I roll my eyes at myself, then open the door.
The hallway is dim, lit by the soft glow from the living room. Pops’s door is cracked. Cameron’s door is shut. The bathroom door is shut.
Logan isn’t in sight.
My chest loosens and tightens at the same time.
Relief and disappointment in the same breath.
I pad down the hall toward the kitchen.
The living room couch is empty.
His crutch is leaned neatly against the wall like he’s not planning on moving far.
The staged equipment is still off to the side, wrapped and waiting, not screaming, just existing.
I keep walking like I don’t see it.
The kitchen light is on, dimmer than full brightness. Someone—Cameron—must’ve turned it down to make the house feel softer.
I open the fridge and stare at it.
Water. Juice. Leftovers. Pops’s tea.
I reach for a bottle of water?—
And freeze.
Because Logan is sitting at the kitchen table.
Not lurking. Not watching me like a predator.
Just…sitting. One leg stretched carefully under the table, brace visible, hands wrapped around a mug like he’s trying to warm himself from the inside out.
He looks up when I move.
His eyes catch mine.
And there it is again—softness.
Not smug. Not amused.
Something careful. Something like he’s trying not to spook me.
My chest tightens.
I hate that I notice.
I hate that I care.
I make my voice sharp because it’s the only tool I trust. “Why are you in here?”
Logan’s brow lifts slightly. “Because it’s a kitchen.”
“It’s midnight,” I say, even though it’s not. It’s barely evening. Drama is my coping mechanism too, apparently.
Logan’s mouth twitches. “It’s eight-thirty.”
