His brows lift. “You’re opening hospice emails like they’re spam.”
I glare. “They kind of are.”
He snorts, then winces like laughing hurts his knee. “Okay, that was good.”
I hate that I made him laugh.
I hate that the sound loosens something in my chest.
I force my chin up. “I have things to do.”
Logan nods once, then gestures toward the counter. “Then do them. But stop acting like you’re the only one who can.”
My throat tightens. “You can’t help.”
He gives me a flat look. “You don’t know what I can do.”
I scoff. “Please. The only thing you’re qualified to do is limp dramatically and make everything about you.”
He gasps, hand to his chest like I stabbed him. “Wow. I would never make anything about me.”
I glare. “You literally just did.”
He smirks. “And yet, here you are, still talking to me.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Because he’s right.
Because the banter is the only thing that feels even remotely normal right now.
Because fighting with Logan is familiar in a world that just turned unrecognizable.
I exhale sharply and grab my phone, shoving it toward him like I’m handing him a grenade. “Fine,” I snap. “If you’re going to be in my space, at least be useful. This trial in LA—tell me if this exclusion criteria means what I think it means.”
Logan’s eyes flick to the screen. Surprise flashes for half a second.
Then he pushes himself up carefully, grabbing his crutch, moving toward the island like he’s trying not to show how much it costs him.
He leans over the counter, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine.
My body goes rigid on instinct.
His gaze stays on the phone like he doesn’t notice.
Of course he notices.
He’s Logan.
He just pretends not to.
“Okay,” he mutters, scanning the page. “Yeah. This is…bullshit.”
“Language,” I say automatically.
He shoots me a look. “Says the girl who just called hospice emails spam.”
