Page 41

HARPER

It's almost midnight when I finally accept she's not coming home.

The hallway is quiet—too quiet.

No key in the door.

No low hum of her voice through the crack.

The lights are still off out there, her shoes still missing from their spot beside the mat.

I keep looking, like they'll magically reappear if I check one more time.

I've been listening for the elevator for hours—every little groan in the pipes, every shuffle from the neighbors makes my heart stop, just for a second.

It's like I'm twelve again, stomach tight, waiting for someone to come home and catch me awake when I should've been asleep.

Only this time, I'm not scared I'll get in trouble.

I'm scared I'll have to fall asleep without knowing if she's okay.

I'm off work for a few more days—apparently Millie talked to Lucas, and Lucas talked to my boss, and somehow, without me even asking, they made it happen.

A few more days of breathing room. A few more days before I have to pretend to be a functioning human being again.

A few more days to figure out how to hold myself together long enough to make it through a shift.

So I've been here. Just... here. Alone.

After Millie left this morning, Audrey came by.

Not to babysit—she said that part out loud, like she knew I'd be sensitive about it—but because she hadn't seen me since Florida.

Since the hospital. Since everything. And she was Audrey, so she brought snacks and stupid memes and something with bubbles in it and wouldn't let me sit in silence for more than thirty seconds at a time.

We talked, we laughed, we cried a little.

It felt almost normal for a few hours, until she had to leave.

Harriet needed her. Life doesn't stop for anyone.

Now it's just me and this couch again.

I'm curled up in one of Millie's hoodies, drowning in the sleeves, a blanket thrown over my legs.

The TV's still on—some awful reality show about couples screaming at each other on an island—but the volume's low and the plot's meaningless.

I've been staring at the screen for hours, not seeing any of it. Just noise to drown out the thoughts.

I haven't eaten since Audrey left. Haven't moved since the sun went down. My body's a husk—numb and jittery at the same time. My chest has been a knot since Millie walked out the door, and it's only gotten tighter with every hour that ticks past.

I know where she is. I'm not stupid.

She's at the rink. Probably her mom's. Getting back on the ice, trying to remind her body how it feels to be an athlete again after ten missed games. Ten. She missed ten games. For me.

For me.

For my wreck of a life. For something that wasn't even real when it started.

A fake dating scheme. A favor. A transaction.

And somehow, it became something else, and now the world thinks she faked it all for publicity, that she lied, manipulated, used me.

They're calling her selfish, unprofessional, dramatic, entitled.

And she's the one taking the hits for it. Not me.

She's the one losing ice time, losing press, losing everything she's worked her whole life for. And what do I have to offer her in return?

Nothing.

I can't give her back her games. I can't give her back her season. I can't fix the stories or clear her name or make people see what I see when I look at her.

When I look at her, I see a girl with fire behind her eyes and oceans in her soul. Someone who burns bright, but still finds a way to be soft. Who holds me together without even trying, who shows up, again and again, even when I don't know how to ask. Someone who makes me feel seen. Safe. Known.

Someone who didn't run.

And all I can give her is me.

And some nights—like tonight—I'm not sure if that's worth anything at all.

My phone buzzes beside me.

I leap for it, nearly knocking the water glass off the coffee table. But it's not Millie. It's a spam text. I almost throw the thing across the room.

The sound I make isn't a sob, but it's close.

God, I miss her.

Not just her laugh, or the way she always makes my tea with too much honey, or how she knows when I need space and when I need to be held.

I miss the way she fills a room. The way she looks at me—like maybe I'm something soft and precious and important.

Like she knows the truth I'm still afraid to admit to myself.

I miss her because she makes everything less sharp. Even the grief. Even the guilt.

I close my eyes and rest my forehead on my knees. I try not to cry. I fail.

And then I hear the front door click.

My head jerks up.

Millie steps inside like she's been gone for years, not hours. She looks exhausted—bag slung off her shoulder, hair damp like she ran her hands through it a hundred times, hoodie too big and sleeves pushed up like she's been anxious all day. Her eyes meet mine across the room.

I see it immediately. The weight. The tired. The hurt.

But more than anything—

She looks relieved to see me.

"Hey," she says softly, closing the door behind her.

I don't respond. I just stare at her. Trying not to break. Trying not to fall apart because she's here and I didn't know how badly I needed her to be.

She takes a step forward. "You're still up."

"You didn't text." My voice cracks. I hate that it cracks.

Her expression softens. "I know. I'm sorry. It was a long day. I..." She swallows, dropping her bag gently to the floor. "I didn't know how to come home and not bring all of it with me. I was at the rink. Needed to clear my head."

I rise from the couch slowly. The blanket slips off my shoulders.

"I don't care if you bring it with you," I whisper. "Just... come home."

And suddenly she's moving. She crosses the room in three long steps and wraps her arms around me, so tight it's like she's afraid I might vanish if she lets go.

I press my face into her hoodie and breathe her in—sweat and wind and a hint of vanilla shampoo, something warm and familiar that anchors me more than anything else ever could.

"I missed you," I murmur against her collarbone. My voice is small, cracked open at the edges. "I thought maybe you'd realized—"

"Don't," she says, voice thick and close to breaking. "Don't finish that sentence."

Her hand comes up to the back of my head, fingers sliding into my hair, holding me there.

I can feel her breathing, uneven and shallow, like she's been running—like maybe she ran here.

Or maybe she's just been holding everything in all day and now it's catching up to her.

I don't know. All I know is the way she's holding me, like I'm something precious. Like I'm something worth choosing.

"I couldn't come home yet," she whispers after a long moment. "I couldn't walk through that door and see you and not fall apart. I needed—I had to remember how to be good at the thing I've always been good at, just for a minute."

I nod, even though my throat is burning. "Did it help?"

She pulls back, just enough to look at me. Her eyes are so tired, but soft, like she's already forgiven me for asking. "No," she says. "Not really. It wasn't the same without you."

I lean in, slowly, like asking permission with every breath.

My hand rises to her jaw, thumb brushing just below her cheekbone.

Her skin is warm beneath my fingers, flushed from the cold or the moment or both.

Her eyes flicker down to my mouth, then back up to meet mine again—and she nods, barely, almost imperceptibly.

And I kiss her.

The kiss is slow. Gentle. The kind of kiss that feels like an answer to every question I've been too scared to ask.

Her mouth moves against mine with so much care it undoes me.

I feel her hands cradle my face, thumbs brushing beneath my eyes like she's trying to collect the sadness before it falls.

I kiss her like I'm afraid she'll disappear, and she kisses me like she's still here.

Still mine. Still choosing this. Still choosing me.

She brings color back into my life.

She brings happiness, she makes me feel safe and so loved that I don't know what to do with that. She's here. Kissing me like I'm the most precious thing in the world and I'm here clinging to her like she's my precious thing.

When we pull apart, I keep my eyes closed for a moment, letting my forehead rest against hers, breathing her in.

Still caught in that small, suspended moment where everything feels possible.

"I'm still here," I whisper. "If you want me."

For a moment, she just looks at me like she's trying to memorize every inch of my face in case it slips away.

Her brows draw together, not with confusion but with something softer.

Something that aches. And then she leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth, slow and sure and steady, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like it's always been this simple.

"I always did, Harps," she murmurs, voice quiet enough to make my chest ache.

Her fingers lift to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, careful and reverent, like she's done it a thousand times in her head before now. Then she presses another kiss to my cheek—barely there, more warmth than weight—but it sends something fluttering down my spine anyway.

"I missed you too," she says, so gently it unravels something inside me. "Are you feeling okay?"

I nod, and it's not a lie exactly, but it's not the whole truth either. "I am now."

She gives me this soft, crooked smile—the kind that tries to believe me but doesn't quite. The kind that says, You don't have to lie to me, I'll still stay. It makes my throat tighten.

She doesn't push, though. She never does.

"How was your day with Audrey?" she asks, shifting just enough to toe off her shoes before settling down beside me. Not close enough to crowd me, but close enough that I feel the warmth of her thigh brushing mine.

"Oh, you know Audrey," I say with a breath of a laugh. "She's loud, dramatic, and had a lot of opinions on us."

Millie raises a brow, the edge of her mouth twitching like she's trying not to grin. "Oh?"

"Yeah." I pull the blanket up over both of us, and without saying anything, she takes the edge and tucks it around my legs. It's so stupidly domestic I almost cry.

"She thinks this happened because of her. Us. Whatever this is."

Millie hums, tilting her head back against the couch, her ponytail slipping over her shoulder in a way that makes my heart twist. "That sounds about right."

"She said she saw it coming before we did."

"She wasn't wrong."

I turn my head, watching the soft play of light from the TV flicker over her profile.

The strong line of her nose, the tired curve of her mouth, the smudge of something tender in her eyes.

There's something different about being here with her now.

We've kissed before. Touched before. Slept next to each other before.

But this—this feels different. Like the air is thicker.

Like the silence between us isn't heavy, just full.

Full of everything we haven't said and everything we already know.

"I kept waiting for the elevator," I admit, voice low. "Every sound I heard tonight, I thought it was you coming back."

She turns her head toward me. Doesn't say anything. Just reaches out and runs her thumb along my knuckles where they rest in my lap.

And maybe it's that soft little touch. Maybe it's the way she always listens even when I'm not making sense. Or maybe it's just the fact that I feel like I can breathe again now that she's here—but I shift closer and whisper, "Can I kiss you?"

Millie's eyes soften so completely it undoes me.

"You don't have to ask, Harps."

I lean in again. I think I've become addicted. To her— those soft lips, her warmth, her taste. I don't think someone has ever made me feel this much and fuck, it terrifies me but I don't want to walk away. I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

When we pull apart, I press my forehead to hers, eyes closed. For a long moment we just breathe—our exhales syncing like we've done this a hundred times before, like we were always meant to find our way back to this tiny, quiet pocket of warmth between us.

Her hand slides up to cradle the side of my neck, thumb brushing just under my jaw, and it's so gentle it makes my eyes sting. Like she knows how close I am to breaking and doesn't want to push me over the edge—just wants to remind me she's here. That she stayed. That she'll keep staying.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "For everything. For how I acted. For pushing you away. For not—" I swallow. "For not knowing how to do this right."

Millie leans back just enough to meet my eyes. Hers are soft, steady, but there's something fierce behind them too—something that burns through the fear I've been carrying in my chest for days.

"There's no right way to grieve, Harper. No right way to... figure this out. I'm not here because you did it right. I'm here because I want to be. Because it's you."

God. She says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like I'm the given. Like choosing me—after everything—is still the easiest decision she's ever made. I don't know what to do with that. With the quiet certainty of it. With the way she looks at me like I'm already enough.

So I just... reach for her hand. Tangle our fingers together and rest them between us like an anchor.

She shifts so we're both tucked under the blanket now, side by side on the couch, knees brushing. The TV is still playing something meaningless, but it doesn't matter. Everything else has fallen away.

"I kept thinking today that maybe I ruined everything," I say, voice small. "That maybe I asked too much of you. Took too much."

Millie shakes her head, slow and firm. "You didn't take anything I wasn't ready to give."

"But you missed ten games—"

"I'd miss ten more," she says, cutting me off gently. "I'd miss the whole season if it meant being there when you needed someone. I don't regret any of it."

I look at her then, and the weight of everything—the grief, the guilt, the love I don't know how to name—presses hard against my ribs.

"You shouldn't have to take care of me," I whisper.

She lifts our joined hands and presses a kiss to my knuckles. "I'm not taking care of you. I'm choosing you."

And just like that, my heart cracks wide open.

I shift closer, curling into her side like I used to when things were just starting, when we didn't know what we were doing but it still felt like something real. Her arm comes around me without hesitation, pulling me in like I belong there. Like I've always belonged there.

We sit like that for a long time. In silence. In closeness. In something that feels terrifyingly like peace.

Eventually, I whisper, "Do you think it'll always feel this hard?"

She thinks for a moment, her chin resting lightly against my hair.

"I think some days will be easier than others," she says. "But I also think... if we do it together, it won't feel as heavy. Not all the time."

I nod, because that sounds like something my mom might've said.

Or maybe it's just something I wish she'd said.

I can almost hear her voice in my head, gentle but amused—Well, sweetheart, you've always made things harder than they need to be.

But at least now you've got someone stubborn enough to stick around.

I blink hard and breathe in the scent of Millie's hoodie again—vanilla, sweat, the faint lingering trace of detergent that's definitely not the brand I use—and it grounds me. She always grounds me.

"You're quiet," she murmurs, her lips brushing against my hair. "Too quiet. I'm starting to worry you're regretting letting me in."

I snort softly, burying my face further into her chest. "You literally let yourself in. With your own key."

"Semantics," she says, and I can feel the smile in her voice. "Still waiting for your official invitation."

I lift my head just enough to look at her, resting my chin on her shoulder. "Oh, I see. This is you fishing for me to say something romantic."

She raises an eyebrow. "Harper Lane. Are you accusing me of being emotionally needy?"

I smirk, even as heat climbs up my neck. "I think you might be a little needy."

Her mouth falls open in dramatic offense. "I skipped ten games for you."

"You disappeared for twelve hours today and made me think you hated me," I fire back, but my voice is soft and teasing now, not angry.

Millie holds up a hand in mock surrender. "Fair. But in my defense, I was too busy trying not to cry on the ice."

That makes my smirk falter, and I reach out without thinking, brushing my fingers over hers. "Was it really that bad?"

"It was fine," she says, and then shrugs. "It's just hard coming back when your heart's still... somewhere else."

She doesn't say with you but it's there. In the way she looks at me. In the way she shifts closer until our knees bump, like she doesn't know how not to touch me.

"I kept thinking," she adds after a second, "about your mom. How she looked at me." I freeze. Not in a bad way, just... still.

"She only said a few things to me, but I think she knew. About us. About how I felt."

What do you feel?

I swallow around the lump in my throat. "What gave it away? My complete inability to act normal around you?"

Millie grins, and it's so familiar, so her, it breaks something soft and achey open inside me. "That, and the way you looked at me when you thought no one else was watching."

I look away quickly, my ears burning.

"God," I mutter, pressing a hand to my face. "You're impossible."

"I'm adorable," she says.

"You're a menace."

"You're blushing."

"Because you're embarrassing me."

"Because you like me."

I throw a pillow at her. She laughs, catching it effortlessly. "Admit it," she says, voice full of playful challenge. "Your mom liked me."

"She did," I admit quietly, and the smile that slips onto my face surprises even me. "She didn't say much, but... I think she knew. And I think she was glad."

Millie's face softens, the playful teasing giving way to something quieter. "I'm really glad I got to meet her."

I nod. "Me too."

We sit there for a while, just breathing in the quiet. The storm outside's long gone, but its echo is still in the corners of the room—soft drips from the windowsill, the hush of cars on wet pavement, the occasional creak of the building settling like it's trying to calm down too.

Millie shifts slightly beside me, like she's settling in for real now, the way people do when they stop thinking about leaving. Her thigh presses against mine under the blanket, warm and solid, and when she leans her head back against the couch cushion, her arm stays wrapped around me.

"I really think she liked you," I say quietly, surprising even myself. "My mom. She did."

Millie doesn't look at me, just nods once like she's trying not to break the moment by acknowledging it too loud. "She reminded me of my mom, a little. Luna."

That makes me huff a soft laugh. "That's not a normal thing to say."

"No, but you know what I mean. She was... sharp. Not in a bad way. Just—you could tell she didn't miss anything. Even when she barely had the energy to talk, she saw everything."

"Yeah," I murmur. "She always did. It was a little annoying, honestly. She'd just know things. And then look at me like, 'Really, Harper?' even if I hadn't said a word."

Millie smiles faintly. "She looked at me like that, too."

I smile without meaning to. "Good. I'm glad she didn't go easy on you."

"She didn't need to," she says. "She knew I was already gone for you."

The heat climbs up my neck again, hot and sudden. "Millie—"

"You don't have to say it," she cuts in, gentle, no pressure in her voice. "I'm just saying it because I mean it."

She tugs the blanket up higher over both of us like she's tucking me in, like it's the most normal thing in the world. My heart aches with how not normal it is to be cared for like this. With how much I want to let myself fall into it.

She glances over at the empty mug on the coffee table, then raises an eyebrow. "Did Audrey force you to drink her weird tea again?"

"She said it would 'rebalance my nervous system.' Whatever that means."

"Right," Millie says dryly. "That's definitely what you needed today. Herbal rebalance and unsolicited life advice."

"Don't be rude, she was very proud of us."

Millie's mouth twitches. "She texted me earlier."

"What?" I sit up slightly. "What did she say?"

"She said, and I quote, 'Don't screw this up, Bennett. You're her soft place to land now.'"

I blink. "She said that?"

"Yep. Capitalized 'Soft Place.' Like it was my new job title."

I cover my face with both hands and groan. "Oh my God. I'm never hearing the end of this."

"She also sent a gif of a raccoon holding hands with a kitten, so I'm pretty sure she's rooting for us."

I drop my hands and laugh, for real this time. It's a small thing, but it feels huge, the way it cracks something open inside me—something that hasn't moved since Florida. Since the hospital. Since that night.

Millie looks at me then, full and soft, like she's memorizing my face. "There you are," she says.

I blink. "What?"

"That laugh. I missed it."

I don't know what to say to that, so I just look at her, my heart suddenly too big in my chest.

"You make me feel like I'm gonna be okay," I whisper. "Even when I'm not sure how."

Millie's expression shifts—just slightly, but enough. She leans in and kisses my temple, barely a brush of lips against skin.

"You are okay," she murmurs. "Even when you're not."

And maybe it's silly. Maybe it's just the quiet, the blanket, the storm-washed stillness of the room. But I believe her. I believe her so much it almost hurts.

So I lean in, and rest my forehead against hers, and whisper, "Thank you for coming back."

"I was never really gone," she says, voice low. "Just... figuring out how to carry this too."

This—me, my grief, this strange tender thing between us that started as fake and turned into everything.

"Do you want to stay?" I ask.

She brushes her thumb along my hand. "Do you want me to?"

I nod, already pulling her closer again, already curling back into her side. "Yeah. I really do."

She doesn't say anything else. She just pulls me closer and lets me rest.

And for the first time in days—maybe weeks—I feel warm all the way through.

I think I'm in love with Amelia Bennett.