Now.
But if I hadn’t gotten there when I did?—
I cut the thought off because I have to as I help her back to bed. She changed into the shorts while she was in the bathroom. She sinks back into the pillows, muttering, “Feel like shit.”
I’ve already got crackers and Tylenol ready. “Here. Try these.”
She manages a few bites and sips of water before her gaze flicks to mine.
“Do you remember anything?” I ask gently.
“Bits and pieces. The pool. Being carried. That room. That guy.” Her voice goes tight on the last word, and a full-body shudder works its way through her limbs.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I urge swiftly. She probably should with somebody, though. Like a licensed professional. Fuck knows how much trauma she’s actually endured in her life.
I should have checked on her earlier. Dammit. It should never have gotten that far.
She studies me for a long moment. “How did you even find me?”
“Your dad and I put a tracker on the phone he gave you.”
Her eyebrows lift, and then she huffs out a laugh, eyes closing as she rests her head back against the pillow. “Fuck, I should’ve known when you guys found me so fast at the truck stop. Dad’s legendary tracking skills, my ass.”
“Well, thank god we did.” Because otherwise… I stop, chest clenching at the thought.
“But you didn’t tell him?” She frowns, eyes still closed. Her voice is soft when she finishes, “You just came for me.”
“I couldn’t waste a second,” I murmur, leaning in to make sure she really gets what I’m saying. “Harper, I will always come for you when you need me. No matter where you are. No matter what’s happened. I will always find you.”
Her lips part like she wants to answer, but she just nods, eyes glassy, like she’s filing that promise somewhere deep inside.
Her breath catches. She stares at me for so long I start to wonder if she’s even breathing, then she looks down at her hands.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Be so… perfect.”
Perfect. The word lands like it’s got weight. I’ve spent my whole life chasing it—perfect grades, perfect debate performances, to be a perfect son. Perfecteverything. I’ve worn myself raw on that grind, trying to fit into a mold I’m not sure I ever remember consciously choosing. None of it ever felt right, and all I ever saw was how far I fell short constantly.
And yet, here with Harper—half-naked, tear-streaked, recovering from what could have been the worst night of her life—I’ve never cared less about perfection.
Or felt morereal. She doesn’t care if I check the boxes.
Around her, I’m not performing.
I’m just—me.
“I’m so sorry,” I can’t help repeating, reaching for her hand because I need her to know how much I mean it.
She glances up, surprised. “Sorry for what? I’m the idiot who went to that party.”
I shake my head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. None of this was your fault. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard about you leaving the other day. And I shouldn’t have let things… get so out of hand between us so you knew you could alwaystalkto me. You don’t have to shut me out.”
“God, stop it.Iwent there,” she says stubbornly. “I’mthe one who put myself in that situation?—”
“Stop.” The word comes out too sharp. I breathe it down, but my voice still carries steel. “Don’t put this on yourself. Tonight wasnotyour fault. It was whoever spiked your drink. And that bastard who—” My throat closes, rage flooding hot through my chest. I can’t finish the sentence.