Like please hurry.
Like I don’t know how to do this without you.
So instead, I sit there and watch the street.
And I wait.
Ten minutes later, Logan’s truck turns the corner like he owns the road.
He parks along the curb in front of the little park and gets out, wearing a plain black T-shirt and a baseball cap low over his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept enough. Like he’s carrying his own weight too.
He holds up a milkshake cup in one hand like a trophy.
“Contraband,” he calls softly.
I stare at him.
He walks closer, slow, not rushing me. He stops in front of the bench and looks down at me like he’s trying to figure out what version of me he’s about to get.
“Hey,” he says.
My voice comes out small. “Hey.”
Logan’s eyes soften.
He holds the milkshake out. “Peace offering.”
I take it automatically. My fingers brush his. The contact is brief, and it still sends heat through me, like my nervous system remembers him even when my brain is numb.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, because that’s what I always say.
“I know,” he replies, like he’s not arguing. “Drink it anyway.”
I look down at it. Vanilla, my favorite.
Of course he knows.
He always knows.
“Maple Street,” he says, nodding like he’s pleased. “You listened.”
I huff a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “Don’t act surprised. I’m very obedient.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s not the word I’d use.”
I glance up at him, and for the first time in days, something sparks—small, irritated, alive.
“Logan.”
He raises both hands. “I’m just saying.”
“And I’m just saying, I’m going to stop sharing my location with you.” I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth lifts despite myself.
He sees it.
His eyes lock on that tiny shift like it’s the oxygen he needs to breathe.
And then his expression changes, just slightly—like he’s making a decision.
