I glare at him, grabbing my water like the fridge might close and trap me inside if I’m not fast enough. “Why are you awake?”
Logan shrugs, the movement slow and careful. “Knee’s pissed.”
“So you decided to…drink tea to cope with it?” I nod at his mug.
“Coffee,” he corrects.
“That’s worse.”
“I like living dangerously,” he says, deadpan.
I snort, then immediately regret it because it’s too close to laughter, and laughter is intimacy, and intimacy is exactly what I told him I don’t have space for.
I twist the cap of my water too hard, the plastic crackling.
Logan’s eyes flick to my hands before returning to my face.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
My stomach drops.
I hate that he asks that with that tone. Like he’s not trying to fix it. Like he’s just trying to…see me.
I snap on instinct. “Stop asking me that.”
Logan nods once, immediately. “Okay.”
There it is again.
That calm compliance that makes me want to scream.
“Stop saying ‘okay’ like you’re…” I gesture vaguely, frustrated. “Like you’re the mature one.”
Logan’s mouth curves faintly. “I’m definitely not the mature one.”
“Then act like it,” I shoot back.
He lifts his mug to his mouth, eyes still on mine. “You want me to start a fight?”
“Yes,” I say instantly.
Logan huffs a soft laugh. “Weird kink.”
My cheeks burn. “Shut up.”
He holds up one hand in surrender, smile fading into something quieter. “You told me not to. I’m…trying.”
The words land heavier than they should.
I swallow. “Trying what?”
Logan’s gaze holds mine for a beat too long. “Not to push.”
My throat tightens.
Because pushing is what I expected. It’s what Logan always did my freshman year—pushed and poked and teased and then said the one thing that cut deepest and left me bleeding while he walked away like he didn’t care.
But this Logan is different.
