Chapter 104 Chapter 103
Logan POV
The first thing I register is warmth.
The second thing I register is wrongness.
Because the warmth isn’t ice house sheets or my own bed or the familiar weight of routine—
It’s soft. It smells like lavender detergent and something faintly floral, like Harper’s shampoo.
My eyes blink open slowly.
The ceiling is unfamiliar.
Not mine.
My brain takes a second too long to catch up, floating somewhere between sleep and memory.
Then it hits.
Harper’s room.
Last night.
Her mouth on mine.
The way everything narrowed down to heat and breath and the sound she made when she said my name like it wasn’t just a name.
I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face.
I slept.
Actually slept.
Not the half-rest, half-alert dozing I’ve been doing for weeks. Not the kind of sleep where I wake up already tense.
This was… real.
The best sleep I’ve had in a long time.
And then my phone starts ringing.
The sound is sharp, jarring, completely wrong in the quiet.
I fumble for it on the nightstand.
Cole’s name flashes on the screen.
I answer, voice rough with sleep.
“What?”
“Where the hell are you?” Cole snaps immediately. “Workout started ten minutes ago.”
I sit up too fast.
My stomach drops.
“What—” I blink around the room again, like the answer might change. “Shit.”
“Logan,” Cole says, deadly calm now, “please tell me you did not die.”
“No,” I mutter. “I’m—”
I stop.
Because saying I’m in Harper’s bed feels insane.
“I’m out,” I finish lamely.
Cole pauses. “Out where?”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, sheets tangling around my knees.
“I’ll be there,” I say. “Just—give me a minute.”
“A minute?” Cole repeats. “Logan, you’re never late. What happened?”
“I overslept.”
Cole goes silent.
Then, slowly: “You overslept.”
“Yes.”
“That’s… new.”
“Cole,” I warn.
He exhales. “Fine. Get your ass here before Coach notices. And if you’re hungover, I swear—”
“I’m not hungover,” I snap.
“Then why do you sound like you got hit by a truck emotionally?”
I hang up before I can answer.
The room is quiet again.
Too quiet.
I sit there for a second, breathing hard, heart still catching up.
Then I realize something.
Harper isn’t here.
The other side of the bed is empty.
Cold.
No movement. No soft breathing. No annoyed glare telling me I’m taking up too much space.
Just… nothing.
I look around.
Her desk lamp is off. Her chair is pushed in neatly. Her books are stacked like she actually lives like this.
The room looks untouched, like I imagined last night.
Like I imagined her.
There’s no note.
No text on my phone.
No scribbled “leave” or “don’t make this weird” or even a sarcastic goodbye.
Nothing.
Confusion prickles under my skin.
Did she leave because she regretted it?
Did she panic?
Did I do something?
I replay the end of the night in jagged flashes.
The kiss.
The way she’d clutched my shirt like she was grounding herself.
The way I stopped before it went too far, because I didn’t trust myself not to ruin it.
Because I didn’t want it to be another messy, blurred line.
And then… sleep.
I stayed.
She let me.
So why is she gone now like it never happened?
I stand, pulling my shirt on, movements stiff.
My chest feels strangely hollow.
I glance at the door, half-expecting her to walk back in with coffee and a glare and a “you’re late, idiot.”
But the hallway stays silent.
No Harper.
Just absence.
And the worst part is how much that absence bothers me.
I’m not used to wanting explanations.
I’m used to leaving first.
I grab my phone again, thumb hovering over her name.
Do I text?
Where are you?
Too needy.
Did I do something wrong?
Worse.
Thanks for letting me crash.
Coward.
I drop the phone onto the bed like it burned me.
I don’t know what this is.
I don’t know what we are.
But I know this:
Harper Lane doesn’t disappear for no reason.
And the fact that she left without a word—
That confuses me more than any argument we’ve ever had.
I take one last look around her room.
Then I head for the door, heart unsettled, mind already spiraling.
Because for the first time…
I’m the one left behind.
And I don’t like how it feels.