Chapter 25 Harlow
HARLOW
“YOU DID WHAT?” Wren screeches through my phone, face insanely close to the screen, paying no mind to the fact that it is far too early and I got far too little sleep.
My blush is well rested as it makes its way up my neck. “I know. I didn’t even think about getting caught or the chance that someone, like my brother, could literally walk in at any second.”
“Harlow Rae Mercer,” she says, a huge smile on her face, causing both dimples to show. “I am in awe of you right now. That’s my GIRL!”
I hide my face in my pillow, grateful I decided to come back to my dorm last night and not crash at Kai’s. I needed time and space to process things after Grayson walked me back to my dorm.
Thankfully, it was dark, and his pants mostly hid the evidence of what had happened. It didn’t stop us from laughing about it, though, which left me even more confused.
How did I feel so comfortable with someone so easily? When I had spent years hiding from the world and had only reentered life a few months ago.
The world may never know.
Before Wren has a chance to say more, I notice two notifications pop up at the top of my screen.
One from Weston, because of course.
Weston: proud of u for not tackling a donor last night
Then I see Grayson’s.
Gray: morning, beautiful.
I bite my lip, wondering how something so small can make my blush deepen, and instantly blame it on the replay of last night’s events taking place in my mind.
“Ooooo, someone got a text from a hockey player that apparently comes in his pants,” Wren says, and for a second, I had forgotten that we were on FaceTime.
“I cannot believe you just said that.” I laugh.
“Hey now, I just call it like it is, babe,” she says, moving around a room, shoving a few more things into her bag. “Okay, I gotta go. I have less than an hour to finish packing up.”
“Okay, love you,” I say. “Call me when you land?”
“For sure, love you too. Bye, babes.” With that, she ends the call.
Going back to Grayson’s text, my fingers hover, then type.
Harlow: Good morning.
A beat.
Gray: i owe you for saving me from blazer guy.
I can picture his mouth when he says it—half serious, half amused, like he hates attention but can’t help the way it clings to him.
Harlow: I did it for the greater good.
Gray: heroic.
I stare at the screen a second longer than necessary. Like if I stare long enough, I’ll figure out what I’m supposed to do with the fact that I want him to keep texting me forever.
Then another message pops up.
Gray: want coffee?
My pulse jumps so fast it feels embarrassing. Coffee isn’t romantic. Coffee is normal. And normal with him feels like the kind of thing that could turn into a habit. The kind of thing my nervous system might start expecting.
Harlow: When?
Gray: now-ish. if you want.
No pressure. No guilt. No telling me you’re sure.
Just…offering.
I sit up slowly, hair a wreck, throat tight in that way it gets when I’m trying not to be scared of something good. Two months ago, I would’ve said no. I would’ve told myself the coffee shop would be too much this early. I would’ve clung to my solitude like it was the only thing keeping me upright.
Now I picture him the way he looked last night, standing in the doorway of that booth with his hands at his sides like he was making himself behave until I pushed him over the edge.
Yes, I want to see him.
Harlow: Sounds good to me.
The reply comes immediately.
Gray: 10 minutes. i’ll meet you outside your dorm.
I toss my phone onto the bed and move before my brain can talk me out of it.
If I wait, I’ll spiral. So I don’t. I brush my teeth, splash water on my face, pull on leggings and a hoodie, and shove my hair into something that’s trying its best. I stare at myself in the mirror for half a second and almost laugh again because my eyes look… different.
Less braced, like my face forgot to prepare for impact.
Outside, the air is cool enough to wake me up properly. Campus is slow—Sunday morning slow. People in sweats carrying coffee cups. Hoods up like everyone is collectively opting out of socializing.
I walk to the side entrance, casually, but inside I am anything but casual. Honestly, I’m anxious that things might be awkward after last night.
Grayson is already there, leaning against the brick with his hands in his pockets, hoodie on, hair still damp but mostly hidden, like he stood in front of the mirror too long trying to decide whether he looked like a person or a problem.
He looks up when he sees me. And something on his face shifts—small, quick, real.
Not a grin. Not a smile. Just…open.
“Hey,” he says, stopping next to me and instantly wrapping me in a hug.
How does he smell so freaking good all the time?
Breathing him in, I hug him back. “Hey.”
We pull apart and start walking toward the coffee shop. He falls into step beside me like we’ve done it a hundred times, like our bodies already know the pace that doesn’t make me feel tracked or watched. A few steps in, his hand finds mine.
I look down at our intertwined fingers, a small smile tugging on my lips, and look up to find his eyes waiting for me, a far too cocky smirk on his handsome face. He bites his lip and looks away, letting out a low, rumbling chuckle.
The coffee shop is busy, but manageable. We move into line.
“Do you know what you want?” he asks softly.
My mouth opens automatically to say, Nothing, I’m fine, because my brain is built out of default responses and routine deflection. But I’m tired of lying as a reflex.
“Iced vanilla latte,” I say. “Extra sweet with caramel drizzle and whip.”
His mouth twitches. “Need a sugar rush?”
I narrow my eyes, sending him a teasing glare. “I’m not ashamed.”
He looks pleased by my answer and leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead. “Good.”
He pays for our order, then we pick a table near the window.
I take the seat with my back to the wall without thinking as he grabs our coffees from the counter.
He doesn’t comment or look at me weird. He just sits across from me, coffee in hand, posture relaxed like he’s trying to make the world quieter by existing in it differently.
For a minute, we don’t talk.
We just sip coffee.
Outside, a group of people laugh too loudly, and my shoulders tense on instinct.
Grayson’s gaze flicks to me, and then he shifts his chair a fraction so his body blocks some of the view of the room. Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just…a small adjustment that makes it easier to breathe. It’s infuriating how much it works.
“You okay today?” he asks.
I can feel my cheeks grow warm as I nod my head. “Yeah, I’m good. Are you?”
A low chuckle leaves him, his free hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “I’m definitely good.”
I smile down at my coffee, and when I look back up, his blue eyes are waiting for me.
We talk about nothing for a few minutes—Weston being a menace, the donor dinner being a weird adult fever dream—and it’s easy in a way that makes my brain suspicious.
Because easy never lasts.
My phone rings while I’m brushing my teeth.
An actual call.
For a second, I just stare at the screen, foam-mouthed and suspicious, like the universe is trying to trick me into social interaction before I’ve had caffeine.
Then I realize who it is that’s calling.
Wren.
My heart does a weird little stutter—half warmth, half disbelief—because Wren calling means she’s really here. Not “London time, sorry I’m falling asleep on FaceTime” here. Not “send me a voice note, and I’ll reply between meetings” here.
Here.
I spit, rinse, and answer before my brain can talk me out of it.
“Hello?”
“Harlow Mercer,” Wren says, her voice bright and familiar, like she never left. “I’m on American soil. I’m breathing U.S. air. I just ate a bagel that didn’t cost twelve pounds. We need to talk.”
My mouth curves without permission. “You’re back!”
“I’m BACK!” she sings dramatically. “Do you feel that? The energy shift? The universe healing?”
“The universe is still loud,” I say, padding into my room and flopping on my bed.
“Okay, yeah, valid,” Wren concedes immediately. “But I am here, and that means at least one part of your universe is now obligated to be entertaining.”
I can’t help but laugh at her theatrics. I really have missed having her around.
“How was London?” I ask, even though I’ve been getting the highlights in scattered texts for nine months, with photos of rainy sidewalks, little cafés, her shoes in front of something historic, captions like I accidentally networked with a real adult.
Wren makes a delighted noise. “It was sexy. It was exhausting. It was—Harlow, I drank so much tea.”
“You hate tea.”
“I KNOW.” She sounds personally offended. “It’s like London is sponsored by chamomile. I kept ordering coffee, and everyone looked at me like I’d asked them to set something on fire.”
“That sounds accurate,” I say, grinning into my pillow.
“And the internship,” she continues, voice shifting into something softer under the humor. “It was actually…good. Like, I did things. Real things. With deadlines, which I sometimes missed, but that’s beside the point. And I had coworkers who wore blazers and not sweats.”
“You’re basically an adult now,” I deadpan.
“Don’t insult me.”
I snort again. It’s ridiculous how easy this is—how the sound of her voice makes my shoulders drop like they’ve been waiting for a cue.
Then Wren pauses, and I can hear her smile even before she speaks again.
“So,” she says. “How’s school going? How’s your brother? Still the world’s most intense hockey captain?”
My stomach does a small flip at the mention of Kai, but it’s not dread the way it used to be. More like…anticipation. Like I already know he’s going to be a thing.
“Kai is still Kai,” I say carefully. “Captain mode, of course, threatening people with skating until they cry and all that.”
Wren hums. “Good. Nature is healing.”
“And I’m…okay,” I add, because Wren is one of the only people who knows what “okay” actually costs me.