Chapter 89 Chapter 88
Logan POV
I don’t decide to go to Harper’s.
I just… stop not going.
I’m sitting on my bed at the Ice House, phone in my hand, staring at her name like it might start blinking if I wait long enough.
It doesn’t.
Nothing does.
No sign from the universe. No sudden clarity. No perfect moment.
Just the same pressure in my chest and the same thought I’ve been trying to outrun for weeks:
If I don’t go now, I’m going to lose her.
I grab my keys and leave before I can talk myself out of it.
⸻
The drive is too short and too long at the same time.
Every red light feels like a chance to bail. Every green one feels like the universe daring me to keep going.
By the time I pull up in front of the sorority house, my hands are tight on the steering wheel and my heart is doing something dangerously close to trying to escape my ribs.
The house is lit up. Loud. Alive.
Girls on the porch. Music somewhere inside. Laughter spilling out the open windows.
Normal life.
I sit there for a second, watching it.
This is not a movie.
There is no guarantee this goes well.
But I’m done letting that be the reason I do nothing.
I get out of the car.
⸻
Inside, it’s exactly what I expect and worse.
Busy. Crowded. Someone arguing about laundry. Someone else yelling at the TV. The smell of popcorn and cheap perfume and something fried.
A couple of girls glance at me.
Then really look at me.
Whispers ripple.
I deserve that.
“Uh,” someone says. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Harper Lane.”
That gets more attention.
“Why?”
“Because I’m an idiot,” I say before I can stop myself.
That earns me a look.
“Fair,” she says. “Stairs. End of the hall.”
“Thanks.”
I head for them, feeling like I’m walking into an exam I didn’t study for.
⸻
Her door is closed.
I stand there longer than I should.
Then I knock.
There’s movement inside. Footsteps.
The door opens.
Harper looks at me like I’ve just said something in a language she doesn’t speak.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I’m here to talk to you.”
Her expression hardens a little. “You had your chance to talk to me.”
“I know.”
She doesn’t move.
“I’m not here to argue,” I say. “And I’m not here to make excuses.”
That gives her pause.
“Then why are you here, Logan?”
Because if I don’t say this, I’m going to become someone I don’t recognize.
“Because I’m scared,” I say.
She blinks.
“…Okay,” she says slowly. “That’s new.”
“I know I messed up,” I continue. “I know bringing Cole was—”
“Humiliating,” she says flatly.
I nod. “Yeah. That.”
She crosses her arms. “So what? You came to apologize?”
“Yes,” I say. “But not only that.”
She waits.
“I came because I’m tired of pretending this is about PR, or timing, or pressure, or anything else.”
My voice tightens. “It’s about me being afraid to choose something that isn’t the plan.”
She studies me carefully.
“And I’m not the plan,” she says.
“No,” I say. “You’re the thing that makes me want to burn the plan down.”
That gets a real reaction.
Not soft.
Not easy.
But real.
“That’s a hell of a line,” she says quietly. “Does it come with actions, or is it just… another speech?”
“I’m here,” I say. “Alone. No buffer. No witnesses. No exit strategy.”
She looks past me, down the hall.
Then back at me.
“Come in,” she says.
⸻
Her room is exactly what I expect: organized chaos. Books. Photos. Clothes on a chair. A bed that looks like it’s been sat on and overthought.
She shuts the door.
“So,” she says. “Talk.”
I swallow.
“I’ve spent my whole life being told what’s next,” I say. “Where I’m going. Who I’m supposed to be. What matters.”
I look at her. “And I’m really good at following that.”
She doesn’t interrupt.
“But I’m terrible at… choosing.”
“Funny,” she says. “Because you’re great at choosing when it doesn’t cost you anything.”
That stings.
She’s not wrong.
“I didn’t bring Cole because I don’t care about you,” I say. “I brought him because I care too much.”
“That’s not romantic,” she says.
“I know,” I say. “It’s just honest.”
She watches me.
“I’m scared of screwing this up,” I admit. “I’m scared of wanting you more than I want the version of my life everyone else already decided on.”
She looks away.
“I don’t want to be something you’re afraid to touch,” she says quietly.
“You’re not,” I say immediately. “You’re something I’m afraid to lose.”
Silence stretches between us.
“You don’t get to keep me in the waiting room,” she says. “I won’t do that.”
“I’m not asking you to,” I say. “I’m asking you to let me try. For real. Without hiding.”
She studies my face like she’s looking for cracks.
“And what happens,” she asks, “when this gets hard?”
I don’t dodge it.
“I stay,” I say. “That’s… literally what I’m here to prove.”
Her eyes soften just a little.
Not enough to be safe.
But enough to be hopeful.
“I’m not promising anything,” she says.
“I’m not asking for promises,” I reply. “I’m asking for a chance to stop being a coward.”
She lets out a breath that sounds like she’s been holding it for days.
“…You’re really bad at this,” she says.
“I know.”
“But you did come,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“That counts for something.”
She steps closer.
Not touching.
Just closer.
“Don’t make me regret this,” she says.
“I’m already terrified,” I admit. “But I’m here anyway.”
She looks at me for a long second.
Then:
“Okay.”
Just one word.
But it feels like the world shifts.
⸻
I don’t touch her.
Not yet.
Because this isn’t about winning.
It’s about staying.
And for the first time, I think I actually can.