This Logan stops when I say stop.
And the scariest part is that it makes me want to let him in closer.
I clamp down on that thought and take a long drink of water.
Cold slides down my throat, grounding me.
Logan’s voice is quiet. “I didn’t mean to…”
“You did,” I say, because I can’t stand the softness creeping into the air. “You always do. You get close, and then you?—”
“Then I what?” he interrupts, voice still low but sharper now.
I open my mouth.
No words come out.
Because the truth is too ugly to say out loud:
Then I want you. And wanting you makes me furious because it reminds me I’m human.
I glare instead. “Nothing.”
Logan’s gaze searches my face, frustration flickering. “Sloane.”
Hearing my name like that—quiet, steady—makes my stomach flip.
I hate my body.
I take another drink of water, then slam the bottle down onto the counter a little too hard.
Logan’s eyes flick to it. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not,” I lie.
“You are,” he says, gentle and maddening.
“I said stop,” I snap, voice cracking on the edge.
Logan goes still. His eyes soften. “Okay.”
I flinch, anger surging because his softness feels like pity, and I will not be pitied in my own kitchen.
I step closer, pointing at him like he’s a problem I can solve with aggression. “Do you think you can just—just sit there and look at me like you’re some saint and I’m some?—”
Logan’s chair scrapes quietly as he shifts, pushing back just enough to give his leg room. “I’m not a saint.”
“Then what are you doing?” I demand.
Logan’s gaze drops to his hands for a second, then lifts back to mine. “I’m staying.”
The words hit me in the chest.
Not dramatic. Not poetic.
Just…staying.
My throat burns.
