Chapter 91 Chapter 90
Harper POV
The lecture hall smells like coffee and dry erase markers and too many people who didn’t get enough sleep.
I’m already in my seat when Logan walks in late.
Of course he does.
The door opens halfway through the professor’s sentence, and I don’t look at first. I don’t have to. I feel it—the subtle shift in the room, the way attention drifts, the way a presence like his always seems to pull gravity with it.
Then I hear the chair scrape.
Two rows behind me. Slightly to the left.
I keep my eyes on my notebook.
My handwriting immediately gets worse.
Focus, I tell myself.
This is just class.
Not the scene of emotional crimes.
Not the place where he stood in my doorway last night and said things that rewired my nervous system.
Just class.
The professor continues talking about case studies and ethical frameworks. I underline something twice that doesn’t need it.
I don’t turn around.
But I can feel him there.
I can feel the space he takes up like static.
Every few minutes, I catch myself listening for him instead of the lecture. The sound of his pen. The shift of his weight. The way he always taps his foot when he’s trying to sit still.
I hate that I know that.
I hate that part of me is relieved he came at all.
He could’ve skipped.
He doesn’t.
That should not mean as much as it does.
When the lecture finally ends, the room explodes into movement. Chairs scrape. Bags zip. Someone drops a pen and swears under their breath.
I stay seated a second longer than necessary, pretending to finish a sentence in my notes.
I tell myself I’m not waiting.
I’m lying.
By the time I stand, he’s already in the aisle.
Not blocking me.
Not looming.
Just… there.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
My stomach does something stupid.
“Hey,” I answer, just as quiet.
There’s a thousand things hanging between us.
He doesn’t grab my arm. Doesn’t crowd my space. He looks… careful.
“I’m not here to ambush you,” he says. “I just—can we walk?”
I hesitate.
Then nod.
We move with the crowd, down the stairs, out into the hallway that smells like old books and someone’s over-sweet perfume.
It’s weird, walking next to him like this.
Not touching.
Not fighting.
Not pretending.
Just… existing in the same space.
We stop near the windows, out of the traffic flow.
He shoves his hands in his pockets like he’s not sure what to do with them.
“I didn’t sleep much,” he says.
“That makes two of us.”
He winces a little. “Yeah. I figured.”
Silence stretches.
Not comfortable.
Not hostile.
Just… full.
“I wanted you to know,” he says, “I meant what I said last night.”
I study his face.
No charm.
No performance.
Just honesty, a little rough around the edges.
“That’s good,” I say. “It’s also not enough.”
He nods immediately. “I know.”
That… helps more than it should.
“I’m not asking you to forget anything,” he continues. “Or forgive anything. I just wanted to show up again. Like I said I would.”
My chest tightens.
“Why now?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t dodge it. “Because I realized I’m really good at losing things by being afraid to touch them.”
That feels uncomfortably close to the truth.
“And?” I ask.
“And I don’t want to do that with you.”
I look away, out the window, at students crossing the quad like they don’t have entire emotional subplots wrecking their internal organs.
“I’m not making this easy,” I warn him.
He almost smiles. Almost. “I didn’t expect you to.”
I cross my arms. “What happens when this gets hard?”
“It already is,” he says. “And I’m still here.”
That’s a good line.
It’s also a dangerous one.
I turn back to him. “I’m not doing PR dates. I’m not doing buffers. I’m not doing ‘almost.’”
“Okay,” he says immediately.
“And if you run,” I add, “I’m not chasing you.”
He nods. “Fair.”
I study him for a long second.
“Why do you look like you’re bracing for impact?” I ask.
He exhales. “Because usually when I try to fix things, I make them worse.”
“That’s… self-aware.”
“I’m learning.”
That makes me huff out a quiet, unwilling laugh.
We stand there for a second, neither of us moving.
“I have a meeting,” he says. “But I didn’t want to leave without talking to you.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll… see you around?” he says, not assuming anything.
I consider it.
Then: “Yeah. You will.”
Something in his face eases.
Not victory.
Relief.
He nods once. “Have a good day, Harper.”
“You too, Shaw.”
He turns and walks away.
I watch him go, then immediately hate myself for it.
⸻
The rest of the day feels… off.
Not bad.
Just tilted.
Like the world is the same, but my internal balance is recalibrating.
At lunch, Lila stares at me for approximately three seconds before saying, “You saw him.”
I blink. “How do you—”
“Your face,” she says. “It’s doing that thing where it looks like you’re trying not to smile and not to cry at the same time.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is on you.”
I sigh and sit down. “He talked to me after class.”
“And?”
“And he didn’t screw it up.”
Lila’s eyes widen. “Write this date down. The apocalypse is next.”
“He just… showed up,” I say. “Again.”
She studies me. “And how do you feel about that?”
I think about the hallway. His voice. The way he didn’t push.
“…Cautiously optimistic,” I admit.
She nods. “Good. Cautious is sexy.”
I snort.
⸻
That night, when I’m doing homework, my phone buzzes.
Logan: I said I’d show up. This is me showing up. No pressure to answer.
I stare at it for a long time.
Then type:
I noticed.
Three dots appear.
Then disappear.
Then:
Logan: See you in class.
I set the phone down, heart doing something annoying and hopeful.
He’s not fixed.
Neither am I.
But he’s here.
And for now… that’s something.