Chapter 103 Chapter 102
Harper POV
I wake up too fast.
Like my body remembers before my brain does.
The first thing I register is warmth.
A solid presence behind me, an arm heavy across my waist, breath slow against the back of my neck.
For one blissfully stupid second, I think I’m still dreaming.
Then my eyes open.
Logan.
In my bed.
In my room.
In my space like he belongs there.
My heart stutters so hard it actually hurts.
I stay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, afraid that if I move even an inch the entire memory of last night will come crashing down.
We didn’t—
No.
We didn’t have sex.
That’s the strangest part.
It would almost make more sense if we had crossed that line. If it had been reckless and physical and easy to categorize as a mistake.
But it wasn’t that.
It was… heat.
It was kissing until my lips were swollen and my thoughts were gone. It was hands and breath and the way his name sounded when it left my mouth like I couldn’t stop it.
And then…
He stopped.
He pulled back like he was standing at the edge of something too dangerous.
Like he was afraid of what would happen if he let it go any further.
And instead of leaving, he stayed.
Somehow, at some point, we ended up here. Fully clothed. Tangled up in the dark like two people trying to borrow comfort without admitting what it meant.
My chest tightens.
Logan’s arm shifts slightly, tightening for a second like his body knows I’m awake.
I hold my breath.
He doesn’t wake.
His face is softer in sleep. Younger. The tension he wears like armor during the day is gone, replaced by something almost unbearably human.
It makes my stomach flip.
This is the part that scares me.
Not the kissing.
Not the chemistry.
This.
The intimacy that isn’t performative. The closeness that feels like something you can’t undo.
I glance at the clock.
Early.
He has workouts. Morning drills. A life that runs on discipline and ice and expectations.
He should already be gone.
The fact that he isn’t makes something inside me panic.
Because what does it mean that he stayed?
What does it mean that I let him?
My mind starts spinning immediately, searching for solid ground.
Last night he was jealous.
Last night he was angry.
Last night he showed up at my door like he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else bidding on me.
And then he kissed me like he’d been starving.
And now he’s here.
In my bed.
Like none of that is complicated.
Like he isn’t the same person who made me feel invisible after we slept together.
Like he isn’t the same person who keeps swinging between warmth and distance, pulling me in and then vanishing the second it feels real.
Hot.
Cold.
Jekyll.
Hyde.
My throat tightens.
I can’t do this.
Not like this.
Not waking up with him beside me like some kind of almost-boyfriend when I don’t even know what I am to him.
My heart is pounding too loud now.
I carefully lift his arm off my waist, inch by inch, moving like I’m defusing something.
He murmurs something incoherent but doesn’t wake.
Good.
I slide out of bed, feet touching the floor quietly.
The room is dim, morning light barely leaking through the blinds. My sweatshirt is on the chair. I pull it over my head, hands shaking slightly.
I look back at him.
He’s still asleep.
Still here.
And for some reason that makes my chest ache more than if he’d left.
Because leaving is what I understand.
Staying is what terrifies me.
I grab my phone, my bag, anything that gives me an excuse to move.
To escape my own room.
To escape the way my head feels like it’s full of static.
I open the door as quietly as possible and step into the hallway.
The house is mostly silent. A few distant sounds—someone showering, a door closing softly.
I walk down the stairs like a ghost.
My skin feels too warm. My lips still feel like him.
My mind keeps replaying the way he said my name last night, low and rough, like it meant something.
And that’s the problem.
Everything with Logan feels like it means something.
And then it doesn’t.
I reach the kitchen and brace my hands on the counter, breathing hard.
What am I doing?
Running away from my own bedroom like a teenager?
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I’m not panicking because we made out.
I’m panicking because for a moment, it felt easy.
For a moment, it felt like he wanted me without conditions.
And I don’t trust that.
I don’t trust him.
Or maybe I don’t trust myself.
The worst part is the flicker of disappointment underneath the fear.
A small, traitorous part of me wanted to wake up and have him look at me like he chose me.
Not as a distraction.
Not as a mistake.
Not as an auction item.
As a person.
But Logan Shaw doesn’t choose things lightly.
And I don’t know where I fall in his choices.
My phone buzzes.
I glance down, half expecting it to be him.
It’s Lila.
Of course.
Why are you up?
I stare at the message, then type back:
Long story.
Three dots appear immediately.
Did he fuck up again?
I almost laugh.
Almost.
Instead I just stand there in the quiet kitchen, heart still racing, knowing he’s upstairs in my bed and I’m down here acting like proximity is a threat.
Maybe it is.
Because Logan has a way of getting under my skin.
Of making me want things I swore I wouldn’t.
I press my forehead to the cool countertop and exhale.
I don’t know what happens next.
I just know I needed space.
Before his warmth convinces me it’s safe.
Before his cold reminds me it isn’t.
And somewhere upstairs, Logan Shaw is still asleep in my room—
while I’m already running.