Logan’s eyes flick to the back door. “It’s dark.”
“Your point? It’s not freezing,” I snap, defensive. “It’s California. I’ll survive.”
Logan’s mouth twitches faintly. “Right. My bad.”
I step out onto the concrete. The night air is cool and damp, carrying the scent of grass and the faint salt of the ocean somewhere far off.
I bounce the ball once, the sound echoing in the quiet.
I shoot.
The ball hits the rim and bounces out.
Of course.
I grab it again and shoot.
Swish.
The net snaps softly, and my chest loosens a fraction like it matters.
“Your form is still trash.”
Logan’s voice comes from behind me, and I jerk—heart jumping.
He’s in the doorway, leaning on the frame like he belongs there.
“Excuse you,” I snap.
Logan steps out slowly, careful on his knee. “It’s true.”
I hold the ball against my hip. “Are you stalking me now?”
He shrugs. “You’re out here alone in the dark. I figured you could use supervision.”
“I don’t need supervision,” I mutter.
Logan’s gaze flicks to my face, softening. “No. You need a break.”
My chest tightens.
I turn away and dribble once, buying time. “I don’t have time for breaks.”
“You keep saying that,” he says quietly.
I shoot again—too hard.
It rims out.
Logan huffs a breath. “Stop rushing your release like you’re afraid of missing.”
I glare. “I’m not afraid of missing.”
His gaze pins me. “Liar.”
Heat flares behind my eyes.
I swallow it down and set my feet the way he said.
