He hasn’t stopped visiting because of me. He’s just out of town with friends.
I find it odd that he didn’t mention he’d be leaving, considering he comes in every day like clockwork. But then I remind myself that he doesn’t owe me an explanation. He doesn’t owe me anything.
I’m completely lost in thought, staring at the picture of Logan’s sun-kissed smile, so zoned out that I don’t hear him come in.
“What the fuck?” Preston roars from behind me.
I startle, my heart lurching into my throat as he slaps the phone out of my hand. It clatters across the hardwood floor.
“I can explain!” I shriek, but before I can get the words out, Preston is on me. His hands clamp around my arms, yanking me off the sofa with brutal force. His face is crimson with rage, eyes bulging, veins standing out along his temples and neck.
He launches me across the room.
I slam into the coffee table, the sharp edge driving into my ribs. Pain explodes through my side as I crash to the floor, gasping for air.
I don’t linger in the pain. Survival kicks in. I scramble to my feet, adrenaline drowning out the agony, and before Preston can reach me again, I bolt for the bedroom.
His heavy breathing echoes behind me, shoes pounding against the floor. I know he’s gone into a fit of rage, and he’s not thinking clearly. When he’s like this, he’s at his most dangerous.
Before he can catch me, I yank open my dresser drawer, grab the signed Cranes jersey I’ve been hiding, and throw it at him.
He catches the navy-blue fabric midair, confusion flashing across his face. He halts mid-step, chest heaving.
“What is this?” he demands, veins still popping at his temples.
“It’s your birthday present,” I cry, my voice breaking.
“What do you mean?” he snaps.
“I went—I stood in line at a Cranes fan event after they won the championship because I knew you loved the team,” I rush out, the words tumbling over each other. “I got you a signed jersey. I was just on another player’s Instagram to see if they were having any more signing events, so I could get you another one. That’s all. I swear.”
“Show me,” he barks.
I hurry past him into the living room, hands shaking as I search frantically for my phone. When I find it—screen cracked from hitting the floor—I click out of the picture and leave it on Miles Keller’s profile. I hold it out to him with trembling fingers.
“Here. I didn’t mean to click on the picture. I was just searching through their profiles, looking for posted signing dates so I could get you more Cranes memorabilia for your birthday. That’s all. I promise.”
Tears streak down my face, hot and relentless. My side pulses with a deep, throbbing agony that makes it hard to breathe.
Preston stares at the phone, then at the jersey in his hand. His jaw works, the muscles in his face twitching as he processes what I’ve said.
For a long, terrifying moment, he doesn’t move.
Then, slowly, his expression shifts. The rage drains away, replaced by something softer. Almost pleased.
“You did this for me?” he asks, his voice quieter now.
I nod, wiping at my tears with the back of my hand. “Yes. For your birthday.”
He looks at the jersey again, running his thumb over the signature—Logan’s signature—and a slow smile spreads across his face.
“This is really thoughtful, babe.” He steps toward me, and instinct makes me flinch. But he doesn’t hit me. Instead, he pulls me into his chest, wrapping his arms around me. “I’m sorry. I just—I saw you looking at a picture of some shirtless guys, and I lost it. You know how I get.”
I nod against him, biting down on my lip to keep from crying harder. My ribs scream in protest, but I don’t pull away.
“I love you,” he murmurs into my hair. “You know that, right?”
“I know,” I whisper.
