Chapter 12 Harlow
HARLOW
It’s colder, for one. Sharper. Cleaner. The air bites your lungs in a way that feels honest instead of overwhelming. There’s no wall of competing smells, no clatter of trays, no bright overhead lights bouncing off stainless steel and making your brain feel interrogated.
Here, the noise has a purpose.
Skates carving ice. Pucks snapping. A whistle cutting through everything like a clean line.
It’s the kind of chaos my body understands.
That doesn’t mean I’m not nervous.
I’m nervous in the way you’re nervous when you step back into a version of yourself you haven’t seen in a while—like it might not be there anymore. Like it’ll be replaced by the person everyone’s been treating you like since the worst year of your life.
Fragile. Watched. A problem to manage.
Kai walks half a step in front of me as we cut across campus toward the rink, shoulders squared like he’s escorting a VIP through enemy territory.
Which, in his mind, he probably is.
“Are you staying for the skate or ditching once we get there?”
“I’m walking you,” he says, “but I don’t think I’m staying.”
“So you’re hovering.”
Kai glances at me, and the look on his face is pure older-brother menace. “I’m making sure you get there.”
My teeth clench, even though I know he means well. “I’m almost twenty-one.”
Kai’s mouth tightens. “I know.”
“You act like you don’t.”
He exhales through his nose like he’s trying to stay calm on purpose. “Weston invited you.”
“Weston invited me,” I repeat, dryly. “Which is not exactly a safety guarantee.”
Kai’s mouth twitches—barely. “Exactly.”
We walk in silence for a minute, my tote bumping my hip, my fingers tightening around the strap every time a group of students passes too close.
I’m still learning the rhythm of being here in person. Still learning how to exist without the buffer of a screen. Still learning that bodies and voices and space all come with their own rules.
Kai clears his throat. “If you feel overwhelmed—”
“I will tell you,” I cut in quickly before he can finish. Before he can say we can leave, like my life is a series of exits.
Kai’s jaw ticks. He nods once. “Okay.”
Then, quieter, like it costs him, “I’m proud of you for trying.”
My throat tightens.
I hate that my first instinct is to deflect.
“Don’t make it a thing,” I mutter.
Kai’s mouth twitches. “I wasn’t.”
“You were,” I say automatically, because my brain refuses to accept kindness without trying to neutralize it. Kai doesn’t argue. He just opens the rink door and holds it for me like a normal person. It’s such a small thing. It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
Because he’s trying. In his own intense, terrifying way.
The moment we step inside, the familiar smell hits—ice, rubber, metal, that faint tang of old sweat embedded in the walls like history.
My chest loosens on instinct. This place makes sense. Even if the people in it don’t.
We head toward the benches near the rink entrance, and I spot Weston immediately because he’s essentially a moving advertisement for chaos.
He’s in sweats, hair damp, grin too bright for a Friday evening after surviving a week from hell.
“HARLOW!” he calls—too loud—and my shoulders jump.
Weston catches it and lowers his volume immediately. “Sorry. Hi.”
I blink at him. “You…adjusted.”
Weston beams like he wants a sticker. “I contain multitudes.”
Kai’s stare suggests he contains a death wish.
Weston rocks back on his heels. “Okay, okay. Normal.” He points down the hall. “Public skate’s on the far end. You brought your skates?”
I lift my tote. “Yes.”
Weston nods. “Prepared. We love to see it.”
Kai steps in, voice flat. “Don’t push her.”
Weston’s grin softens. “I won’t.”
Then he adds, because he can’t help himself, “But I might hype her up.”
Kai’s eyes narrow. “No.”
Weston points at him. “You’re the worst.”
Kai doesn’t deny it.
Asher appears behind Weston, like responsibility made a person and taught him how to skate.
He nods once at me. “Harlow.”
I nod back. “Asher.”
His brows lift slightly. “You’re skating.”
Weston claps his hands once. “She’s building community.”
Asher’s mouth twitches faintly. “Weston is…a lot.”
“That’s my brand,” Weston says proudly.
Kai’s gaze lands on me. “I’ll be over there.” He gestures toward the bleachers.
I stare at him. “You’re really not skating?”
“I’m here,” he says, stubborn. “I’m not in your space.”
“You are literally hovering with a seating plan.”
Weston leans in, whispering, “Mother hen.”
Kai’s glare sharpens.
Weston lifts both hands. “Done. I’m done.”
Asher’s voice stays calm. “We’ve got her, Kai.”
Kai’s jaw tightens, but he moves to the bleachers like he’s setting up surveillance. My chest twists. Annoyance, yes.
But also…comfort.
I hate that I need comfort.
Weston claps again—quieter this time. “Okay. Skates on.”
I lace up slowly.
One loop. Pull tight. Breathe.
Weston is beside me, lacing hockey skates with frantic energy, like patience is a personal insult. “So. Are you a rink rat or a secret Olympic prodigy?”
“Neither,” I say. Not anymore, anyway. Not since believing a lie cost me everything. Not since him.
Weston’s eyes widen. “Humble. Incredible.”
Asher sits on my other side, calm and methodical, like he’s in control of his body at all times.
Which is…annoying.
Weston launches onto the ice like he’s been shot out of a cannon and almost eats it immediately.
I freeze instinctively.
Weston catches himself, grinning. “I meant to do that.”
Asher glides out after him with humiliating grace. Of course he does.
And then I see Grayson.
He’s stepping onto the ice near the far boards—hood up, hands in his pockets like he’d rather disappear into the walls than be perceived. Which is an impressive choice for a guy who looks like that.
His dark hair peaks out beneath a beanie; his blue eyes framed by dark lashes scan around the rink. He isn’t joining the chaos. He’s staying along the edge. Present, but not approaching.
Like he’s doing math, reminding himself of a rule. The one Kai warned everyone about without warning me. The one who offered me a bagel and then pretended it wasn’t a big deal.
My heart rate starts increasing, and I turn away quickly, pushing into a wider arc.
I’m not doing this for anyone else, I’m doing this for me.
Weston skates up beside me, too close, because personal space isn’t in his vocabulary. “Okay. Show me something.”
“I’m not—”
“Only if you want,” he says, and the softness in his voice is strange coming from someone who usually sounds like an air horn. “Something that makes you feel like you.”
That lands in my chest like a soft punch.
I swallow hard, then nod. I pick a line on the ice and push.
Harder this time. Cleaner. Crossovers come back like muscle memory.
My edges bite. My hips turn. My lungs burn in a good way.
The rink falls away, the noise fading along with it.
It’s just ice and movement and the part of me that has always been able to speak through my body when words get stuck.
I don’t jump or spin—nothing dramatic. Just speed. Flow. A few quick turns. A deep edge. A small spiral that makes my arms extend without thinking. And for the first time all week, I feel like I’m breathing without permission.
When I slow down and glide to a stop, Weston looks at me like I just performed magic.
“Okay,” he says, quieter. “That was really, really good.”
I blink. “Weston.”
He points at me. “Artistry. I’m appreciating artistry.”
Asher glides up, expression neutral, but his eyes are softer. “You’re good.”
I swallow. “Thanks.”
Weston claps once. “I’m so glad I invited you.”
From the bleachers, Kai’s voice cuts sharp. “Weston.”
Weston cups his hands and shouts back, “She’s skating! Stop hovering!”
Kai’s glare could melt ice.
Weston turns to me, grinning. “Your brother loves me.”
“He does not,” I say.
“Deep down,” Weston insists. “Under the rage.”
Asher’s tone is a calm threat. “Weston. Give her space.”
Weston gasps. “Are you saying I’m too much?”
Asher doesn’t blink. “Yes.”
Weston looks personally wounded. A snort slips out of me—quick, quiet—and Weston whips toward me like he caught a rare animal on camera.
“DID YOU JUST LAUGH?”
I glare. “No.”
He points triumphantly. “She laughed. She likes us.”
My cheeks heat. It shouldn’t matter. But it does. Because “liking people” has felt dangerous for years. Like if I attach myself, I’ll become a burden. And yet here I am, surrounded by loud boys in skates, and the danger feels…manageable.
I catch movement on the far boards again. Grayson is still there, skating the perimeter. Not watching me. Not trying to join.
Just…present.
And there’s tension in it—like he wants to skate closer but is forcing himself not to. Like proximity is a choice he keeps refusing.
My chest tightens with something I don’t have a name for.
Weston suddenly skates in front of me, backward, hands out. “Okay. One more thing. What do you want from this?”
I blink. “From skating?”
He nods, oddly serious. “Yeah.”
I hesitate.
Because the answer isn’t simple.
I give him the version I can say out loud.
“I want it to be…quiet.”
Weston’s grin softens. “Okay.”
Asher says, low, “Then we keep it quiet.”
Weston mimes zipping his mouth. And miracle of miracles—he skates away.
I exhale slowly and let myself glide along the boards, letting the cold air settle my nervous system.
For a few minutes, it’s just me and the ice.
Then a shadow slides into my periphery. I glance over.
Grayson is skating beside me now. Still not too close, angled slightly away, giving me space the way he did in the dining hall—like he’s offering company without asking for anything in return and only if I want it.
My chest tightens.
He keeps his gaze forward. His voice is low so it doesn’t carry.
“Hey,” he says.
I swallow. “Hey.”
We glide in silence for a few seconds. The sound of blades fills it. Then he speaks again, like he’s trying to make it normal.
“Weston’s going to try to race you.”
I blink. “He already tried.”
Grayson’s mouth quirks. “He’ll try again.”
I huff quietly. “He’s relentless.”
“Yep,” Grayson says. Then, quieter, like it’s aimed at himself more than me, “He doesn’t have an off switch.”
Something in my chest tugs at the way he says it.
Like he wishes he could be like that. I glance at him, a quick sideways look.
His face is calm, but there’s a tightness around his eyes that wasn’t there before.
Like he’s holding himself back, probably thinking about my brother sitting up in the bleachers.
Finally, he asks, “You okay?”
It’s simple. It shouldn’t matter.
It does anyway.
I shrug. “I’m…better here. It’s not as quiet as it was over the weekend, but it’s still good.”
Grayson nods once, like he understands without needing details. “Yeah. Makes sense.”
I hesitate, then ask before I can stop myself, “What about you?”
He blinks. “What about me?”
“Why are you here?” I say and regret it immediately because it sounds accusatory.
Grayson’s mouth quirks. “I live here. Also play hockey here.”
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
He hesitates like he’s deciding how much truth is safe.
Then he says, carefully, “I couldn’t sit still.”
That’s it. No drama. No explanation. Just restlessness. I understand restlessness all too well.
I nod once. “Same.”
His gaze flicks to me, and something softens like he didn’t expect the word to fit both of us.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Same.”
We keep skating without talking, just sharing space, and it’s strange how my body doesn’t tense like it does with most people. Strange how silence with him doesn’t feel like a test. It feels comfortable.
Weston rockets past us, screaming, “RACE TIME!”
Asher’s voice follows, flat. “Weston.”
Weston ignores him and keeps going.
Grayson’s mouth twitches. “Told you.”
I snort before I can stop myself.
Grayson’s gaze flicks to me, amused. “That was a laugh.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I mutter.
“It was,” he says, tone light. “I made you laugh.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t go taking credit for Weston’s comedy act.”
Grayson laughs softly, the sound filling my lungs in a way I can’t explain, but I feel it clear to my toes. He lifts a hand slightly, smiling. “I won’t.”
He has a really, really good grin. The faintest sign of a dimple popping just on the left side, his eyes lighting up in a mesmerizing shade of blue that I don’t get to see often. It makes my chest feel weird again.
The session winds down, and we skate off toward the benches. My legs are pleasantly tired, and my chest feels lighter, my mind quieter.
Kai meets me at the rink exit, like he’s been waiting for permission to worry out loud.
“You okay?” he asks immediately.
I nod. “I’m okay.”
Kai’s gaze flicks over my face like he’s scanning for cracks. “You sure?”
I clench my jaw. “Kai.”
He exhales. “Sorry.”
Weston bounces over, grinning. “She was great.”
Kai’s eyes narrow. “Weston—”
Weston lifts his hands. “I didn’t push. I did great.”
Asher appears behind them. “He did.”
Kai looks mildly surprised, which is satisfying.
Grayson is there too, a little behind, hood up, hands in his pockets. He catches my gaze for half a second, then looks away. Not a rejection, but a choice, like he’s giving me control over whether this becomes a thing. It shouldn’t matter as much as it does.
Tyler never gave me choices. It was his way or no way. He never respected me enough to even ask or care about what I wanted.
Shaking myself from the thought, I glance at Kai. “Can we go?”
Kai nods immediately. “Yeah.”
I don’t say goodbye before we head for the exit because I can’t seem to find the words I want to say.
But as we walk out, I glance back once, feeling his stare.
Grayson is still by the boards, his gaze meeting mine for a second before moving to the ice, like he’s trying to lose something inside it.
Or maybe he’s trying not to want something.
The thought follows me all the way back to my dorm.
When I get inside my room, my body is tired in a good way. My brain is quieter than it’s been in days. I kick off my shoes and set my skates by the door, then stare at my phone on the bed.
I don’t open the forum. Not right away, at least.
For once, I don’t feel the desperation to fill the silence, and that feels like a victory in itself.
It also makes my chest ache, because the quiet in my mind came from being near people. From being near him.
I open the forum screen and stare at NumberEleven’s name without typing.
My thumb hovers over the message box.
I type one word.
safe
Then I delete it.
I set my phone down and press my face into my pillow, letting the cold from the rink and the warmth in my chest exist at the same time.
Two separate lives. Two separate people.
That’s what I remind myself.