Logan’s grin widens. “Liar.”
I should go home.
I should be there when Pops is awake, just in case. I should keep my life small and careful and contained.
But he told me to go.
He told me to have fun.
And for the first time in weeks, I can feel how exhausted I am from trying to be the glue.
I look at Logan, his hand still holding mine, his gaze steady.
And I make a decision that feels like breathing.
“I want to keep it going,” I say.
Logan goes still, like he’s making sure he heard me right.
Then his expression softens into something unbearably tender.
“Okay,” he says quietly, like he’s honored. “We can. If you want.”
“I want,” I repeat, firmer.
Logan leans in and kisses my forehead. “Then we’ll do it.”
We drive back toward PCU as the sky starts to turn gold, the day settling into evening. Logan keeps one hand on the wheel and one hand on my thigh the whole way, his thumb tracing slow circles like he’s reminding me I’m not alone.
When we pull into the football house driveway, he doesn’t rush me out. He just turns to me and brushes my hair behind my ear.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod, then pull out my phone, fingers hovering.
Because this is the part where guilt tries to bite.
I open my texts with Pops.
My heart squeezes.
staying the night at the football house. love you.
I hit send before I can overthink it.
A response comes quickly, like he was waiting, like he’s been holding the phone in his lap.
Pops: See you in the morning. Love you more.
My chest tightens so hard I have to swallow around it.
Logan watches my face, concern flickering. “What did he say?”
I turn the phone slightly so he can see, then press it to my chest like it’s something sacred.
“He said…see you in the morning.”
Logan’s expression softens, and he leans over, pressing a kiss to my temple.
