When Hate Feels Like Love

Chapter Thirteen: The Winners Stand Alone

Willow Harrison's POV

Breaking the silence, Shian let out a dry chuckle, stepping back as he shoved his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. "Well... it's late," he said, his voice a little tight around the edges. "I'll be heading back. See you tomorrow, Willow."

"Right. See you." I gave him a small smile, lifting the coffee slightly in thanks. He nodded once more before turning and walking down the street, his footsteps fading under the low hum of the streetlamp.

When I finally turned to Oliver, he was watching me not in the way Shian did, not with restraint or politeness, but like he was reading the lines I hadn’t written. Up close, I caught it, the faint, unmistakable scent of booze clinging to his breath, buried under the usual floral scent of some women and the night air.

“You’ve been drinking,” I said quietly, not accusing, just stating what was already obvious.

“Yeah,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wasn’t planning on staying long.”

“You’re still here. Your house isn't exactly nearby either; it's at least a 30-minute walk.”

“Yeah.”

“Then why?” I asked as I looked away.

“I don’t know,” he said, but it sounded like a lie. Or maybe it was the closest thing to the truth he could manage. “I was walking around, trying to—”

I cut him off, my gaze snapping to the mark on his neck, the one I hadn’t noticed before. A faint hickey, careless and fresh, blooming against his skin like a bruise someone left in a hurry. Something in me twisted. "Run away from which girl this time? Are you planning on hiding here again?"

His jaw tensed. “Yeah, that’s it,” he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”

I sighed, rolling my eyes as I opened my palm, offering him, once again, a way out of the mess he’d made. “I’ll grab you some sheets. You’re crashing on the couch. The usual fee is fifty bucks.”

Oliver Clarke always found his way back to me, especially when he was drunk or dodging someone. It had become a routine I knew by heart. He’d show up reeking of booze and bad decisions, lie low in my house for a night or two, and pay me—like hush money—to tell whichever girl he was running from that he’d left town, or fallen off the grid, or whatever excuse he thought would make him look less pathetic.

It was pathetic.

It was predictable.

It was absolutely disgusting.

But it wasn’t like I was doing him a favor. It was all for the money; who would say no to extra cash?

Oliver Clarke wasn't this way before. I knew it was the aftermath of Jaime leaving him.

God, I would never fall in love. Not the same way he did. Not when I saw what it did to everyone else around me. I would never let love be my downfall.

I didn’t have the luxury of indulging in that kind of weakness. If love meant ending up like this—then I'd swear I'd be better off without it. Better off winning. Even if it meant being alone at the top.

“Blanket, pillow, sheets. What else do you need?” I asked, dropping the stack into his lap as he slumped onto the couch with the same defeated grace he always had after one of these nights.

“Coffee would be nice,” Oliver muttered, glancing sideways at the cup Shian gave me earlier, long gone cold by now.

“How childish.”

He reached for the cup anyway, took a sip, and grimaced. “Even I know you hate coffee, and it is not even the good kind.”

“Then don’t drink it,” I muttered, turning away.

But of course he did. Oliver Clarke always did things just to prove he could.

A few moments later, I was quietly lifting Watson—half-asleep, heavy with warmth—into my arms, ready to carry him up the stairs. His head lolled against my shoulder as I adjusted my grip, trying not to wake him.

Then suddenly, Oliver was beside me.

“I got him,” he said, voice low. He didn’t wait for my answer. Just reached out and lifted Watson into his own arms like it was nothing. His fingers brushed against mine, lightly, unintentionally. But it still made me flinch like it meant something.

“I can do it myself,” I muttered, adjusting my grip on Watson. “Besides,” I added quickly, eyes darting anywhere but at him, “you’re drunk.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Not that drunk, Harrison."

We climbed the stairs in silence, the weight of his answer following just behind our footsteps. At the top, he paused outside the bedroom door and gently tucked Watson in. Oliver’s eyes flicked to the room around him, landing on the framed awards and medals hanging on the walls.

“What?” He chuckled, a hint of mischief creeping into his tone. “Your awards don’t fit in your room anymore? They had to place them in your brothers' room?”

I stiffened at the question, my gaze flicking to the walls on instinct. There they were, neatly framed certificates, rows of gold medals from academic competitions, and photographs capturing moments that should’ve felt like triumphs. They looked more like reminders now.

I never once celebrated my achievements because in my mind, I felt obligated to achieve them.

“It’s not like that,” I said, a little too quickly. My voice came out more defensive than I wanted. “My parents figured it would... inspire my younger brothers. Make them want to be more like me.”

Oliver tilted his head, his voice quieter, more curious than mocking. “Do you think they should be?”

“They should be anything else,” I muttered, almost under my breath. “Just not like me.”

He leaned against the doorframe, that unreadable look on his face, the kind that always made me feel like he saw right through me. I hated it.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just kept his eyes on the wall like he was trying to piece together the story behind every medal and plaque.

Finally, he spoke, and his voice was softer this time, gentler, almost cautious. “You really don’t let yourself breathe, do you?”

“Neither do you.”

Oliver didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. We both knew it.

Despite our absolute differences, the only common ground we had was knowing that.

To keep winning but still feel like you were falling behind—because the winners stand alone. And it’s only when you’re up there, finally, that you understand just how lonely it gets at the top.

But it’s a pretty pedestal, isn't it? Shiny, admired from below, polished with praise and envy.

So why not climb it anyway?

Why not keep reaching? That's what we do.

Ambition is the poison we picked— not love—and will never be love again.