Cameron’s mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close—then he glances back toward the house again. He starts toward the steps, then pauses and looks back at me.
His voice drops, rough around the edges.
“And Logan?”
“Yeah?”
He hesitates like he hates that he’s about to say something that sounds like trust.
“Figure it out,” he mutters. “Because if she keeps choosing you…you don’t get to be careless with that.”
My throat tightens.
“I won’t,” I say quietly.
Cameron nods once and goes inside.
I stand in the driveway for a second longer, the night air cool against my throbbing cheek, my heart beating too hard for how still everything is.
Then I turn and follow him back into the house—back to her—already knowing my life just split into two paths.
And sooner or later, I’m going to have to choose which one I’m brave enough to walk.
46
LOGAN
Waking up in Sloane’s bed feels like stepping into a life I wasn’t sure I was allowed to want.
Not because it’s wrong—God, nothing about this feels wrong in my body—but because it’s soft. It’s warm sheets and a ceiling fan clicking on the lowest setting and her hair spilled across my forearm like it belongs there. It’s her breathing, slow and even, the kind of sleep you only get when your nervous system finally gives up fighting.
The Rhodes’ house has been home for most of my life.
But this?—
This is new territory.
I lie still for a second, watching her. Watching the way her lashes rest against her cheeks, the way the corner of her mouth tilts like she’s mid-dream, and the dream is decent for once. There’s a faint crease between her brows that never fully goes away anymore, like grief made a permanent home there.
I hate that.
And I love her anyway. Maybe more because of it.
I don’t move because I don’t want to be the thing that wakes her. I don’t want to be another jolt. Another harsh sound. Another reminder that the world is still cruel even when you’re trying to breathe.
But my jaw aches when I swallow, and the soreness radiates along my cheekbone like a warning.
Right.
Cameron.
The memory flashes through me in a sharp little replay: his eyes wild and red, his voice too loud, his fist connecting with my face like he needed something physical to keep from shattering. The sound of it wasn’t even the worst part.
The worst part was understanding him.
He didn’t punch me because he hates me.
He punched me because he’s terrified.
