Chapter 52 Chapter 51
Harper POV
I tell myself I’m fine.
I tell myself it was just sex.
I tell myself that if I say it enough times, it will start to sound true.
It doesn’t.
It sounds like a lie that’s wearing my voice.
I stand in the shower until the water turns lukewarm, staring at the tile like it might give me answers. My skin still feels too aware of itself, like it remembers hands and heat and weight and a mouth that knew exactly where to linger.
I scrub harder than necessary.
It doesn’t help.
They say sex changes things.
It did.
Just not the way I wanted.
I should feel powerful. Or liberated. Or at least smug. I slept with Logan Shaw. The campus hockey god. The guy half the girls here would trip over themselves for.
Instead, I feel… small.
Not in my body. In my chest.
In that quiet place where you realize you might have wanted something you didn’t get.
I get dressed like I’m going to war.
Hair neat. Makeup minimal but sharp. Clothes that say put-together, not touch-me.
Armor.
By the time I leave my room, my spine is straight and my face is composed and my heart is locked in a box somewhere behind my ribs.
The house is already awake. Doors opening. Laughter drifting down the hall. Someone arguing about coffee. Normal life.
Lila’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug and an expression that’s a little too observant.
She looks at me and her brows lift. “You look like you’re either about to murder someone or run for office.”
“Both require confidence,” I say.
She studies me for another second. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
She tilts her head. “Want to try that again, but with less lying?”
I grab a mug and pour coffee. My hands don’t shake. I’m proud of that.
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
She doesn’t push. She never does. That’s part of why she’s dangerous.
We drink in silence for a minute.
Then she says, carefully, “You came back late.”
“I went for a walk.”
“With Logan.”
It’s not a question.
I close my eyes for half a second. “You don’t know that.”
She gives me a look. “Harper.”
I sigh. “I ran into him.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
That’s not a lie.
Not exactly.
Nothing is happening now.
She watches me. “You look… different.”
“New shampoo,” I say.
She snorts. “Try again.”
I don’t.
Instead, I change the subject, grab my bag, and tell her I’m late.
I’m not.
I just don’t want to keep standing in a kitchen where someone can see through me.
Walking across campus feels like being on display. Like everyone can tell. Like there’s a sign on my forehead that says made a mistake.
Every time someone laughs, I flinch.
Every time my phone buzzes, my stomach drops.
It’s not him.
Of course it’s not.
He’s probably already compartmentalized me.
Filed me under: fun, complicated, done.
I tell myself I don’t care.
That’s another lie.
By the time I get to the student union, I’ve rebuilt my walls into something tall and cold and impressive.
Then I see him.
Logan’s near the coffee kiosk, talking to one of his teammates. He looks… normal.
Relaxed.
Like he didn’t rearrange my insides and then walk away from the mess.
Something sharp twists in my chest.
He glances up.
Our eyes meet.
For half a second, the world holds its breath.
Then his expression shifts. Not into a smile. Not into warmth.
Into… caution.
Distance.
Like he’s already decided what box to put me in.
I look away first.
Good.
I’m not chasing.
I spend the morning in meetings. Budgets. Schedules. Vendor emails. Things I can control.
It helps.
Until it doesn’t.
Because my phone keeps sitting there like a loaded weapon.
At noon, I finally check it.
Nothing.
No text. No apology. No what-are-we.
Just silence.
I should be relieved.
I’m not.
I tell myself it’s because I don’t want things to be awkward.
That’s also a lie.
It’s because some stupid, fragile part of me wanted him to care enough to at least pretend this was complicated.
By the time I leave my last class, my chest feels tight and my patience is worn thin.
And then I see him again.
This time, I don’t pretend not to.
He’s walking toward me down the quad, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.
He slows when he sees me.
So do I.
We stop about three feet apart.
Too close.
Not close enough.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
Silence stretches.
He looks like he wants to say something.
He doesn’t.
I cross my arms. “Is there something you need, Logan?”
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t want things to be weird.”
I let out a short laugh. “Congratulations. You failed.”
He winces. “Harper—”
“No,” I cut in. “You don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say my name like it’s a solution.”
His eyes darken. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“That makes one of us,” I say.
His shoulders tense. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is sleeping with someone and then acting like they’re a scheduling conflict.”
People pass around us. Someone laughs. A bike zips by.
We stand there in the middle of campus, having the world’s quietest disaster.
“I told you I’m not good at this,” he says.
“At what? Being decent?”
He flinches.
Good.
“I didn’t ask for forever,” I say. “I didn’t even ask for promises. I asked you not to treat me like I was… convenient.”
He looks away.
That tells me everything.
I nod. “Okay. Message received.”
“Harper.”
“I’m done,” I say. “I’m not going to pretend this didn’t matter. But I’m also not going to stand here and let you minimize it.”
“I’m not minimizing—”
“You are,” I say quietly. “By acting like I’m something you need to handle.”
His mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
I step back.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m great at compartmentalizing too.”
I walk away before he can answer.
My hands are shaking by the time I get back to the house.
I lock myself in my room and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall.
I hate this.
I hate that I let myself want him.
I hate that it felt good.
I hate that it still does.
Mostly, I hate that I’m the only one who seems to be paying the emotional price.
I pull my laptop onto my knees and force myself to work.
The auction.
The stupid auction that’s going to put us in the same room, on the same stage, smiling for donors like we’re not quietly bleeding all over each other.
I focus on logistics. Seating charts. Talking points.
Anything but the memory of his hands.
Anything but the way he said my name.
By dinner, I’m exhausted.
Lila knocks and lets herself in.
She takes one look at my face and closes the door behind her.
“Okay,” she says. “Now you’re not fine.”
I stare at my screen. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Too bad.”
I sigh. “I slept with him.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh.”
“And now he’s being… him.”
She sits next to me. “Meaning?”
“Distant. Careful. Like I’m something he needs to manage instead of… deal with.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Do you regret it?”
I think about it.
About the way it felt.
About the way I felt.
“No,” I admit. “But I regret what I thought it meant.”
She nods slowly. “That’s the dangerous part.”
I lean back against the pillows and stare at the ceiling.
“I don’t want to be his mistake,” I say. “I don’t want to be the girl he slept with and then filed away.”
“You’re not,” she says immediately.
“I am if I let him,” I reply.
She squeezes my arm. “What are you going to do?”
I exhale.
“I’m going to remember who I am,” I say. “And I’m going to stop giving him access to parts of me he hasn’t earned.”
“That sounds… healthy.”
“It feels like building a wall,” I say. “But I think I need one.”
She nods. “For now.”
For now.
Later that night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling.
My phone is face-down on the nightstand.
I don’t check it.
Not because I don’t want to.
But because I know exactly how much it would hurt if there was nothing there.
So I don’t look.
I close my eyes.
And I start teaching my heart how to be quiet again.