Pops sighs dramatically. “My two favorite liars.”
Logan huffs a soft laugh, and something in my chest loosens a fraction.
Pops watches us like he’s cataloging the way we orbit each other, and I hate that he can probably see everything.
I cross my arms defensively. “Don’t.”
Pops lifts a brow. “Don’t what?”
“Nothing,” I mutter.
Logan takes a sip of water, gaze steady. “How was girls’ day?”
“It was…fine,” I say, then immediately regret how normal that sounds because it invites follow-up.
Logan’s mouth curves faintly. “Target?”
I blink. “How did you know?”
He shrugs. “Just a guess.”
I huff a laugh before I can stop it.
Logan’s eyes flick to my mouth again, just for a beat.
My stomach flips.
I hate him.
I hate my body.
I hate that the only thing I can think about in this living room full of hospice pamphlets and staged equipment is the way Logan looks at my mouth like it’s a bad idea.
Pops’s voice cuts through my spiral, amused. “All right, I’m gonna take a nap before you two start flirting and pretend you’re not.”
I choke. “We are not flirting.”
Logan’s brows lift. “We’re not?”
I glare at him, cheeks burning. Pops chuckles and stands slowly, careful. “Behave.”
He shuffles toward his room.
When the door clicks shut, the house changes.
Quieter. More intimate. More dangerous.
Logan sets the glass down onto the counter and leans back against it, posture casual like he’s not watching me too closely.
I stay by the couch like it’s a boundary line.
He breaks the silence first, voice low. “You okay?”
I snap on instinct. “Stop asking me that.”
Logan’s jaw tightens. “Okay.”
The calm “okay” is going to make me insane.
