I exhale hard. “I’m fine.”
Logan watches me for a beat. “Did you have fun?”
The question lands differently—less loaded. Less about my grief. More aboutme.
It throws me off balance.
“I…” I hesitate, then say quietly, “Yeah.”
Logan’s mouth curves faintly. “Good.”
I swallow hard and look away, because I can feel something soft trying to crawl out of me, and I don’t trust it.
Logan’s voice stays quiet. “Jade and Blakely good?”
“Yeah,” I say, then add defensively, “They’re annoying.”
Logan smirks. “They love you.”
My throat tightens. “I know.”
Silence stretches.
Then Logan clears his throat. “I’m gonna—uh—ice again.”
I blink. “Okay?”
He hesitates, like he wants to say something else. Like last night is sitting between us, waiting.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he mutters, “I’ll…be in the living room.”
I nod once, still stiff. “Whatever.”
Logan’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but he holds it back. He limps—careful and controlled—back to the couch and settles with his ice pack, like he’s trying to be as small as possible in a house that keeps getting heavier.
I stand there for a long second, watching him.
Not because I want to.
Because my eyes won’t stop.
He looks different when he’s quiet.
Not the smug, cocky wide receiver everyone talks about. Not Cameron’s golden-boy best friend. Not the guy I’ve blamed for two years because it was easier than admitting I cared.
Just…Logan.
Tired. Hurt. Present.
And the worst part is that my chest aches with something that isn’t anger.
It’s want.
It’s fear.
It’s the realization that I might actually need him.
