“You’re not going to.”
My throat tightens.
I stare at him, terrified of hope, and still?—
I squeeze his shirt tighter.
“Okay,” I whisper, because it’s all I have.
Logan’s mouth curves, faintly. “Okay.”
Behind us, someone drops a plate, and the clank echoes, snapping the room back into being real.
Logan doesn’t let go of me.
He leans in and kisses my forehead, then he murmurs, close enough that only I can hear:
“Next time you want to blow up at me, can you do it at home? That was kinda hot, and I’ve heard make-up sex is great.”
I let out a wet laugh.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but I’m yours,” he murmurs back.
And that’s the thing.
I am his.
52
LOGAN
Sloane rides home with me, deciding that we’ll come grab her car tomorrow. The second we’re in my truck, she’s…different.
Not soft, exactly—Sloane Rhodes isn’t built that way—but the sharp edge is gone. The anger has burned out and left something warmer behind it, like embers.
She shuts the door, exhales, and then turns her head toward me with a look that makes my stomach drop.
Not because she’s mad.
Because she’s amused.
“Stop staring,” she says.
I blink. “I wasn’t.”
She lifts one brow like she’s watching me lie and grading the effort. “You were. Like I’m gonna evaporate.”
My mouth opens. Closes.
Because yeah—kind of.
I start the engine and pull out of the lot, keeping my face neutral like I’m not internally combusting.
Sloane watches me for a few seconds, then makes a thoughtful little hum. The kind she does when she’s about to be a problem on purpose.
“What?” I ask.
