Chapter 93 Chapter 92
Harper POV
At first, it’s subtle.
The kind of subtle you only notice if you’re already paying attention.
Logan comes back inside with his phone still in his hand, and his face is… different. Not angry. Not exactly. Just closed. Like someone flipped a switch behind his eyes and turned the lights off.
He sits down across from me again, but the warmth is gone.
The ease is gone.
The air between us feels heavier.
“You okay?” I ask gently.
“Yeah,” he says too quickly.
It’s the kind of yeah that means no.
He picks up his coffee like he needs something to do with his hands. Takes a sip. Doesn’t seem to taste it.
I watch him over the rim of my cup.
His shoulders are tighter. His jaw is locked. The little crease between his brows—the one that wasn’t there ten minutes ago—is back.
The Logan who was laughing about the bonfire and my stolen hoodie is gone.
This one looks like he’s bracing for impact.
We try to keep talking.
Or at least, I do.
I mention my statistics professor and how he thinks PowerPoint is an art form. I mention Lila burning another batch of cookies and still insisting they’re “rustic.”
Logan nods. Says “yeah.” Says “that’s crazy.” Says “sounds like her.”
But he’s not here.
Not really.
His eyes keep drifting to the window. To his phone. To somewhere that is very much not me.
Finally, I set my cup down.
“Okay,” I say. “What just happened?”
“Nothing,” he says immediately.
I tilt my head. “That’s not true.”
He exhales through his nose. “Can we not do this?”
“Do what?”
“Whatever this is,” he says, gesturing vaguely between us. “Interrogation hour.”
I study him for a moment.
The café is still warm. Still full of quiet conversation and clinking cups and someone laughing too loud in the corner. But our little bubble feels like it’s gone cold.
“You left smiling,” I say. “You came back like someone pulled a fire alarm in your head.”
He doesn’t answer.
“You didn’t even look at me when you sat down,” I add.
“That’s not—”
“Logan,” I say softly. “I’m not attacking you. I’m just… noticing.”
He presses his lips together.
Then he says, flatly, “Drop it.”
The word hits harder than it should.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“I said drop it,” he repeats, voice sharper now. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
There it is.
The wall.
I lean back in my chair, hurt flashing hot and fast before I can stop it.
“Wow,” I say quietly. “You really do that on purpose, don’t you?”
He frowns. “Do what?”
“That,” I say. “This. You switch. One second you’re… here. And the next you’re made of stone.”
He stiffens.
“It’s like Jekyll and Hyde,” I continue. “Or maybe more like… warm Logan and shut-down Logan.”
“That’s not fair,” he says.
“Isn’t it?” I ask.
He looks away.
The silence stretches.
People around us keep living their lives, completely unaware that something fragile just cracked at our table.
“I told you,” he says finally, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I stare at him.
Not angry.
Not yet.
Just… looking.
Really looking.
At the way his shoulders are drawn in. At the way his fingers are tight around his cup. At the way his eyes won’t quite meet mine anymore.
And suddenly, something clicks.
Not from anything he says.
From everything he doesn’t.
“You didn’t go outside because of the call,” I say slowly.
He tenses.
“You went outside because you knew it was him.”
He looks at me sharply. “Harper—”
“That was your dad, wasn’t it?”
The words hang between us.
He freezes.
Actually freezes.
Like I just said something I wasn’t supposed to know.
For a second, he just stares at me.
Then: “How did you—”
He stops himself.
His mouth closes.
His eyes narrow, not in anger, but in something closer to shock.
“How did you guess?” he asks.
⸻
The moment stretches.
The café noise fades into the background.
I don’t answer right away.
Because the truth is… I didn’t guess.
I recognized.
I’ve seen this before.
Not with him.
But with people who live under pressure that doesn’t turn off.
“With you,” I say slowly, “it’s always the same shift.”
He doesn’t speak.
“You go from present to… gone,” I continue. “From human to controlled. Like someone just reminded you that you’re not allowed to be relaxed.”
His jaw tightens.
“And every time that happens,” I add quietly, “it’s after something about hockey. Or expectations. Or… your future.”
He looks at the table.
I swallow.
“You don’t get tense like this when you’re annoyed,” I say. “Or stressed. Or busy. You get tense like this when you’re… being measured.”
That gets his attention.
He looks up.
“When someone is checking whether you’re still doing everything right,” I say. “Whether you’re still on track. Whether you’re still being who you’re supposed to be.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“And the only person who seems to have that kind of gravity in your life,” I finish, “is your dad.”
The silence is thick.
I can see the fight in his face.
The instinct to shut down. To deny. To deflect.
To turn back into stone.
“So,” I say gently. “Was it him?”
He doesn’t answer.
Not yes.
Not no.
But his silence is loud enough.
My chest tightens.
“I’m not asking to interrogate you,” I say. “I’m not asking you to spill your childhood trauma in a café.”
That almost gets a smile.
Almost.
“I’m just…” I trail off, then try again. “I’m trying to understand why every time things start to feel easy between us, something invisible walks in and takes you away from me.”
His eyes flick up at that.
There’s something raw there.
Something tired.
“You don’t understand,” he says quietly.
“Then help me,” I reply.
He shakes his head once. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Because if I open that door, I don’t know how to close it again.
He doesn’t say that.
But I see it anyway.
“You don’t get to keep doing this,” I say, not unkindly. “You don’t get to ask me to trust you and then disappear every time something hard shows up.”
“I’m not disappearing,” he says.
“You are,” I reply. “You’re sitting right here and you’re gone.”
He looks away again.
My throat burns.
“This is what I was afraid of,” I admit quietly. “Not that you wouldn’t come. But that you’d come… and still not really be here.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction.
“Then what are you doing?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
The space between us feels bigger now.
Colder.
I take a breath.
“I’m not asking you to fix everything today,” I say. “I’m not even asking you to tell me whatever he said.”
I look at him. Really look at him.
“I’m asking you to stop turning into someone I can’t reach.”
His jaw tightens.
“I told you,” he says quietly, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I nod slowly.
“Okay,” I say. “Then I need you to hear something.”
He looks at me.
“If you keep doing this,” I say, “if you keep shutting down every time he reminds you who you’re supposed to be… you’re going to lose things you actually want.”
His eyes flicker.
“And you won’t even notice until they’re already gone.”
The words sit between us, heavy and honest and a little bit terrifying.
He doesn’t respond.
Not yet.
We sit there in silence, two cups of coffee going cold between us.
Finally, he says again, quieter this time:
“How did you guess?”
I look at him.
And realize something all at once:
This isn’t about whether I guessed.
It’s about whether he’s ready to admit it.
And from the way he’s holding himself—
I’m not sure he is.