Chapter 21 Harlow #2
“You did fine,” he says without hesitation.
“Did it feel like I was being weird?” The question slips out, and I hate myself a little for needing reassurance.
Grayson exhales slowly as he stops, then gently grabs my hand, bringing me to a stop in front of him. “Harlow, I don’t think you’re weird. Ever.”
My throat squeezes as I meet his gaze.
“I think you’re careful,” he continues, his voice gentle. “And I get it. But you don’t have to be careful with me.”
“Why?” I ask, searching his eyes for any hint that he doesn’t actually mean the words he’s saying. But that’s one thing I know I can count on—him saying what he means and meaning what he says.
Grayson’s expression softens. “Because I don’t want anything from you that you don’t want to give,” he says. “And I’m not interested in being another person who makes you feel like you have to earn safety.”
Walking a few more feet, we sit on a bench near the edge where it’s quieter. There’s space between us at first, small but intentional. Enough that I can breathe. Enough that I can decide.
Grayson leans forward, elbows on his knees, letting the moment settle around us.
“You really liked the game,” he says.
“I did,” I admit.
He smiles faintly. “You looked like you were having fun.”
“I was.”
“I’m glad.” The way he says it makes my chest ache.
“You looked different out there,” I say. “Focused.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Sometimes it’s the only place I don’t feel like I’m failing at being a person.”
Instead of pushing, I place my hand on the bench between us. Open. Waiting. Grayson looks at it, then at me, and slowly covers it with his hand, weaving our fingers together. My hand fits perfectly in his, and I don’t think I ever want him to let go.
“Is this okay?” he murmurs.
I nod. I shift closer, resting my shoulder lightly against his arm. He doesn’t move away. Instead, he softly squeezes my hand, like an anchor instead of a claim.
For one second, my body braces out of habit—waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But it doesn’t.
“Can I tell you something?” I ask, already regretting the words as soon as they leave my mouth, but knowing I need to share more of my history to help him put more of the pieces into place.
“Always.”
I take a deep, calming breath. “I’d like to explain about Tyler, and why hearing his name the other day triggered such a reaction, if that’s okay. Just what happened between us that made me…this way.”
Grayson’s eyes search mine, and he nods, encouraging me to talk.
“It started small,” I say, because if I don’t keep it small, I’ll choke on it. “He was…funny. Charming. Everyone loved him. And then,” I continue, still staring at the sidewalk, “he started saying things that I thought were normal at the time but later learned were anything but.”
Grayson doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t fill the space. He just waits, which makes my chest ache because waiting is the kind of patience I’m not used to getting from anyone in my life.
“He’d look at my lunch,” I say, voice quiet, “and make a joke. Not mean. Just…a joke that landed wrong. Then it wasn’t jokes anymore,” I add, the words tasting sour even now. “It was texting. Like—”
I swallow. “Like I owed it to him to be smaller. He said I should lose a couple of pounds before Homecoming,” I say, and I hate that I can still hear the tone in my head—casual, teasing, like he was doing me a favor. “If I wanted to ‘have fun’ after.”
I keep going, because once you crack it open, it spills. “And then it was…if I didn’t, he’d break up with me.” I laugh once, dry and ugly. “Like that was the threat that mattered.”
Grayson’s voice is rough. “Jesus.”
My throat tightens. “And I cared.”
The admission is worse than the details. Because it’s humiliating in the way only teenage wanting is humiliating—how you’ll trade pieces of yourself for attention when you don’t know you’re allowed to be wanted exactly as you are.
“I was fifteen,” I say, like that excuses it, even though it shouldn’t have to. “And Kai was…Kai. Everyone loved him too; everyone watched him. And I thought—if Tyler Rushton wanted me, maybe I wasn’t just…Kai Mercer’s little sister.”
Something flickers over Grayson’s expression. Something pained. Raw.
I don’t know what all Kai has shared, but I know he’s not privy to the details.
“Harlow,” he starts.
“I know,” I cut in quickly. “I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” he says immediately. “It’s human. I don’t really think there’s a feeling much better than being wanted and loved, regardless of who it is.”
My eyes get a little hazy from the tears that I feel hiding near the surface. “And then food became…a problem. I stopped eating enough,” I say. “And when I did eat, I—” My voice catches, heat crawling up my neck. “I fixed it.”
Grayson’s face tightens, his jaw working, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I thought I was being careful,” I whisper.
“I thought I was being in control. The day before Homecoming,” I continue, and my hands start to shake slightly, but Grayson just starts drawing soft circles in my palm, not hurrying me.
Just calming me. “I passed out at school. That’s when shit really hit the fan.
After that, all of my secrets came out. My parents got involved and got me into therapists and doctors, helped me get back to actually nourishing my body instead of hating it.
Though some days I still struggle to not feel that way. ”
I pause, drawing in a long, calming breath, realizing that this is the first time I’ve been able to tell my story in such detail without having a complete breakdown. “Kai beat the shit out of Tyler, and it would’ve gotten a lot worse if their coach hadn’t pulled him off.”
“Good.”
My eyes fly to Grayson, and a look I’ve never seen has taken over his features. All I see is anguish, mixed with anger.
“Fucker deserved that and worse,” he says. “And I won’t apologize for saying that.”
I don’t really know what to say, so I just give him a small smile. He surprises me, reaching out and pulling me into his chest.
“You are perfect just the way you are, Harlow. Any guy would be beyond lucky to be with you. I hope you know that,” he says into my hair. “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me.”
My lungs loosen, and I let myself melt into his warmth, the smell of him bringing even more comfort.
We sit like that until the quad lights flicker on and the air grows cooler, talking about anything and everything, and sometimes nothing at all.
When we finally stand, he walks me back toward my dorm.
At the entrance, he stops just short of the outside door.
“Text me when you’re inside,” he says, swinging our twined hands back and forth, like he’s not ready to let go just as much as I don’t want him to.
“I will.”
He hesitates for a second, then pulls me toward him slightly, opening his arms and leaving just a second for me to decide if this is okay.
I step into him. The hug is quiet and full-body, his arms secure but gentle, his chin resting lightly against the top of my head.
His hand spreads across my back, like he’s grounding me to something solid.
“Thanks for walking with me,” he murmurs against my hair.
I breathe him in. “Figured I could bless you with my presence.”
He chuckles low and pulls me in even closer. When he finally lets go, his gaze is warm and steady—but restrained, like he’s holding himself back on purpose.
“Goodnight, Harlow.”
“Goodnight.”
I go inside and glance back once before the door closes. He’s still there, watching me—not like he’s afraid I’ll disappear, but like he’s forcing himself to let me go.
The last couple months I’ve spent my nights talking to a faceless person in a forum to feel seen. But right now, that doesn’t even cross my mind.
For the first time in years, there’s somewhere I’d rather be than in my room alone.