Chapter 107 Chapter 106
Logan POV
I shouldn’t have texted her.
That’s what I tell myself as soon as I hit send.
Two words.
You left.
Cold. Flat. Accusatory, even though I didn’t mean it that way.
But I didn’t know what else to say.
Because I woke up in her bed—Harper Lane’s bed—and for a second, in the haze of sleep, everything felt… quiet.
Safe.
Then I turned over.
And she was gone.
No note.
No sarcastic goodbye.
No sign that last night happened at all.
Just empty sheets and the smell of her shampoo like some kind of punishment.
Now I’m in the locker room, half-dressed, sweat still cooling on my skin from weights, staring at my phone like it’s going to explode.
Cole is across the room pretending not to watch me.
He’s failing.
“Text her,” he’d said.
Like it was easy.
Like I’m not the kind of guy who’s spent years making sure no one can read me.
Like I’m not the kind of guy who doesn’t do… this.
My screen lights up.
Her reply.
I’m fine.
I exhale sharply through my nose.
Bullshit.
I type back before I can overthink it.
Don’t do that.
Three dots.
Then:
Don’t do what?
I hesitate.
Because the truth is, I know exactly what she’s doing.
What she always does.
She wraps herself in control so no one can see where it hurts.
I swallow.
Pretend you’re fine.
The response takes longer this time.
And I can feel my pulse in my throat while I wait.
Then:
I didn’t know what to do.
My chest tightens.
I stare at the words.
She didn’t know what to do.
She panicked.
It wasn’t regret.
It was fear.
I sit down hard on the bench, phone clenched in my hand.
I type slowly, carefully.
You could’ve stayed.
The reply comes fast, like she was waiting to throw it back at me.
And then what, Logan?
Then another message, longer.
We wake up like something normal happened? Like you don’t disappear after? Like you don’t act like I’m a mistake the second it’s daylight?
My stomach drops.
My throat goes tight.
Because she’s right.
Because I have done that.
Not because she was a mistake.
Because I didn’t know what to do with her being real.
I stare at the screen until the letters blur.
Cole’s voice drifts over.
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“Shut up,” I mutter.
He doesn’t push. For once.
I type back.
I didn’t think you were a mistake.
The pause after that feels endless.
Then:
You don’t have to think it. You act like it.
I close my eyes.
God.
I rub my thumb over the edge of my phone.
I want to argue.
I want to defend myself.
But there’s no defense.
So I tell her the only honest thing I have.
I’m trying.
The words look pathetic on the screen.
Too small for how big this feels.
Her response:
Trying what?
I swallow hard.
My fingers hover.
This is the part where I usually shut down.
This is the part where I disappear.
Instead, I type.
Trying not to screw this up.
My heart is pounding like I’m on the ice again.
I wait.
Nothing.
Seconds stretch.
Then her silence makes something sharp twist in my chest.
I type before I can stop myself.
I woke up and you were gone and I didn’t like it.
There.
Too much.
Too honest.
Cole glances over sharply now, like he can feel the shift.
I don’t care.
Another pause.
Then her reply appears.
You make my head a mess.
I stare at it.
My chest aches.
Because I know.
Because she makes mine one too.
I type back immediately.
Good.
Then, after a beat—
Because you’re in mine too.
The second I send it, I feel exposed.
Like I just stepped onto the ice with no pads.
Cole’s voice cuts in, quieter now.
“Well?”
I look up at him.
“I said something stupid,” I mutter.
Cole’s mouth twitches. “You said something honest.”
I stare back down at my phone.
No reply yet.
But I can’t stop imagining her reading it.
Her face.
Her eyes.
That pause she always has when something gets through.
My throat tightens.
Five days until the auction.
Five days until some stranger raises a paddle and thinks he gets a night with her.
And here I am, sitting in a locker room, realizing the truth too late:
I don’t want her to be dateable to everyone.
I want her to be mine.
And I have absolutely no idea how to deserve that.