Logan plays another card and looks up at me with that easy grin, and something warm unfurls in my chest.
“Uno,” he says.
I look down at my cards, still holding far too many, and smile despite myself.
“This game is rigged,” I mutter, knowing there is no way I can win.
“You’re just bad at it,” he teases.
“I’ve been playing for twenty minutes, Logan. Give me a break.”
“No breaks in Uno,” he says solemnly. “Only victory or defeat.”
I throw a card at him.
He catches it midair, laughing, and I realize with startling clarity that I don’t want this to end.
Not the game.
Not the night.
Not any of it.
More than anything, I want it to begin—with Logan.
It’s clear we shared an attraction from the very first moment we met, the day after they won the championship, when he signed that jersey for Preston. Even then, I felt it—that pull, that spark, that flutter low in my stomach when our eyes met. I know he did too. But recognizing it for what it was, letting myself acknowledge it, wasn’t something I was capable of at the time. Leaving Preston was never really an option. Survival doesn’t leave room for desire.
Still, I cherished every single day Logan came into the coffee shop. Every smile. Every question. Every cup of coffee he ordered just to linger a little longer at the counter, leaning in close enough that I could smell his cologne. Those moments kept a small light burning inside me during an otherwise very dark time. And even when I believed I could never have him, his presence alone made my life better.
But now… I can have Logan.
I’m free. Or at least, I’m learning how to be. I’m here, in his home, safe behind bodyguards and restraining orders and locked doors. And I know Logan wants me too. I feel it in theway he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention, in the care he takes with every word and every action, in the way his hand hovers near my back when we walk through crowds but never quite touches unless I need steadying.
There isn’t a rule book for making the first move on someone who escaped an abusive relationship, and I know Logan doesn’t want to misstep. He’s careful, respectful, and protective. Maybe he’s too protective, if I’m being honest. But the energy between us is undeniable—it crackles in the air whenever we’re in the same room, humming just beneath the surface of every conversation, every shared meal, every accidental brush of hands.
I get to see him every day now. I love spending time with him. More than anything, I get to be happy with him.
And happiness—real, genuine happiness—might be the most intoxicating thing of all.
It’s better than any high I’ve ever chased. Better than the relief of Preston being in a good mood. Better than the temporary safety of making myself small enough to avoid his anger.
This happiness is mine. I chose it and was brave enough to finally fight for it. And I want more.
If I’m being brutally honest with myself, I want Logan to touch me. The reasons are simple. There’s not a void that needs to be filled out of desperation or loneliness. I’m not trying to escape from reality because, for the first time, real life is treating me quite well. I want him to touch me because I want him. I’m insanely attracted to him and want to experience a healthy relationship.
I choose him, and I just need to figure out how to tell him that.
He raises a brow, studying me across the scattered cards. “What is it?” he asks, with a mischievous grin playing on his lips.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. I push the cards in my hand toward the center pile, letting them flutter down in defeat. “Nothing,” I say, forcing my voice to sound casual. “Congrats on the win.”
He licks his bottom lip slowly, his gaze holding mine a second longer than necessary. The air between us feels thick, charged. “Nah, that’s not it. Something is going on in that head of yours.” He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. “Care to share your thoughts?”
My heart hammers against my ribs. For a wild second, I consider just saying it. But the words stick in my throat.
I press my lips together and lift one shoulder in what I hope looks like a casual shrug. “No thoughts.”
He looks at me with an expression that tells me he doesn’t believe me for a second—his eyes dark and searching, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—but he lets it go anyway.
