Chapter 43 Chapter 42

Chapter 43 Chapter 42
Harper POV
His mouth is on mine and suddenly every rule I’ve built for myself collapses like a bad card house.
This was supposed to be a conversation.
A confrontation.
Me demanding answers.
Instead, I’m pinned against the wall of the Ice House, my fingers tangled in the front of his hoodie like I’m the one holding him there, like if I let go he might vanish.
He kisses me like he’s been holding back for years.
Too much.
Too intense.
Too good.
My brain keeps whispering this is a bad idea, this is a bad idea, this is a terrible idea—
But my body doesn’t care.
His hand tightens at my waist, fingers curling into the fabric of my coat. I feel the heat of his palm even through all the layers. Every nerve under his touch lights up like someone flipped a switch.
I tip my chin, part my lips, and he groans into my mouth, low and rough and desperate. The sound sinks straight through me, settling low in my stomach, hot and heavy.
“Logan,” I breathe against his lips, not sure if it’s a plea or a warning.
He doesn’t move away.
If anything, he presses in closer, caging me in with his body like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he stops.
“This is insane,” I whisper.
“I know.” His breath is warm on my mouth. “Keep going.”
I huff out a broken laugh. “That’s not how that phrase works.”
“It is now.”
He kisses me again before I can argue, and the world blurs at the edges. The quiet of the empty house, the soft hum of the fridge in the kitchen, the distant tick of the old clock—everything shrinks until it’s just this.
Just his mouth.
Just his hands.
Just the way every single kiss feels like another line we’re crossing and I’m not sure I want to go back.
He slows the next one, the shift so subtle I almost miss it—less frantic, more deliberate. His lips drag against mine, lingering, learning, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me.
My heart stutters.
I fist my hands in his hoodie and pull, dragging him even closer. He stumbles one step, then catches himself with a palm braced on the wall beside my head. His body slots against mine from shoulder to thigh, and heat rushes through me so fast I almost forget to breathe.
I can feel the strength in him, the solid line of his chest, the steady thud of his heartbeat. There’s not an inch of space left between us.
I should be scared of that.
Instead, it feels… right. Dangerous, but right.
He breaks away just enough for our mouths to hover, breaths tangling.
“You need to tell me to stop,” he says, voice hoarse. “Because I’m not going to be the one who does it.”
My pulse roars in my ears.
I should. God, I know I should.
But the word won’t come.
Instead, what comes out is, “I don’t hate you.”
He pulls back a fraction, searching my face. “You sure? Because you’ve been glaring like you do.”
“I’m…” I swallow hard. “I’m angry. I’m hurt. I’m confused. But I don’t… hate you.”
He closes his eyes for a second, like that matters more than it should. When he opens them again, they’re darker. Softer. Wrecked.
“That makes this worse,” he mutters.
“How?”
“Because now I don’t have an excuse.”
He kisses me again, slower this time, and I feel it everywhere. My hands slide up, fingers finding the back of his neck. His skin is warm under my touch, a little damp from the walk, the short hairs at his nape rough against my fingertips.
He shivers.
I did that.
The thought is dizzying.
He shifts, mouth tracing the corner of my lips, the line of my jaw, his breath skimming my neck. My head tips back against the wall without my permission, a soft sound escaping before I can swallow it.
“Harper,” he murmurs against my skin, voice low and ragged. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Yes,” I manage. “I think I’m getting an idea.”
He huffs out a rough laugh, then trails his lips back up to mine, kissing me with a kind of intensity that feels almost reverent. Like he can’t decide if he wants to worship or devour.
My coat is suddenly too much. Too heavy, too thick, blocking too much of his warmth. I shift, tugging at the sleeve, and he stills.
“Cold?” he asks, breathless.
“Opposite,” I mutter. “Way opposite.”
His mouth curves against mine. “Take it off.”
The way he says it makes my pulse trip over itself. I hesitate just long enough for reality to flicker at the edges of my vision—
What are you doing?
This is Logan.
This is the boy who barely saw you for years.
His eyes search my face, and for once, there’s no smirk. No shield. Just an open, rough honesty that scares me more than anything else.
“We can stop,” he says quietly. “I mean it. We can stop, and I’ll walk you back, and we can pretend this never happened.”
He’s lying. I can hear it in his voice. Nothing about this will ever feel forgettable again.
I look at him—really look at him.
This is the boy who kissed me in a closet in eighth grade and ran away like the world would end.
The boy who spent years chasing girls who looked nothing like me.
The boy who drove me crazy without even trying.
And now he’s standing here telling me he doesn’t know how to not want me.
Something deep inside me—something that’s been waiting a long time—unfolds.
“I don’t want to pretend,” I say.
The tension in his shoulders snaps tight. “Say that again.”
I lick my lips, dizzy with my own recklessness. “I don’t want to pretend.”
His hand fists in the lapel of my coat, knuckles going white. “Take it off, Harper.”
Heat floods my cheeks, but my hands are already moving, fumbling with the buttons. He helps, fingers brushing mine, casual touches that feel like sparks.
The coat slips off my shoulders, heavy as it falls, landing somewhere near our feet.
Without it, the space between us feels even more charged. I’m suddenly, painfully aware of every point of contact—his chest against mine, his thigh between mine, his hand still gripping my hip like he’s afraid I’ll change my mind.
He looks at me like I’m something he wants and is terrified to break.
“You’re sure?” he asks softly.
“No,” I admit, voice shaking. “But I’m here.”
He exhales a curse that sounds a lot like a prayer, then frames my face with both hands and kisses me like it’s the only language he’s ever been fluent in.
I melt into him, my body moving on instinct. One of his hands drops to the small of my back, pulling me flushed against him. The other slides into my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss.
Everything narrows to sensation.
The press of his mouth.
The scrape of his stubble.
The way his fingers flex against my spine, holding me in a way that feels both possessive and oddly careful.
I’m not used to feeling small. I run a house. I run events. I run my life.
But here, against him, I feel small in a way that isn’t belittling—just… contained. Sheltered. Held.
It’s terrifying.
It’s addictive.
He breaks away just long enough to press his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard.
“My room,” he murmurs. “We shouldn’t do this in the hallway.”
He’s right.
We absolutely shouldn’t do this at all.
“Yes,” I hear myself say.
We move together, still close, like if we put distance between us the spell might break. He bends, grabs my coat blindly, fingers finding mine for a second, lacing through like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The stairwell creaks under our footsteps. The house is so quiet it feels like we’re the only people left in the universe.
He pushes his bedroom door open with his shoulder and flicks on the light.
I’ve been in here before—for spreadsheets and budget spreadsheets and scheduling nightmares. Always the responsible president, never the girl pressed against his chest.
It looks different now.
Smaller. Warmer. More dangerous.
He tosses my coat onto the chair, shuts the door with a quiet click, and then we’re alone in a way we haven’t been before—no teammates, no sisters, no audience. Just us.
Just this.
“Last chance,” he says, voice rough. “Tell me to back off.”
I should.
I don’t.
Instead, I cross the space between us and grab a handful of his hoodie. “Shut up and kiss me, Shaw.”
Something dark flares in his eyes.
He obeys.
The next kiss is deeper. Less careful. His hands roam to my waist, then higher, then down, mapping me like he’s been waiting for this map his entire life.
My own hands slide under the hem of his hoodie, palms finding bare skin. He’s warm and solid and all hard muscle, and the sound he makes when I touch him there goes straight to my knees.
“Harper,” he groans, pressing me back toward the bed, walking me there with slow, unhurried steps like he has all the time in the world to undo me.
The backs of my legs hit the mattress.
I sit without meaning to.
He follows, towering over me for a heartbeat, eyes searching mine.
“Still okay?” he asks.
“You ask a lot of questions for someone who won’t stop kissing me,” I manage, breathless.
His mouth curves. “You can walk out anytime.”
I look at the door.
At him.
At the door again.
I don’t move.
Instead, I curl my fingers into his shirt and tug him down to me.
He catches himself with one hand on the bed, the other braced on my hip. We fit together in a way that feels… inevitable. His weight is careful but present, a reminder of exactly how strong he is and exactly how easy it would be for him to make me feel—
I cut that thought off before it finishes, heat flooding my face.
He kisses me again, slower and deeper, like he’s savoring it now. My head tips back, his lips tracing the curve of my mouth, the angle of my jaw, the spot just below my ear that makes my whole body shiver.
I clutch at him, nails digging into his back through the fabric.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he murmurs against my throat.
“That this is a terrible idea,” I whisper.
“And?”
“And I don’t want it to stop.”
His breath catches, hot on my skin.
“Good,” he says, voice rough. “Because neither do I.”
The tension between us hums, thick and electric. Every inch of me feels tuned to him—every inhale, every shift of his weight, every brush of his fingers, every scrape of his mouth against mine.
I don’t know what happens after this.
What we’ll be.
What we’ll break.
Right now, all I know is this:
I want him.
And for once, he wants me too.
The rest can wait.
For tonight, I let myself fall into the heat and the want and the sound of him breathing my name like a promise, knowing exactly how close we are to crossing a line we can never uncross.
And not backing away.