behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Twenty-Three

HARPER

Every muscle in my body protests the second I sit up in bed. There's a deep, pulsing ache in my lower back, like my bones are bruised from the inside. My shoulders throb from how tense I must've been all night, and I'm shivering even though I'm still wrapped in the comforter.

The second I step into the shower, a wave of chills washes over me. Not the good kind. Not the kind that makes your breath catch after a kiss, or the kind Millie gave me last night with her mouth and her hands and the way she said my name like it meant something. No-these are the feverish, hollow chills that crawl under your skin and settle in your spine. My head pounds steadily, a dull throb behind my eyes that threatens to build into something worse.

I feel like shit.

It's like my body waited until today-until after the gala, after the rain, after the weeks of trying to juggle too many things at once-before it finally gave up. Like some internal switch flipped and said, That's enough now. And maybe it is. Maybe I pushed too hard, for too long. I don't even remember the last time I slept a full night.

You'd think, after everything, I'd at least get a little grace from the universe. After all, someone finally touched me like I was more than a body. Like I was hers. For a few stolen minutes, I felt like I mattered. I wasn't just someone to be used or left behind. But no-my body's thank-you gift is a head cold.

At least my outfit is cute, even if it took way too much effort to put together. Baggy jeans, a slouchy sweater with little soft blue flowers stitched along the sleeves. My black puffer jacket is zipped up to my chin, and my hair's tucked into a beanie to hide the limp, frizzy mess I couldn't be bothered to fix. My cheeks are flushed from the cold as I walk, snowflakes catching on my eyelashes.

Still, I'd rather deal with the biting January wind in Vancouver than the storm that's been brewing in my chest since last night.

I heard Millie leave early this morning. The sound of the front door closing was soft, almost careful-like she didn't want to wake me. Like maybe she didn't want to face me. I was already awake, of course. I barely slept at all. I just lay there in the dark, replaying every second of last night. Her touch. Her mouth. Her voice, low and ragged against my skin.

And then the way she pulled back. Quiet. Gentle. Gone.

I keep telling myself it shouldn't matter. That I knew what I was asking for. That she gave me exactly what I wanted. No strings, no expectations.

But it matters.

It hurts, even if I don't have the right to feel hurt. I keep seeing her face in my mind-the way her smile dimmed at the edges, like something inside her cracked and she didn't want me to notice. The way she kissed my cheek instead of my lips, and told me goodnight like we hadn't just shared something that felt... real.

God, maybe I imagined it. Maybe I read too much into everything. I'm good at that. Romanticizing scraps. Turning a warm touch into a promise.

How humiliating.

How pathetic.

I tug my sleeves down over my hands and pick up the pace. The restaurant's only a few blocks away, but each step feels like I'm dragging my body through wet cement. I ache everywhere-in the places that are physical, and in the places no one sees.

I've spent so much time, energy, and way too much money I don't really have planning this damn bridal shower. I want it to be perfect-for Shannon, sure. But also... because I need it to be. I need to prove something. Not just to Shannon, but to everyone else.

My old friends.

People I haven't seen in months-people who used to know me, before everything blew up.