the next message hits immediately:
Logan:
I’m alone.
Awake because of you.
It’s like the words physically shove into my chest.
No.
He does not get to be awake thinking about me.
He does not get to make this harder.
I stare at the screen too long. My fingertips go numb.
Harper:
Why?
It types itself before I can reconsider.
His reply is slower this time, like he fought it:
Logan:
I don’t know.
It’d be easier if I didn’t.
My eyes sting.
I hate this.
I hate that “easier” is the word he chose. Because he’s right. It would be easier if nothing was there. If I didn’t feel like I’d been waiting twelve years without saying it out loud.
I type before I stop myself:
Harper:
I hate this.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Logan:
Me too.
Then:
Logan:
But I don’t want to stop.
My heart does a horrible, traitorous thing.
A soft ache — hope trying to get out of a locked cage.
I drop the phone on my lap like it burned me.
I don’t know what to say.
I don’t know what to feel.
I don’t know what happens when want collides with anger and history and the fear of being someone’s almost again.
I grip my pillow and whisper into the fabric:
“Why couldn’t you just stay away?”
The phone buzzes again — like he heard me through walls, miles, denial.
I don’t look yet.
I sit there suspended between fury and softness, between the life I built and the one I once prayed for.
And I don’t know which one scares me more.