Chapter 34 Harlow
HARLOW
Iwake up the next morning feeling oddly rested. Relaxed, even.
For a few seconds, I don’t understand why. Then I realize there’s an arm around my waist and a warmth that I’ve never felt coming from behind me.
Grayson is asleep, his chest pressed to my back, breath even against my neck. Everything smells like him and his soap that carries a hint of mint. His legs are tangled with mine like he went to sleep and decided, quietly, that I wasn’t getting away.
My first instinct is to panic, not because I’m scared of him, but because my brain doesn’t trust peace.
I blink into the pale light leaking through the blinds and wait for the familiar tightness to clamp down on my ribs.
It doesn’t.
My chest rises and falls, but nothing screams.
No adrenaline spike. No nausea. No immediate mental inventory of exits and disaster plans.
Just…quiet.
I swallow hard, different emotions battling for center stage.
I don’t remember the last time I slept like this. Not the exhausted-pass-out kind. Not the I’m-so-tired-my-body-shuts-down kind. The kind where you close your eyes and your nervous system believes it’s allowed to rest.
Years, maybe.
That thought lands heavy and sweet at the same time.
Grayson shifts behind me, half asleep. His hand flexes once at my stomach, thumb making a small, absent circle, like he’s checking I’m still here.
My skin sparks, and I hold my breath without realizing it.
His mouth brushes my shoulder—barely a kiss, barely awake—and his voice is a low rasp against my skin.
“Morning, beautiful.”
“Morning,” I whisper back, like talking louder might break whatever spell this is.
He hums and pulls me closer in a slow, lazy drag that makes my entire body go hyperaware.
His nose presses into my hair like he’s breathing me in.
I don’t move. Because the second I move, the world will come back.
Practice schedules and campus and Kai and the fact that this is a dorm room and not a pocket dimension where time doesn’t exist. But Grayson’s arm tightens again, and his palm settles flat on my stomach like a promise he isn’t saying out loud.
My voice comes out small. “Did you sleep?”
He lets out a quiet laugh that’s more breath than sound. “I did, actually. I don’t even really remember falling asleep.”
I turn my head just enough to see him, and my heart does that stupid stutter again.
His hair is messed up, his dark lashes framing stormy blues that are still half asleep, mouth relaxed in a way I don’t see when he’s trying to keep himself contained.
There’s a faint crease between his brows, like his brain tried to wake him up and he told it to shut up.
His gaze drops down my face, stops at my mouth, and something in his expression shifts—softening, darkening, hungry, and fond at the same time.
It makes heat bloom low in my stomach so fast I go a little dizzy.
“Hi,” he says again, like he forgot he already used the word and doesn’t care.
I swallow. “Hi.”
He watches me for a beat, then his hand slides up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear like it belongs there.
“You seem anxious,” he murmurs.
“I’m…okay,” I say, and the words feel weird in my mouth.
Grayson’s eyes hold mine, steady and patient. “Yeah?”
I nod, but it’s not the automatic nod I give to end conversations.
It’s real.
I swallow hard. “I haven’t slept that well in years.”
His brows lift a fraction. Then his mouth curves—not wide, not showy. Just…something warm that lands right in the center of my chest.
“Me either,” he says quietly.
My eyes burn. I blink hard, annoyed at myself for getting emotional over something so basic and human.
Grayson’s thumb brushes my cheek once before he leans in and kisses my temple, like he’s clinging to this moment as hard as I am, not wanting it to end.
The kiss is so gentle it almost hurts, and then his mouth drifts down to my cheek.
The corner of my jaw. The spot under my ear that makes my skin light up like a live wire, and I suck in a breath.
Grayson pauses, eyes flicking up to mine. “Okay?”
I nod too fast. “Yeah.”
His eyes narrow, amused. “That seemed to wake you up faster than a coffee.”
I roll my eyes, but it comes out weak, a smile tugging at my lips. “Shut up.”
A low laugh slips out of him, and it does something ridiculous to me—warm and sudden and intimate. Like hearing him laugh in my bed is a secret my body wants to keep. I turn around fully to face him.
He kisses me then. Not slow like last night. Not careful like he’s afraid I’ll break. His mouth is warm. Soft. Familiar already in a way that should scare me.
My hand finds his wrist without thinking, fingers curling there like I’m checking he’s still solid. Like if I let go, he might dissolve into morning light.
He deepens the kiss by a fraction, and my brain goes quiet again. Which feels dangerous. And perfect. Grayson pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against mine.
His voice is rough. “I have to get up.”
My chest tightens instantly. “No, you don’t.”
His mouth quirks. “Yes, I do.”
I glare at him. “Don’t be responsible.”
He laughs under his breath. “Since when do you hate responsibility?”
“I hate you leaving,” I correct automatically.
The words land heavier than I meant them to. Grayson stills. His eyes lift to mine, and for a second, the air shifts. Like something tender just surfaced, and neither of us wants to scare it back under.
My throat goes tight. I try to salvage it with sarcasm. “Your stupid practice and your stupid skates and your stupid—”
Grayson kisses me again, cutting me off mid-complaint. When he pulls back, his eyes are darker than they were a few seconds ago.
“You could distract me,” he says, voice low, carrying a hint of a challenge.
I blink. “Gray—”
He shrugs like he doesn’t care that his world has rules, a far too cocky smirk taking over his face. “I can be late.”
My stomach flips, and I swallow hard, suddenly too aware of my own body, the sheets, the way his hand is still at my waist like it never left.
“Are you sure?” I whisper, and I hate that my brain still asks that question like I’m not allowed.
Grayson’s gaze holds mine.
“Positive,” he says simply. “I’d skip anything for more time with you.”
My pulse kicks hard. Heat blooms everywhere, fast and insistent, and it’s not just want—it’s the intimacy of him choosing me over routine, even for ten minutes.
I slide my hand up his chest, feeling the warmth of him, the solidness.
He shivers like it hits him deep. His eyes flutter shut for half a second.
Then he opens them again and looks at me like I’m the only thing in the room worth paying attention to.
“How are you going to keep me here, Harlow?” he murmurs.
I make a sound that is absolutely not dignified.
Grayson’s mouth curves, wicked and soft at the same time.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “That.”
I grab his sweater from the chair and smack him with it weakly. “Stop.”
He catches it with one hand like it’s nothing, then uses the other to pull me closer.
“No,” he says into my mouth.
And the way he says it—low, sure, warm—makes my entire body go liquid.
I press my lips to his again, and he kisses me like he has nowhere else to be.
Like the world can wait. Like I’m not something he’s afraid to want.
His hand slides up my back, palm spreading like he’s memorizing me again, and my brain goes hazy at the edges.
I’m aware, distantly, of the time.
Of his practice.
Of consequences.
But Grayson’s mouth finds that spot under my ear again, and I forget every single one of them.
He groans, and the sound goes straight to my clit. I gasp, and he smiles against my skin like he likes how easy it is to get a reaction out of me. His mouth is on mine again, and the kiss turns into something that promises more than it gives—slow, hungry, pointed.
He breaks it just long enough to breathe in my ear.
My face goes hot. My whole body does, honestly, and two can play that game.
I shift closer, moving right into his hand, which hits at the perfect height between my legs, letting him feel exactly what he’s doing to me without having to say it out loud.
Grayson’s breath stutters. His hand tightens at my hip like he’s holding on by a thread.
“Jesus,” he whispers, like a prayer and a problem.
I bite my lip, and he lifts his head and looks at me, really looks. And there’s something in his eyes that turns my insides molten.
“I’m trying to be a gentleman,” he says quietly. “Are you sure you’re not sore or anything? We don’t have to do anything this morning.”
“I’m good, Gray. More than good, as you can tell.”
His gaze flicks to my mouth again, and he brushes his lips against mine. “That’s not exactly what I meant.”
I press my body into his as I kiss him again. He mutters a curse, which makes me laugh, and within seconds, thoughts of leaving my bed are forgotten.
A few hours later, my phone buzzes as I’m attempting to focus on homework now that Grayson left.
Weston: emergency
Weston: do u know a girl named wren?
Weston: bc she just walked into the coffee shop and i think i blacked out
I stare at the screen. Then I laugh, because apparently the universe heard the part where I wanted a cute morning and decided to add chaos as a garnish.
Harlow: Behave.
Harlow: And yes. That’s my best friend Wren.
Three dots.
Then:
Weston: too late i’m already weird
Weston: but like…RESPECTFULLY weird…she is so pretty!
I close my eyes, smiling like an idiot. And for once, I don’t hate myself for it. Because my body still feels Grayson’s hands. My mouth still tastes like him. And next week is coming—Tyler’s team, the tension, the inevitable collision.
But right now?
Right now, I’m warm and safe and a little bit undone in the best way.
And I’m starting to think I might actually be able to have things.
Even if they scare me.