Chapter 3
HARLOW
If it were up to me, I’d never make plans. I’d be curled up with a good book twenty-four seven, living vicariously through fictional people who have the decency to handle their drama without fluorescent lights and strangers’ perfume.
But thanks to my dear, darling brother, I’m walking into my first college party. He calls it getting me out of my room. I call it exposure therapy with an extra dose of bass.
The football house is already pulsing before we even make it up the walkway—music thudding through the lawn, voices spilling out of open windows, someone laughing like they’ve never once experienced shame. The porch light flickers on and off like it’s also having regrets.
Same.
Kai’s hand is firm on my elbow as we climb the steps, like he thinks I might bolt. He’s not entirely wrong.
“You good?” he asks, giving me that focused, assessing stare that makes everyone else on campus look like they’re just…existing casually. I flash my most convincing smile. It is, objectively, terrible.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Kai’s eyes narrow immediately, calling my bluff like it’s a bad pass he saw coming from across the rink. “That sounded a lot like a lie.”
“It wasn’t,” I say quickly, then add—because apparently, I enjoy digging my own grave, “it was just…aggressively untrue?”
Kai huffs a laugh. “Harlow.”
“What?” I ask, forcing my feet to keep moving even as every instinct in my body screams turn around, go back to your dorm, crawl under a blanket, and never speak again.
Kai’s grin is brief—a flash of something softer under all the intensity. “You’ve been on campus for a month. I know you can handle a party. Plus, I want to introduce you to my teammates.”
A month.
That’s what I keep telling myself, too.
A month since I stopped taking classes online at home, where everything was predictable and quiet and I could control the environment down to the lighting and the texture of the blanket on my legs.
A month since I moved into a dorm and discovered college is basically one long sensory experiment designed by people who must hate silence.
Dorm doors slam at random. Someone is always microwaving something that smells like wasted youth.
The dining hall is a fluorescent nightmare full of choices and stares and conversations that blur together until my brain feels like it’s stuck buffering.
And I’m supposed to act like this is normal.
Like I didn’t pause my life for years and come back mid-season.
Like I didn’t spend a good chunk of that pause learning how to eat without turning it into math followed by guilt and a trip to the bathroom.
Like I didn’t spend another chunk learning how to wake up and not immediately wish I could disappear.
Kai thinks campus is the easy part. Of course he does. He’s a hockey player—and not just any hockey player. He’s the team captain, which means people step aside when he moves and listen when he speaks. He knows exactly where he belongs, what he wants, and how to look like nothing can touch him.
I’m a junior who feels like a freshman playing pretend.
Kai opens the front door, and the noise hits me like a tidal wave.
Warm air. Too much perfume. Sweat. Too many bodies packed too close.
Colored lights flash in the living room in a way that makes my eye twitch.
Someone bumps my shoulder and doesn’t apologize.
The bass thuds in my chest like a second heartbeat.
My fingers curl into my sleeves on their own.
Kai dips his head close. “Stick with me.”
“I was planning to,” I say. “I’m not a pioneer.”
He snorts, then steers us through the crowd like he’s cutting through the defensive zone. He’s good at this—finding gaps, reading movement, making space. People shift out of his way without him having to ask.
Not because he’s scary. Because he’s respected. And judging by the googly-eyed girls tracking him like he’s a prize…also very wanted.
Gross.
We make it into the kitchen, and it’s somehow worse in here because it’s smaller yet louder.
The counters are lined with cups and a sticky puddle on the floor that everyone seems to be ignoring.
A girl in a sparkly top is laughing too loud to be natural, and the guy next to her is smirking like he already knows his night plans are locked in.
Double gross.
Someone bumps into me again, and my brain starts categorizing automatically:
Noise. Too much.
Smell. Too much.
Light. Too much.
People. Too much.
I swallow and paste on a smile anyway.
Masking is the sport I never asked to play.
Kai opens the fridge and presses a soda into my hand without asking. He knows I don’t drink. Not that he would ever pressure me. Kai does that—acts like he’s controlling everything when really he’s building guardrails to keep me from sliding backward into the dark hole I clawed my way out of.
As I flip the can over, my mind balks at the fact that it isn't a diet soda, but I can feel my brother’s eyes still watching, and the last thing I want is to cause a scene in front of his friends.
“Drink,” he says.
“Yes, sir,” I mumble, popping the tab. The fizz is louder than I expect, and I flinch. Kai pretends not to notice.
“Better?” he asks, like he didn’t just clock it anyway.
“Totally,” I lie.
The kitchen doorway fills with bodies—guys coming in laughing and shoving, all broad shoulders and backward hats and the kind of confidence that makes me want to throw up a little.
Hockey players.
My brother’s people.
Which is funny, because I’ve developed quite the allergy to the same breed.
They spot us immediately.
“Kai!”
He gets slapped on the shoulder. Someone chirps him about last weekend’s game, their season opener. Someone else calls him a grandpa for showing up “early.” Kai answers with minimal words and maximum presence, like he’s saving his energy for things that matter.
I hover half behind him like a shy, anxious accessory. I hate it, but I also don’t know how to stop doing it.
Kai scans faces—quick, automatic. Not just because he’s my brother, but because he’s responsible. He checks who’s too drunk. Who’s loud. Who’s looking for trouble. Who’s looking at me like I’m a new toy to poke at. Then his hand lands on the small of my back, firm and guiding.
“Guys,” he says, voice carrying just enough to make the nearest group shut up. “This is my younger sister. Harlow.”
All eyes snap to me.
My stomach plummets six feet under the floor.
I hate being the center of attention.
“Hi,” I manage, and it comes out sounding an awful lot like a mouse.
I don’t go to the games, but I do watch them in my dorm sometimes, so I recognize faces.
Weston Cooper is the first one to grin at me like I’m not entirely made of glass.
“Harlow,” he says, like he’s tasting the name. “Okay. First of all, welcome. Second of all, Mercer has been insufferable about you.”
Kai shoots him a look.
Weston ignores it. “He’s like, don’t look at her, don’t talk to her, don’t breathe in her direction.”
“Kinda weird you’re thinking about breathing in my sister’s direction,” Kai says, deadpan.
Weston clutches his chest. “Captain Mercer, I am wounded.”
Kai’s jaw ticks. “Weston.”
“What?” Weston asks innocently. “I’m being reassuring.”
I blink at Kai. “You did that?”
Kai’s gaze flicks to mine, softer around the edges. “No. I hadn’t. Yet. But I’m glad Cooper understands there are consequences.”
“Whatever you say, man.” Weston turns back to me. “I’m Weston. If you need anything, you come to me. Not Mercer, because he’ll just”—he makes a vague strangling motion—“hover. He does it to us, too, so I can’t imagine your predicament.”
Kai takes a step forward, expression flat. “Do you want to die?”
Weston beams. “See? Easily provoked.”
I surprise myself by laughing. It’s small, and it catches in my throat like my body forgot how to do it, but it’s real.
Asher Hale appears behind Weston, and the energy shifts. He’s quieter. Calmer. Like the volume dial on the room drops two clicks just because he’s here.
“Harlow,” he says with a nod. “Welcome.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it.
Asher’s gaze flicks to Kai. “You good? Bennett coming?”
Kai shakes his head. “No. He stayed home.”
Asher’s eyebrows lift. “Bennett stayed home on a Friday?”
Weston whistles. “That’s either growth or the apocalypse.”
Kai’s mouth does that almost-smile again, like his face is remembering how. “He claimed he likes sleep.”
Weston cackles. “That’s hilarious, because he doesn’t do that.”
Something tightens in my stomach at the name, which is ridiculous because it’s just a name.
“Bennett?” I repeat, mostly because it fills the silence.
Kai’s hand settles on my shoulder, automatic. “Yeah. Grayson Bennett. My roommate.”
“Ah,” I say, because my brain is doing that thing where it wants to file information neatly into a category even if it doesn’t matter.
Weston grins. “He’s not here to charm you into committing crimes.”
“Kai,” I say before I can stop myself, “why does that sound like an inside joke?”
Kai’s look turns sharp. “Weston.”
Weston holds up his hands. “What? I’m still being reassuring.”
Asher’s mouth twitches. “He’s…a lot.”
“Everybody’s a lot,” I mutter under my breath. “That’s kind of the problem.”
Weston leans closer like we’re best friends now. “Okay, Harlow. You wanna play beer pong?”
“No,” I say immediately.
Weston blinks. “Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever been shot down that fast.”
“I don’t like…sticky things,” I add, because I realize that sounds weird, and my mouth is always trying to sabotage me.
Weston’s grin widens. “Respect. An honest queen.”
Asher taps Weston’s shoulder. “Go before Mercer ends you.”
Weston saunters off, whistling like he’s immortal. Kai shifts closer, angled slightly in front of me—blocking the kitchen doorway without making it obvious. It would be sweet if it didn’t also make my skin prickle with the reminder that I’m fragile in his eyes.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I say.
My voice comes out too tight.
Kai’s eyes narrow. “Harlow.”