“Come here,” I say before I can overthink it.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Of course he doesn’t.
Logan moves from the chair to the edge of the bed, sitting carefully, like he’s aware of every inch of space between us.
Not closing it.
Not yet.
Giving me the choice.
Always.
I shift slightly, making room.
He doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t rush.
Just waits.
That patience again.
It does something to me every time.
“You make it hard to hide,” I admit quietly.
“I’m not trying to make you hide.”
“I know.”
A beat.
“That’s the problem.”
His brow furrows slightly.
“Why?”
Because I don’t know what to do when I don’t have to.
The thought lingers.
Honest.
Uncomfortable.
Real.
“I’m not used to… this,” I say instead.
“This?” he repeats.
“Being seen,” I answer.
The words feel bigger than I expect.
