Chapter 90 Chapter 89
Harper POV
When the door clicks shut behind Logan, the quiet in my room feels louder than the entire house downstairs.
I don’t move for a second. I just stand there, staring at the spot where he was, like the air might still be warm enough to prove he didn’t make the whole thing up.
He came.
Alone.
No Cole. No buffer. No carefully curated distance.
Just Logan, standing in my doorway with that look on his face—like he’d walked in ready to get torn apart and decided he deserved it.
And I did tear into him. A little. Not enough. Not the way I could have.
Because the second he said I’m scared, something in me shifted.
Not softened. Not forgave.
Shifted.
Like my body remembered that he’s not only a hockey player and a headline and a set of dumb decisions. He’s a person with a pulse. With fear. With something complicated behind his eyes that isn’t arrogance.
I press my palm to my chest, like I can physically hold my heart still.
It doesn’t help.
The house is still buzzing—someone laughs on the stairs, the TV blares a cheer from a game, a voice in the hallway calls out, “Who stole my charger?” like that’s the biggest tragedy in the world.
I envy that kind of simple outrage.
I cross the room slowly and sit on the edge of my bed. My knees bounce once, twice, like they can’t decide whether to collapse or run.
On my nightstand, my phone sits face down.
I don’t touch it.
Because if I do, I’ll do something stupid.
Like text him:
Are you serious?
Was that real?
Why did it take you this long?
Don’t do this if you’re going to disappear again.
Or worse—
Thank you.
No.
I’ve done gratitude for crumbs before. It never ends well.
He came. That’s not nothing.
But it also isn’t everything.
I let out a breath and stare at my bookshelf without really seeing it. My brain keeps replaying the conversation in jagged little clips: his voice low, steady, trying to be brave. My own voice sharper than I meant. The way he didn’t push into my space, didn’t touch me, didn’t try to charm his way out of consequences.
The way he looked like he was holding himself still on purpose.
I’m here. Alone. No buffer. No exit strategy.
The words wrap around my ribs and squeeze.
It’s terrifying how badly I want to believe him.
And how angry I am that I do.
A knock taps at my door—soft, familiar, impatient.
Before I can answer, it cracks open.
Lila pokes her head in like a raccoon looking for snacks.
“Okay,” she says. “I saw Logan Shaw walking down the hallway like a man leaving a crime scene. Tell me everything, or I will start screaming random accusations until you talk.”
I blink. “Did you—were you listening?”
“No,” she says, offended. “I was eavesdropping ethically. Like a best friend.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is if I say it with confidence.”
She slips inside and closes the door behind her, eyes narrowing as she takes in my face.
“Oh,” she says, quieter now. “He really got to you.”
I hate that she can read me like this.
“It’s not like that,” I say automatically.
Lila lifts an eyebrow so high it’s almost theatrical.
I sigh and lean back on my hands. “Okay. It is like that.”
She nods like she’s been expecting it. “Talk.”
I hesitate, then say, “He came here.”
“Yes,” she says. “I gathered, considering the fact that I watched him leave like someone just handed him the emotional bill for the past six months.”
“He apologized.”
“Did he, though? Or did he do that Logan thing where he says four vague sentences and expects everyone to clap?”
I shoot her a look.
She holds up her hands. “I’m asking. I need details. It’s my love language.”
I swallow. “He said he was scared.”
Lila’s expression shifts. She goes still.
“That’s… new,” she admits.
“I said that.”
She points at me. “I know. I’m agreeing. Don’t take this away from me.”
I rub my forehead. “He said he brought Cole because he cared too much and didn’t trust himself.”
Lila makes a face like she bit into a lemon. “Okay. Still dumb.”
“Very dumb.”
“But?” she presses.
“But he didn’t make excuses,” I say. “He didn’t joke. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t try to… smooth it over. He just stood there and took it.”
Lila’s mouth presses into a line. “That’s… also new.”
I stare at my hands. “He said he’s tired of pretending it’s just PR or timing. He said… he’s afraid to choose something that isn’t the plan.”
Lila is quiet for a second, which is how I know it mattered.
Then she says, softer, “And what did you say?”
“I told him I won’t be kept in the waiting room.”
Lila nods. “Good.”
“And he said he’s not asking for promises,” I add. “He’s asking for a chance to stop being a coward.”
Lila leans back against my dresser and studies me.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “So he showed up. Alone. Like a grown man. And he said words that indicate feelings.”
“Yes.”
“That’s dangerous,” she says immediately.
I blink. “That’s your takeaway?”
“I’m a realist,” she says. “The second he becomes emotionally competent, you’re in trouble.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
She points at me. “Listen. I’m not saying it’s bad. I’m saying it’s risky. Because what you want—what you’ve wanted—has never been his biggest skill set.”
I swallow hard. “I know.”
Lila pushes off the dresser and comes closer, sitting beside me on the bed.
“Are you okay?” she asks, genuinely now.
The question hits differently when it’s not sarcastic.
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Then—because apparently tonight is the night for honesty—I say, “I don’t know.”
Lila nods like that’s an acceptable answer. “Okay. Then start here: do you believe him?”
I stare at the wall.
If Logan had shown up with some grand speech and a bouquet and a practiced smile, I would’ve laughed in his face. If he’d tried to seduce me into forgiving him, I would’ve shoved him out of my room.
But he didn’t.
He looked… scared.
Not performative scared. Not puppy-eyed. Not strategic.
Real.
“I think he meant it,” I say finally.
Lila hums. “That’s not the same as ‘he’ll follow through.’”
“I know,” I whisper.
I squeeze my eyes shut, suddenly furious all over again.
Because I hate this.
I hate how easy it is for him to walk in and say the right things and make my chest ache. I hate how my brain immediately starts building a version of the future where he shows up consistently and doesn’t run and doesn’t bring another man on our dates like we’re in a Victorian novel.
And I hate that part of me is still bracing for the moment he disappoints me again.
“You know what I’m scared of?” I say suddenly.
Lila looks at me. “You becoming Mrs. Hockey Trauma?”
I snort despite myself. “No.”
She smiles. “Okay. Tell me.”
I stare down at my blanket. “I’m scared that I’ll let him in… and it’ll just teach him he can keep doing this.”
Lila’s expression softens. “Harper…”
“Like,” I continue, voice getting tighter, “I’ll be the lesson he learns on. He’ll figure out how to be better—how to show up, how to love someone—and then when it actually costs him something, he’ll pick the plan anyway.”
The words taste like something I’ve been avoiding for a long time.
I blink hard.
Lila doesn’t interrupt. She lets me have it.
“That’s the worst kind of heartbreak,” I finish quietly. “The one where you helped someone become the person you needed and they still don’t choose you.”
Lila exhales slowly. “Okay. Yeah. That’s a real fear.”
My throat burns. “I hate that I’m even thinking like this.”
“Don’t,” she says immediately. “Don’t hate yourself for that. Your instincts are doing their job. You got hurt. You’re trying to not get hurt again.”
I nod, swallowing.
Lila leans closer. “What did you feel when he showed up?”
I hesitate, then admit, “Humiliated. Still.”
“Because of Cole?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” she says. “And after that?”
I take a shaky breath. “Angry.”
“Fair.”
“And then…” I stare at my hands. “Hopeful.”
Lila makes a pained sound. “Gross.”
I laugh, and it comes out watery.
“Stop,” I tell her, smiling despite myself.
“I’m sorry,” she says, holding up her hands. “Hope is disgusting. It’s like glitter. It gets everywhere and never leaves.”
I shake my head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” she says, “you love me.”
I do.
That’s the safe kind of love.
The kind that doesn’t make my whole body feel like it’s leaning off a cliff.
Lila stands and goes to my door, cracks it open, and yells down the hallway, “NO ONE COME UP HERE, HARPER IS HAVING A MOMENT.”
Someone downstairs yells, “WE’RE ALWAYS HAVING A MOMENT!”
Lila shuts the door again and turns back, pleased. “There. Privacy acquired.”
I stare at her. “You are truly unhinged.”
“Thank you,” she says, bowing slightly. Then she sits again. “Okay. Practical question: what do you want to do now?”
I look at my phone.
It’s still face down.
I don’t flip it.
“I don’t want to chase him,” I say.
“Good,” Lila says.
“I don’t want to reward him for doing the bare minimum,” I add.
“Also good.”
“But I don’t want to punish him for showing up,” I admit, quieter.
Lila nods. “Now we’re in the complicated zone.”
I sigh. “I want… consistency.”
Lila points at me. “There it is.”
I swallow. “I want him to show up again. Not just once. Not when he’s panicking. Not when he’s trying to fix optics. I want him to show up because he decided I matter.”
Lila’s eyes soften. “Then make that the standard.”
“How?”
“You set boundaries,” she says. “And you don’t bend them because he has nice eyes and a tragic jawline.”
I snort. “He does have a tragic jawline.”
“He does,” she agrees. “It’s very irritating.”
I lean back against my pillows. My heart still feels like it’s humming.
“Do you think he’ll do it?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Lila’s gaze sharpens. “Do I think Logan Shaw can change?”
I nod.
She considers it, then says, “I think he can. I also think he will fight it like an addict fights sobriety.”
I blink. “That’s… grim.”
“It’s honest,” she says. “And you deserve honest.”
I stare at the ceiling.
Logan’s face flashes in my mind again—serious, tense, vulnerable in a way he probably hates.
I’m here anyway.
My chest tightens.
I sit up suddenly and flip my phone over.
Lila watches me like she’s witnessing a live grenade.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m not texting him,” I say quickly.
Lila narrows her eyes. “That sounds like something someone says right before they text him.”
“I’m not,” I insist.
I open my notes app instead.
Lila leans over. “What is that?”
“A list,” I say, typing.
“A list?”
“Yes,” I mutter. “Because if I don’t write it down, I’ll forget it the second he looks at me like I’m the only thing in the room.”
Lila smiles slowly. “Oh, I like this.”
I type:
1\. No more PR dates.
2\. No more Cole chaperones.
3\. If he shows up, he shows up alone.
4\. If he runs, I don’t follow.
5\. If he wants me, he chooses me out loud.
I stare at it, breathing hard, like I just ran laps.
Lila nods like a proud coach. “Yes. That’s the energy.”
I set the phone down again.
My hands are shaking slightly.
Not with fear.
With adrenaline.
Because for the first time in a long time, it feels like I might actually have control here.
And that scares me too.
Lila stands and stretches. “I’m going to go back downstairs and make sure nobody tries to climb the stairs and ask you about your ‘date’ like a pack of hyenas.”
“Thank you,” I say.
She pauses at the door and looks back at me. “Harper?”
“Yeah?”
“If he shows up again… and he does it right… don’t punish him because the old version of him was stupid.”
My throat tightens.
“I won’t,” I promise. “But I’m not saving him either.”
Lila points at me. “Good. You’re not his rehab.”
Then she leaves, shutting the door behind her.
I sit there alone in the quiet that isn’t really quiet, because the house still lives around me.
And I let myself feel it.
The hurt.
The humiliation.
The hope.
Logan came to me.
That’s a fact.
What happens next is a choice.
His.
And mine.
I pick up my phone one last time, thumb hovering over his name.
I don’t text.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I let him sit with it.
Tonight, I let myself breathe.
And in the dark, with the house buzzing beneath me and my heart still too loud in my chest, I realize something that makes me both relieved and terrified:
If Logan wants me, he’s going to have to keep showing up.
Because I’m done accepting almost.