“Feel better?” he murmurs.
I let out a shaky laugh. “Somewhat.”
His mouth curves. “Good.”
My eyes sting again.
I whisper, barely there, “You really told them next fall?”
“I did,” he says. “And I meant it.”
“And what if they move on?” I ask because I have to. Because I need to see if he’ll run from the fear.
His jaw tightens.
“Then I’ll live with that,” he says. “I’ll find another way. I’ll work harder. I’ll—” He exhales. “But I’m not choosing football over you right now.”
My heart stutters.
“You’re not choosing me over football?” I whisper because it matters. The truth matters.
Logan’s eyes sharpen with something like respect.
“I’m choosing us in a way that doesn’t destroy me,” he says quietly. “I’m choosing the version of my future that lets me keep both, if I’m lucky, but lets me keep the most important thing either way.”
And somehow—somehow—that feels even safer.
Because it’s not a dramatic sacrifice.
It’s a real plan.
A life.
He brushes his nose against mine for half a second—almost a tease.
“I’m still going to need you to stop tracking my location like a psychopath,” he murmurs.
I glare, but my eyes are wet. “You’ve been avoiding your phone.”
“Yeah,” he admits. “Because I knew if you found out before I could explain it right, you’d think I was leaving.”
My chest tightens.
“I did think that,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”
I exhale, shaky.
Then, quieter, because I can’t hold it in anymore?—
“I can’t lose you too.”
Logan goes still.
His hands tighten gently at my waist.
And when he speaks, his voice is low and deadly sincere.
