His mouth twitches—there and gone. Victory.
We step into the quiet of Birch Lane at dawn. Houses sleep with their porch lights low, mist clinging to the lawns, the sky an unripe peach above the roofs. My breath fogs, and Logan’s does too. We fall into the pace that I set, and he matches without comment, Dusty trotting between us as our very own conductor.
“You always run this early?” he asks after a block, voice still rough with sleep.
“Before school most days,” I say. “Clears the head. Makes the matcha taste better.”
“That’s a lie,” he mutters. “Nothing makes matcha taste better.”
I grin into the chill. “We can agree to disagree.”
We climb. The street tilts up toward the ridge, the good kind of burn sliding into my calves. Logan’s stride is infuriatingly even. He doesn’t puff or show off; he just exists as though gravity’s his best friend. If I tripped, I’m certain he’d catch me without looking, and I hate how much I notice that.
“Cardio’s efficient,” I say breezily, because poking the bear is a love language. “You were just being dramatic last night.”
His side-eye lands warm against my cheek. “And you were being smug.”
“Smug?” I fake gasp. “I’ve never been smug a day in my—”
He reaches out, palm flattening at the small of my back as the sidewalk narrows to a steep path. “Step there,” he says, guidingme around a slick patch of leaves and taking the road side of the bend.
The touch is incidental. Gentle.Notincidental is the heat that spikes low in my belly.
“Bossy,” I breathe, not moving away.
“Efficient,” he counters, and when I cut him a look, he’s not smiling, but he’s close.
We crest the last switchback, and the ridge opens up like a stage, the whole neighborhood laid out in squares and shingles, the reservoir beyond taking on a shy ribbon of gold before the city behind it. It’s always beautiful, but today, it feels shared. Larger because he sees it, too.
I throw my arms wide as we dodge through the trees and reach the clearing. “Ta-da! My spot.”
He comes to a stop beside me, breath even, gaze fixed on the horizon. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, quietly, an admission. “Okay,nowI get it.”
We stand there with the kind of silence you want to memorize. Dusty sits between us, leaning his warm weight into my shin and then into Logan’s. The sun slips higher and the lake winks. I want to bottle this—the clean air, the soft scrape of his sleeve against mine, the way it feels like the morning cracked open just for us.
“You were right,” he says at last.
My brows jump. “About what?”
“It clears your head.” He tips his chin toward the water. “And… yeah. Gets the blood moving.”
The way he says that last part makes my face heat even though it’s cold up here. I exhale and bend to scratch Dusty’s ear to keep my shaking hands busy. That’s when I notice them—two scrappy dandelions pushing through the gravel near the overlook. Little bursts of fluff in a place where nothing else is supposed to grow.
I pluck them both, hold one out to him. “Make a wish.”
“What?” he asks, but he still takes it.
“Like this.” I cup mine between my palms and close my eyes, blowing the seeds into the wind. When I open them, he’s still standing there with his fist around the stem like it’s a live grenade.
He stares at me, dry as ever. “You made a wish on aweed, Lulu.”
“Dandelions bloom in the worst soil, Logan. That’s the point.”
I nudge his hand holding the other one. “Come on, humor me.”
For a long second, he doesn’t move. Then he exhales, mutters something under his breath, and tips his head back to scatter the seeds in one blow.
Dusty barks his approval, and the sight makes something in my chest squeeze. Because Logan Miller just made a wish on a weed for me, and he’ll never know how much that matters.
