Chapter 5
Harper
"We did it," I breathe, watching the tiny creature take its first shaky breaths.
"You did it," Nate corrects, pulling his soaked shirt over his head in one fluid motion.
And that's when I see it.
A constellation tattooed over his left ribs. Not just any constellation—Lyra. The constellation he named mine the night of our first kiss, when he traced the stars on my skin and called me his music. "Harper's harp," he used to whisper, like the universe had written my name in the stars.
"When did you get that?"
He follows my gaze, and something flickers across his face—embarrassment? Regret? "California. Drunk night after Rebecca and I—" He stops. "It doesn't matter."
"It's Lyra."
"Yeah."
"You got Lyra tattooed on your body." My voice cracks. "You used to say the constellation looked like it was playing my song."
"I know what it is, Harper."
The camera's red light still blinks in my peripheral vision, and I know it's catching every second of this—my stunned face, his bare chest with the constellation he once declared was mine permanently etched on his skin, the way neither of us can look away from each other.
"You got my constellation tattooed on your body." The words come out accusatory, like he's committed a crime.
"I was drunk."
"For three hours of needlework?"
"Very drunk."
"Drunk enough to permanently ink the constellation you used to trace on my hip? The one you said would always sing my name?"
His jaw clenches. "Harper—"
"Can we not do this now?" He grabs a clean towel, wiping blood from his hands. "We have two foals to check and a mare to monitor."
He's right. This isn't the time. But my eyes keep drifting to those stars on his ribs, and I'm thinking about him in some California tattoo parlor, drunk and asking for the constellation he once called mine to be permanently marked on his skin.
Rebecca must have loved that—her boyfriend getting his ex's personal constellation tattooed where she'd see it every time—
"Harper. The foals?"
Right. Medical emergency first. Emotional spiral later.
I help him check both twins—heart rates, breathing, reflexes. They're small but healthy, already trying to stand on wobbly legs. The mare is exhausted but stable, nuzzling her babies with pure love.
"They're going to make it," Nate says, and his relief is palpable.
"All three of them." I can't help but smile, even covered in birth fluids and running on no sleep.
Sarah appears in the barn doorway, looking inappropriately fresh for 2 AM. "That was incredible footage. The way you two work together—it's like you share a brain."
"We've had practice," Nate says shortly, pulling on a clean shirt from his bag.
I try not to mourn the loss of the view. Or think about Lyra—my constellation, Harper's harp—disappearing under cotton. Or wonder if he traces those stars when he's alone, the way he used to trace them on me while humming the melody he swore the stars were playing.
This is going to be a very long night.
I don't remember lying down in the hay. One minute I'm sitting against a stall post watching the foals nurse, the next I'm blinking awake to sunrise streaming through the barn windows and the horrifying realization that I'm completely wrapped around Nate Wilder like he's my personal body pillow.
My leg is thrown over his hip. My face is pressed into his chest. And there's something very hard and very obvious pressing against my stomach.
"Is that—"
"Morning," he says quickly, voice rough with sleep. "It's morning. That's all. Biology."
"Biology," I repeat, trying to subtly extract myself without making it worse. But moving means my thigh drags across the situation, and Nate makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a prayer.
"Harper. Please. Stop moving."
"I'm trying to—"
"I know what you're trying. Just... give me a second."
That's when I hear it. Giggling.
Sarah Brennan stands at the barn entrance with her camera crew, and the red light is definitely on. "Don't mind us. This is documentary gold. The way you two naturally gravitate toward each other even unconscious—it's beautiful."
I scramble away from Nate so fast I trip over my own feet, landing ass-first in a pile of hay that immediately sticks to every part of me. My hair looks like I've been electrocuted, there's hay in places hay should never be, and I'm pretty sure there's dried drool on my cheek.
Nate sits up, and his morning hair is doing that thing that shouldn't be allowed—perfectly messy in a way that makes me want to run my fingers through it. Or pull it. Either way.
"How long have you been filming?" His voice could freeze hell.
"Oh, about an hour," Sarah says cheerfully. "You two are adorable when you sleep. Harper, you talk in your sleep, did you know that?"
My blood runs cold. "I do not."
"You do," Nate confirms quietly. "Always have."
I'm going to die. Right here in this barn, covered in hay and shame, I'm going to spontaneously combust from embarrassment.
"We should check the foals," I say, standing and trying to shake hay from my hair. It's not working. I look like a scarecrow having a bad day.
"They're fine," Nate says, but he's not looking at the foals. He's looking at me with an expression I can't read, and his eyes keep dropping to my mouth.
"I need coffee." I announce to no one in particular. "And a shower. And possibly a new identity."
"Mrs. Wilson has breakfast ready," Sarah says helpfully. "She's set up the guest rooms for you both to freshen up."
Guest rooms. Plural. Thank God.
Although the way Nate's looking at me right now, I'm not sure separate rooms are going to be enough distance.
***
Mrs. Wilson's guest bathroom has the thinnest door in existence. I know this because I can hear every drop of water hitting Nate's body in the shower next door. Every. Single. Drop.
"Don't use all the hot water!" I call through the wall, trying to sound normal and not like I'm picturing him naked and soapy ten feet away.
"Some of us need longer showers," he calls back.
"Why? You're not that dirty."
There's a pause. Then: "Cold showers, Harper. Very cold showers."
Oh. OH.
My face burns as I realize what he's saying. He's in there trying to... handle things. Because of this morning. Because of me pressed against him.
"That's not my problem," I manage, but my voice comes out strangled.
"Isn't it?"
The water shuts off before I can respond, and now I'm picturing him stepping out, water droplets on his chest, on that Lyra tattoo, towel low on his hips—
I turn my shower to cold too.
Ten minutes later, I emerge in just a towel because of course I forgot to grab clean clothes from my bag. The universe hates me. I ease the door open, praying the hallway is empty.
It's not.
Nate stands there in nothing but low-slung jeans, still buttoning them, hair dripping wet, and I walk directly into his bare chest.
"Shit, sorry, I—"
His hands steady me at my elbows, and suddenly we're standing way too close, me in a towel that barely covers the essentials, him half-dressed and smelling like soap and bad decisions.
"Harper." My name comes out rough, like it costs him something.
"I forgot clothes," I say stupidly, because his thumbs are brushing my arms and my brain has evacuated the premises.
"Right."
"So I need to—"
"Get them."
"Yes."
Neither of us moves.
"Oh my goodness!" Mrs. Wilson appears at the top of the stairs with an armload of towels. "Like newlyweds already! Though you might want to close a door, dears. The camera crew is downstairs."
We spring apart like we've been electrocuted. I clutch my towel tighter while Nate suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating.
"We're not—we were just—" I stammer.
"Colliding," Nate finishes. "Accidentally."
"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Mrs. Wilson winks and bustles past us into the bathroom. "The wedding starts in two hours. You'll want to eat something first. Though from the looks of things, you're both already quite... heated."
She disappears into the guest room, leaving us standing there in the hallway—me mostly naked, him half-dressed, both of us looking everywhere but at each other.
"The wedding," I say finally. "I forgot about the wedding."
"We don't have to go."
"We're already here. It would be rude."
"Right. Rude."
"I should... clothes."
"You should definitely clothes."
I scurry to my room, firmly shutting the door behind me and leaning against it.
Two hours until a wedding. With Nate. After this morning. After the shower situation. After the nearly naked hallway collision.
I'm going to need something stronger than champagne.
***
The Wilson wedding is in full swing by the time we make it outside—apparently their daughter's ceremony was at dawn, and this is the reception. The entire town seems to be here, tables set up under white tents, and of course, OF COURSE, there's only one spot left at the couples' table.
"You two lovebirds can squeeze in here!" Mrs. Morrison calls out, patting the bench beside her.
"We're not—" I start.
"Together," Nate finishes.
But we're already being herded to the table where every other occupant is actively married or engaged. Someone shoves champagne in my hand, and I down it like water in the desert.
"Slow down, Harps," Nate murmurs in my ear. "It's only noon."
"I need alcohol to survive this," I hiss back.
"Survive what?"
"You. This. Everyone looking at us like we're—" I gesture vaguely.
"Like we're what?"
"You know what."
His hand finds my lower back as he guides me to sit, and I hate that I automatically lean into it. Muscle memory from years of being together, his hand always there, steady and sure. The warmth spreads from that single point of contact, and I take another gulp of champagne.
"Harper and Nate!" The bride herself appears, glowing and twenty-two and full of hope that makes my chest ache. "I'm so glad you could come! When Dad said what it took to deliver the twins, I thought you'd be too tired."
"Wouldn't miss it," Nate says, his hand still on my back.
"You two are so cute together," she gushes. "How long have you been dating?"
"We're not—" I start again.