Chapter 32
HARLOW
The laptop screen cast a soft blue glow across Owen’s comforter as we lay sprawled across his bed, our legs tangled together like some kind of human pretzel.
My chin was propped on my folded arms, my feet kicked up behind me, occasionally brushing against his shoulder when I shifted.
His feet were doing the same thing near my head, though he’d at least had the decency to put on clean socks after the shower.
Small mercies.
“This is so unrealistic,” Owen said, gesturing at the screen where the female lead had just literally fallen into the male lead’s arms after tripping over absolutely nothing on a perfectly flat sidewalk. “Who trips like that? In broad daylight? On cement?”
“It’s romantic.”
“It’s a liability lawsuit waiting to happen.”
I nudged him with my knee. “You have no soul.”
“I have a soul. It just has standards.” He shifted, his ankle hooking around mine in a way that sent warmth spreading up my leg. “If I tried to catch a woman who fell like that, we’d both end up in the hospital.”
“That’s because you have the reflexes of a sloth.”
“Excuse me?” He twisted to look at me, mock offense written across his face. “I’m a hockey player. My reflexes are elite.”
“On the ice, maybe. In normal human situations, you’re a disaster.” I grinned at him. “Remember when you tried to catch that glass Syn knocked off the counter last summer?”
“That glass was defective.”
“You punched it into the wall, Owen.”
“It was a reflex.”
“An elite reflex?”
He grabbed my ankle and tugged, making me yelp and slide a few inches down the bed. “Keep talking, and I’ll push you off.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
His eyes glinted with challenge. “Try me.”
I held his gaze, neither of us blinking. On screen, the rom-com couple was having their first awkward coffee date, but I completely lost the plot. All I could focus on was the warmth of Owen’s hand still wrapped around my ankle, the way his thumb was tracing circles against my skin.
“Truce?” I offered.
“Truce.” He released my ankle but immediately hooked his leg over mine, keeping us connected. “But only because I want to see how this trainwreck of a movie ends.”
“It’s not a trainwreck. It’s a classic.”
“The guy just said ‘you’re not like other girls’ unironically. That’s a red flag the size of Texas.”
I laughed, the sound muffled against my arms. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet here you are.” His voice had gone softer, losing its teasing edge. “Watching terrible movies with me on a Wednesday night.”
“Thursday.”
“What?”
“It’s Thursday. It’s past midnight.”
He was quiet for a moment, and I felt him shift on the bed, his body turning until he was lying on his side, facing me. I mirrored him, rolling onto my hip so we were looking at each other, our legs still tangled in the middle like neither of us wanted to break that connection.
The laptop kept playing, forgotten.
“Hi,” Owen said.
“Hi yourself.”
“You’re hogging the blanket.”
I glanced down. I was, in fact, lying on approximately eighty percent of the blanket while he had a sad little corner. “Survival of the fittest.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“It’s exactly how that works. Darwin would be proud.”
He reached over, tugging at the blanket, and I held on with the determination of someone defending their territory. We engaged in a brief, silent tug-of-war that ended with me losing my grip and sliding across the bed toward him.
“Cheater,” I accused, now significantly closer than I was before.
“Strategist,” he corrected.
We were face-to-face now, close enough that I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to. Close enough that I could see the way the laptop light caught in his eyes, turning them into something ethereal.
“Your feet are cold,” I said, because someone had to break the tension before I combusted.
“Your feet are freezing. I’m pretty sure you’re actually hypothermic.”
“Then warm me up.”
His pupils dilate slightly, something heated flickering across his expression before he schooled it back into casual amusement.
“Is that a line?” he asked.
“It’s a statement of fact. My circulation is terrible.”
“Mhm.” He reached down and grabbed my foot, pulling it up and tucking it between his calves. The warmth was immediate. “Better?”
“Much.” I wiggled my toes against his leg. “You’re very useful.”
“I live to serve.”
We lay there for a moment, the movie playing softly in the background.
“They’re so dumb,” Owen observed. “Just talk to each other. Use your words.”
“That’s not how rom-coms work. There has to be a third-act conflict.”
He shifted closer, his hand finding mine between us, and his fingers threaded through mine like it was the most natural thing in the world. “If I was that guy, I would have just told her the truth from the beginning.”
“Would you?”
“Yeah.” His thumb brushed across my knuckles. “What’s the point of being with someone if you can’t be honest with them?”
I thought about all the years I spent hiding my feelings for him, all the secrets and half-truths and deflections. Now here we were, tangled together on his bed.
“I think you might actually be a romantic after all,” I said quietly.
“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
“Your reputation as what? A grumpy hockey player who critiques rom-coms?”
“Exactly.”
I laughed, and he smiled at the sound, that real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“What’s your favorite part?” he asked.
“Of what?”
“Of this.” He gestured vaguely with our joined hands. “Being here. With me.”
The question caught me off guard. I considered it seriously, thinking about all the small moments that had made up the past few weeks, the morning coffee he always had waiting, the way he’d text me stupid memes during class, the feel of falling asleep against his chest.
“The quiet parts,” I finally said. “Like this. When it’s just us, and we don’t have to be anywhere or do anything. We can just... exist.”
Something shifted in his expression, went softer somehow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I squeezed his hand. “What about you?”
“Everything.” The word came out simple and honest. “I like everything about having you here. I like your stuff everywhere. I like that you make me watch terrible movies and pretend you don’t cry at the endings.”
“I don’t cry at the endings.”
“You cried at the dog movie last weekend.”
“The dog died, Owen. The dog died and went to doggy heaven, and came back as a different dog to find his owner. That’s heartbreaking.”
“You went through an entire box of tissues.”
“That’s a normal amount of tissues for a movie about reincarnating dogs.”
He grinned. “I love that about you.”
My heart stuttered. “What, my excessive tissue usage?”
“The way you feel things. You don’t hold back. You just... let yourself feel it. I’ve never been good at that.”
“You’re getting better,” I said. “You told me I was your everything the other day. That’s very feelings-forward.”
“I was trying to get in your pants.”
“Liar.”
“Fine. I was trying to get into your pants and also express genuine emotion. Multitasking.”
I freed my hand from his just so I could shove his shoulder. He caught my wrist and used it to pull me closer, until we were nose to nose on his pillow, breathing the same air.
“Tell me something,” he murmured.
“Like what?”
“Anything. Something I don’t know.”
I thought about it, sorting through all the little pieces of myself I hadn’t shared yet. “I used to write your name in my journal. With hearts around it. Like I was twelve.”
His grin was blinding. “When?”
“High school. Maybe a little bit of college.”
“That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“No, I love it.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “I’m honored to have been the subject of your doodles.” Another kiss, this one to my nose. “Tell me more like did you practice signing your name with my last name?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Your hesitation says otherwise.”
“I’m invoking my right to remain silent.”
“That’s not a thing in relationships.”
“It should be.”
He laughed, and I felt it everywhere.
He pulled me closer, tucking me against his chest.
On the laptop, the movie had reached its climax, the big romantic gesture, the declaration of love.
But I didn’t turn to watch.
I just closed my eyes and listened to Owen’s heartbeat, steady and strong beneath my ear, and thought about how this, the quiet, the warmth, the simple act of being together, was better than any movie moment could ever be.
“Hey,” Owen said softly.
“Hmm?”
“I think this might be my favorite part, too.”
I smiled against his chest. “The quiet parts?”
“The you parts.” His hand came up to stroke my hair. “All of them.”
We stayed like that until the movie ended. Neither of us moved to turn it off. Neither of us needed anything more than this.
Or so I thought.
“Hey.” Owen’s voice rumbled through his chest. “I almost forgot to ask you something.”
I tilted my head up to look at him. “If it’s about the last slice of pizza in the fridge, I already ate it.”
“You... wait, seriously?”
“It was calling to me. I had no choice.”
He shook his head, but his lips were twitching. “That’s not what I was going to ask, but we’re definitely circling back to the pizza theft later.”
“It’s not theft if we live together. It’s communal property.”
“That’s not how pizza works.” He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at me properly. “I have a game Friday night.”
“I know. You’ve been stressing about it all week.”
He took a breath, and I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. Owen Taylor, nervous. It was such a rare sight that I found myself holding my breath, waiting.
“Will you come?” he asked. “To the game?”
The question landed somewhere between my ribs and stayed there. He wanted me there. At his game. In public, where anyone could see.
My heart was doing something embarrassing in my chest. But I kept my expression neutral, lifting one shoulder in what I hoped was a casual shrug.
“I guess I could clear my schedule.”
“You guess?”
“I mean, I do have a very important date with my anatomy textbook. And there’s this documentary about penguins I’ve been meaning to watch...”
“Harlow.”
“Fine.” I let the smile break through, unable to contain it anymore. “Yes. Obviously yes. I would love to come.”
The grin that split across his face was worth every second of playing it cool. He practically launched himself off the bed, leaving me blinking at the sudden absence of warmth.
“Where are you...”
“Hold on. Stay there. Don’t move.”
He disappeared into his closet, and I heard hangers sliding and boxes being shuffled. I pushed myself up onto my elbows, curiosity getting the better of me.
“What are you...”
He emerged, holding something behind his back. His eyes were bright with excitement. But this felt different. Bigger.
“Close your eyes.”
“What? Why?”
“Just do it. Please.”
I sighed dramatically but complied, letting my eyelids fall shut. I heard him cross the room and felt the mattress dip as he climbed back onto the bed. Something soft landed in my lap.
“Okay. Open.”
I looked down.
My breath caught.
It was a jersey. Brand new, the fabric was still stiff with that fresh-from-the-store crispness. Black with white and red accents, his team’s colors. I lifted it up, letting it unfold, and my heart slammed against my ribs when I saw the back.
TAYLOR.
His name. His number, seventeen, was printed bold beneath it.
“Owen...”
“I want you to wear it.” He watched me carefully, his eyes dark and serious. “Friday night. At the game.”
“This is...” I ran my fingers over the letters, over the stitching, over this tangible proof of everything we’d become. “You got this for me?”
He nodded as he reached over, his hand covering mine where it rested on the jersey.
“I know we said we’d wait to tell people and that we’re supposed to be keeping this quiet until we talk to Jax.
But...” He exhaled, a shaky breath. “I’m tired of hiding and pretending like you’re not the most important person in my life. ”
My throat went tight. “Owen.”
He took the jersey from my hands, setting it aside, and cupped my face in his palms. His thumbs traced my cheekbones as he leaned in, pressing his forehead against mine.
“Wear my name on your back,” he murmured, the words brushing against my lips. “Let me show you off. Let everyone in that arena see you in my jersey and know exactly who you belong to.”
He pressed a single kiss on my lips.
When he pulled back, his eyes were blazing.
“I want everyone to know,” he said. “That you’re mine.”
I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him back to me, kissing him harder, deeper, pouring everything I couldn’t say into the press of my lips against his. All those years of wanting. All those months of uncertainty. All of it dissolving into this one perfect moment.
“I’ll wear it,” I breathed against his mouth. “I’ll wear your name.”