Page 5

HARPER

Oh, fuck.

My face buries itself deeper into the pillow, as if that's going to magically make the sun go away.

The sunlight is vicious-sharp, intrusive, and entirely too cheerful for how shitty I feel.

Why the hell are there no blinds on these windows?

I squint toward the glass, the room nearly glowing from how the winter sun bounces off the frost outside and pours in like it owns the place.

For a city that's famous for clouds and rain, Vancouver really decided to throw me a curveball this morning. It's like the sun itself is trying to punish me for existing.

I groan and turn my face to the side, trying to find a corner of shadow on the floor where I might steal a few more minutes of sleep.

No luck. Just the hard, cold wood pressing against my hip and the crinkled throw blankets I yanked from the couch last night.

My neck aches from the awkward angle I passed out in, and my back feels like I slept in a twisted game of Tetris.

This isn't how I imagined waking up in a new place.

But then again, none of this is how I imagined anything.

I don't know what time it is. I never unpacked my alarm clock, and my phone is somewhere buried in the explosion of boxes and half-unzipped duffel bags cluttering the room. For all I know, it could be six a.m. or noon or three in the damn morning. But the sunlight doesn't lie. It's early.

Too early.

My eyes flutter closed again, desperate for just a little more rest. I'm not ready to face today. Not yet. I should be catching up on the sleep I didn't get all week. But my body has other plans.

My stomach growls. A second later, something warm and rich fills the air.

Coffee. Not just any coffee-the good kind. Bold. Fresh. Like someone ground the beans themselves and knew exactly what they were doing.

Then there's bacon. The unmistakable sizzle and pop of it crisping in a hot pan filters through the air, and I swear I'm levitating off the floor.

I haven't even eaten meat in months, but that smell?

That smell hits like a hug and a slap all at once.

I scramble to my feet, tripping over a pair of shoes, a hoodie, and something that might've been underwear, all tangled in a pile I never unpacked.

I shuffle down the hallway, yawning so wide it nearly cracks my jaw, and walk into the kitchen like I've been summoned by divine intervention.

"Morning," Amelia says without even glancing at me, her back to the room as she flips something in the pan.

Her voice is scratchy with sleep. She's still waking up, too.

I mumble, "Yes, it is," and slip onto one of the stools at the kitchen island, blinking against the brightness of the room.

She's barefoot, her legs long and pale against the cool tile.

An oversized T-shirt hangs off her frame like it was made for someone twice her size, swallowing her whole in the kind of way that makes your brain stop working for a beat too long.

The shirt rides just high enough to make me wonder if she's wearing anything underneath. I probably shouldn't think about that.

Her red hair spills down her back in soft waves, not styled or slicked back like it is in press photos or award shows. It looks real.

This isn't the Amelia I expected to see first thing in the morning. And that throws me.

She turns then-slow, casual, like she knows exactly what kind of effect she has on people and just doesn't care. Her eyes meet mine. I realize, too late, that I'm staring.

Shit. Heat floods my cheeks and I immediately drop my gaze to the counter like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen in my life. The veins in the marble. The way the light cuts across it. Wow. Riveting stuff.

She places a hot mug of black coffee on the counter in front of me, followed by a plate of scrambled eggs and wheat toast. I pull my gaze up to meet hers.

Her blue-green eyes are sharp, even this early, even half-shadowed by the sunlight leaking through the window behind her.

She looks like she's studying me. Or waiting.

"You wanted to have breakfast together," she says eventually, like she's reminding me of something I barely remember saying. Her voice is calm. Controlled. There's no judgment in it, but there's no softness either.

I feel my cheeks flush again, this time not from sleep or sunlight, but from the stinging memory of last night-my voice cracked and shaking, emotions pouring out like I couldn't hold them back. I didn't expect her to remember. I didn't expect her to care.

A muscle in my jaw twitches, and I look away for a second, embarrassed. "Thanks," I mumble. The word feels too small for what this means. I reach for the coffee, needing something to hold, to ground myself.

She picks up a fork from the other side of the island, slides it toward me like it's no big deal.

Then she grabs her own plate and drops into the seat across from me, her movements casual.

Like this is normal. Like we're two people who do this-sit across from each other and eat breakfast and pretend like we don't come from completely different worlds.

She digs into her eggs with quiet focus, the clink of her fork against the plate the only sound for a moment.

I stare at the food in front of me. My stomach is still a mess of nerves and leftover sadness, but the smell is good. Familiar in a way that hurts.

I swallow and finally speak. "Sorry about last night," I say, my voice softer than I expect. "I didn't mean to... fall apart in front of you."

She doesn't look up at first. Just chews and swallows, like she's giving me space to say more, if I want to. Then she lifts her eyes and shrugs. "You're human," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You're allowed to break down whenever the hell you want."

It's such a simple answer. Uncomplicated. But it lands in me like a stone tossed into a still pond.

The occasional sound of cutlery scraping against a plate is the only thing that breaks the stillness.

She doesn't look up once. Just eats like she's used to doing it alone, like this isn't anything new to her.

I try not to stare, but my eyes are stubborn.

They trace the curve of her cheekbone, the way a strand of her copper-red hair keeps slipping forward and brushing against her jaw.

Her lashes are dark and thick, brushing against skin that somehow looks both soft and tough-like she's been through hell and didn't let it ruin her.

Her lips are full, pink, almost bitten-looking, and for a second I wonder what they feel like. Immediately after, I curse myself. What the hell, Harper?

Her eyes, when they do flicker up-briefly, just to glance at her plate-catch the morning light and flicker somewhere between ocean blue and sharp mossy green. A color that shouldn't be real, like she's been painted with something mythic.

"What?" she says suddenly, without looking up, and it nearly knocks the air out of my lungs.

Shit. Caught. My cheeks flush hot like I've been burned. I blink and straighten in my seat, scrambling to cover up the fact I was, you know, practically undressing her with my eyes.

"Should we-um. Like, write some rules or anything?" I blurt out, voice an octave higher than usual.

That makes her pause. She actually lifts her gaze this time, one brow cocked, a little bemused. "What?"

I clear my throat and try again, a little more collected this time. "I don't know. House rules? Like... shared spaces, quiet hours, fridge boundaries?" I try to laugh it off, but her gaze pins me in place and my nervous energy multiplies. God, why is she so intimidating?

Amelia lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "No rules," she says. "Just... expect my family to drop by unannounced."

I blink. "You mean like... Luna Bennett and Mia Bennett and Au-?"

"Yeah. That's my family." She grins, finally letting some of that humor into her eyes. She mock-gasps, "Didn't you know?"

"I did. I mean-yeah, I do. They've come to a few of Lucas' games with Lauren. I just-" I trail off, eyes wide. "They're your moms. Like... your moms."

She frowns playfully, watching me spiral. "What, you gonna ask for an autograph now?"

"I'm sorry," I groan, covering my face with my hand. "I'm being so weird right now. Just-ignore me. Continue, please."

She leans back in her chair, head tilted, studying me like I'm a puzzle she's half-curious about but not entirely sure she wants to solve. "Okay. One rule."

I peek at her through my fingers. "Yeah?"

"No guests."

That makes me drop my hand fully. "Wait-like, no one?"

"You can have Audrey over," she says with a casual shrug. "But that's it. I don't want strangers in my space. Especially not overnight guests."

Overnight guests? I blink. Does she think I'm-? I tilt my head.

"Why? I can't bring a boyfriend or girlfriend?" I ask, teasing. But there's something in her face that makes the joke dry up halfway through.

She raises an eyebrow. "Do you have one?"

I laugh, loud and a little bitter. "God, no."

"Cool. Then it won't be a problem," she says flatly.

"And I'm not trying to cockblock you, Harper.

You can do whatever you want. Just don't do it here.

I don't want strangers in this apartment.

" her voice changes then-firmer, more clipped.

Not angry. Just final. "This place is my safe space.

My only pocket of peace in a life where I can't breathe without someone watching me.

I get followed. Photographed without consent.

People talk shit online, spin stories. I can't lose this-my home-because someone posts a video of me eating cereal in my kitchen in sweatpants. "

I nod, the smile slipping off my face. "I get it," I say, quiet. "I work with a professional hockey team, remember? The guys get hounded all the time. I've seen it up close."

But she just shakes her head, her eyes still locked on mine. "No, you don't get it," she says. "With men, it's admiration. Fame. For me, it's exposure. Violation. There's a difference."

Her words sink into my chest like stones, and I can feel the truth of them even if I've never lived it myself. There's a weight behind her voice, like she's said this a hundred times before and still no one's really listened.

"Okay," I say again, softer this time. "No guests."

"Promise?"

I didn't expect that word coming from her.

It's soft, hopeful and I understand this is a big deal for her.

I sit up straighter hoping she can see I'm serious.

"I promise, Amelia."

Before I let the quiet swallow us, I open my mouth-without really thinking it through.

"So... what about your guests?" I ask, my voice a little too casual to be convincing.

Her eyes flick to mine, calm, curious.

"Guests?" she repeats, like she's rolling the word over her tongue. Testing it. Deciding if it's dangerous.

"Yeah," I say, shifting in my seat and crossing one leg over the other. My mouth is suddenly dry. "I mean, where do you... entertain your guests?"

The second the words leave my lips, I want to die.

Entertain your guests? What the actual hell is wrong with me?

Amelia's brows lift-slow, deliberate. And then, she smirks. It blooms on her lips like she knows exactly how stupid I feel right now and is enjoying every second of watching me squirm. Her head tilts slightly to the side, like she's reading something in me that I don't even realize I'm giving away.

"Entertain them?" she repeats, voice dipped in amusement, like I just handed her a gift. "What are you asking me, Harper?"

And God, the way she says my name. Soft, low, almost teasing. I swallow hard and sit up straighter, trying to recover whatever shred of dignity I still have left.

"I'm just... wondering," I mutter, hoping the heat crawling up the back of my neck isn't visible. "You know. If I should expect some... intense boyfriend or girlfriend barging through the door ready to fight me for just breathing near you."

She chuckles, and it's so low and smooth it goes straight through me. Her eyes linger on mine for a second too long. She knows what she's doing. And I think she likes it. I press my legs together.

"No intense boyfriends," she says easily, picking up her fork again. "Or girlfriends."

I try not to stare. I really do. But the way her fingers curl around her mug, the way her shirt hangs just off one shoulder, revealing skin I should not be noticing.

.. it's like my body's not on the same page as my brain.

My brain is saying, be cool, she's just a roommate.

My body is saying, good luck with that.

I nod slowly, trying to force my voice to sound steady. "Good to know."

Amelia arches a brow again, a glint in her eyes now-like she's enjoying this more than she probably should. "You worried I'd be bringing someone home?"

"I mean..." I trail off, suddenly feeling very aware of how long I've been staring at her mouth. "You're very pretty. It wouldn't be... unreasonable."

That earns a full smile. Not a smirk this time. A real smile.

"Well," she says, "I told you-no guests. That includes mine, too."

"So... you're celibate by house rule?"

Her laugh slips out like a sigh. "I never said I was celibate."

Her words hang there in the space between us, suspended in a slow, electric silence.

Oh.

My throat tightens a little. My fingers twitch on the side of my mug.

I look down briefly, as if the swirling black surface of my coffee might offer some kind of guidance or explanation for the way my stomach just dipped.

But there's nothing there-just the echo of her voice, curling around my thoughts like smoke.

"Right," I say softly, barely managing the word. "Right, of course."

Amelia leans forward just enough to rest her elbows on the countertop, fork still loosely in hand, her gaze locked on me like she's dissecting every twitch, every glance, every breath I take. I feel like I'm under a microscope-completely seen in a way I'm not used to being seen.

She tilts her head, her voice easy, but her eyes sharp. "Why? You planning to break the rule?"

It takes me a beat too long to respond. My brain's still short-circuiting from the way her voice lowers when she speaks, like she knows exactly what she's doing.

I clear my throat and shake my head quickly. "No. God, no. I'm not-I don't-" I groan softly, setting my mug down a little harder than necessary. "I just meant... I was curious."

Amelia lifts one brow, clearly amused by how flustered I'm getting. "Curious?"

"About the rule," I say quickly. "Not... not about you. I mean. Not like that."

She doesn't reply right away. Instead, she drags her teeth slowly across her bottom lip, eyes still fixed on me.

A small smirk tugs again at the edge of her mouth, and I'm not sure if it's because she's having fun watching me spiral or if she's just genuinely like this all the time-cool, unreadable, terrifyingly beautiful.

"Relax, Harper," she says, her tone warm but still dripping with that soft kind of teasing that makes my cheeks burn. "I'm not gonna bring anyone home. You're safe."

Safe. That word lands differently than I think she meant it.

Because I don't feel safe. Not even close.

Not with the way she looks at me like she sees straight through every mask I've ever learned to wear.

Not with the way her laugh stays in my chest longer than it should.

And especially not with the way I can't seem to stop looking at her mouth.

She stretches back in her seat, arms raised above her head for a quick stretch, and I accidentally catch a sliver of her stomach where the hem of her T-shirt rides up. I look away so fast I nearly knock my coffee over.

"Christ," I mutter under my breath, pressing the heel of my palm to my forehead.

"What was that?" she asks, glancing at me from under her lashes.

"Nothing," I say too quickly. "I should... I don't know. Shower. Or get dressed. Or buy a bed."

"You don't have a bed?" her brows raise almost in disbelief.

I shift uncomfortably on the barstool, heat creeping up the back of my neck. "Uh, no. My bed-um..." I glance down at the counter, trying to find a crumb to focus on, anything but her eyes. "You know the story. I just didn't want to bring it."

Her expression tightens slightly. Her coffee cup pauses midair. "He fucked someone in your bed?" she says, slow and sharp, and something about the way that curse slides from her mouth makes my stomach twist in a way that feels foreign.

I nod stiffly, swallowing hard.

"Damn," she mutters, setting her cup down with a soft clink. "He's a piece of shit. You should burn it."

That catches me off guard, and I actually laugh-quiet and surprised. "Burn it?"

She shrugs like it's the most obvious solution in the world, her lips lifting into a smirk. "Just saying. If it were me, I'd have lit that thing on fire the second I found out. Hell, I'd even help you."

Something in my chest loosens. I smile despite myself, and it aches. It aches, because her words are light but there's something solid underneath them. A sincerity I didn't expect. A kind of gentle ferocity that makes me feel... defended. Even if it's too late.

"I'm sorry he did that to you," she adds, softer now, her gaze flicking up to mine. "You deserve better than that."

The words land like a warm hand against my spine-comforting, real. My throat tightens. I blink a few times, willing myself not to cry, not now, not in front of her. But god, it's hard. She means it. I can tell. And I didn't realize how badly I needed someone to say that until now.

"Thank you, Amelia," I murmur, voice barely steady.

She wrinkles her nose in the cutest fucking way. "Millie," she corrects, pointing a lazy finger at me. "Amelia makes me sound so fucking old."

I let out a breathy laugh, wiping a hand under my nose discreetly. "Okay then, Millie."

For a second, it's just quiet. Easy. She sips her coffee and I watch her, trying to memorize the lines of her face without being too obvious about it.

There's something about the way the light hits her hair, all soft red and gold like she's glowing.

She looks like she belongs in the morning-like she owns it.

Then she stands.

And my heart does something stupid and desperate. Because I don't want this to end. Not yet. Not when everything finally feels... not awful.

"I'll see you in three days," she says, casual, reaching for her keys on the counter and walking towards her room again.

I blink. "Wait-you were serious about that?"

She glances at me over her shoulder, one brow arched. "I told you last night."

Yeah, but I didn't think she meant it. Three days. Alone. In this unfamiliar apartment, surrounded by boxes and silence and too much space in my own head.

"I, uh... okay," I manage, trying to sound fine. Normal. Like the idea doesn't leave a pit in my stomach.

Millie pauses at the threshold of the hallway. "Take care of my place, Harper. Don't do anything stupid."

I give her a weak salute. "I won't. I promise. You can trust me."

She turns back fully now, leaning against the doorframe as her eyes scan me. It's slow and deliberate-her gaze coasting over me like she's sizing me up. Or maybe like she's looking for something deeper.

I sit up a little straighter, nerves suddenly sparking under my skin. Is it that obvious? That I crave company? That the idea of being here alone makes my skin feel too tight? It's not about her. I just... don't want to be alone. I don't know how to be alone.

"Harper," she says suddenly, her tone different now-quieter, but still charged. "Don't buy a bed. I'll take care of it."

I blink. "What?"

She doesn't answer.

Instead, she just gives me the faintest smirk-one that doesn't quite reach her eyes but feels like it could-and then she turns and disappears down the hall. Her bedroom door shuts with a soft, definitive click.

And I'm left sitting there, heart beating too fast, staring at the space she left behind.

Don't buy a bed.

The words repeat in my head like a scratched record.

What the hell did she mean by that? Is she going to buy one for me? Was it a joke? Or... something else?

A minute passes. Then another. I sit in the stillness, mug growing cold in my hands, trying to piece together what the hell just happened.

My thoughts are a mess-tangled somewhere between the heat of her voice, the way she looked at me like she knew, and the echo of her laugh still soft in the kitchen air.

I send a quick text to Audrey so she can go shopping with me- and I really need to clear my head because what the fuck was all that?

How am I supposed to survive in this apartment?