I watch them drift until they disappear, that familiar ache tightening in my chest. Dandelions. Wishes. What I once thought was impossible is suddenly slipping closer, almost as though I’ve already got it in my hands.
I close my eyes and it’s there again—the heat of Logan’s jersey clutched in his fists, his mouth on mine, the sound of his voice rasping against my ear. The way he looked at me like wearing his name was the most dangerous, reckless, beautiful thing I’d ever done.
I want to do it again.
And again.
Dusty rolls over, yawning loudly, and nudges my knee with his nose. I scratch his ears absently, but the ache doesn’t fade. He’s been gone a week, and I’m stuck in the waiting. Counting hours until the next FaceTime. Until I can hear that gravelly voice call me “Lu” like it’s just for him.
My phone buzzes in the grass beside me, and his name lights the screen.
Logan:Dusty behaving?
Me:If you count stealing half my toast this morning as “behaving,” sure.
Logan:Efficient.
Me:Efficient is not what you call a dog thief.
Logan:As long as he doesn’t end up in county, I’ll post bail. Feed him a treat, tell him I’ll be back in 3 more sleeps.
Me:You’re such a dog dad it hurts.
Logan:Better than being a PTA mom.
I laugh out loud at the screen, heart thudding stupidly hard.
Me:Hypothetically, if someone were to have a birthday in the next week, would they want cake?
There’s a long pause before his reply.
Logan:Hypothetically, no.
Me:Hypothetically, too bad.
Logan:I don’t do birthdays, Lu.
Me:Everyone does birthdays.
My phone buzzes, and his name flashes across the screen. I answer, still grinning. “Chicken out on texting?”
His voice rumbles down the line. “I’m serious, Lu. Birthdays weren’t a big thing for me. No big parties or cakes, so I got used to it. Don’t need it now.”
I roll onto my back, staring at the sky. “So you wantnothing?”
There’s a beat where I can almost feel his thoughts rolling over themselves. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “Say happy birthday, gimme a kiss. Maybe a blow job if you’re feeling generous.” I hear the smile in his voice. “That’s more than enough.”
Heat curls in my stomach, but my chest squeezes too. “That’s a low bar, Miller.”
“Not for me. And I don’t wanna add more to your plate—you’ve already got too much going on. I don’t need cake. I just need…” He exhales, quiet but certain. “You.”
My smile wobbles, stupid and soft. “Fine. But I’m still getting you cake.”
He chuckles low. “Of course you are.”
“Consider it non-negotiable.”
There’s another beat of silence that feels warm and charged, then his voice dips, teasing. “Just don’t get those giant number candles. That’s where I draw the line. Fire hazard.”
