Something shifts in his expression.
“Alright then.”
He turns the key in the ignition, the engine hums to life, and he pulls something out from his pocket.
It’s the blindfold I used on the first night with him.
“Uh…we’re not hooking up here.”
He laughs. “Cass, relax. You said you trust me.”
He tenderly wraps it around my eyes, and my heart starts to hammer harder.
Not just because of the blindfold, either.
But because I realize that it’s the truth.
Idotrust him.
And that scares me a little.
About fifteen minutes later, the truck slows, tires crunching softly over gravel before going still.
The engine hums for a second longer, then clicks off, and the silence is palpable.
Well—not total silence.
There are night sounds, like wind and some voice in the distance.
And oh. I can hear my heart beating.
“Okay,” Logan says, quieter now. “Don’t move.”
“Trusting you,” I mutter, gesturing vaguely to the blindfold.
I hear his door open and close, followed by his boots on the ground. Then mine, as he comes around and opens my door.
“Careful,” he says, his hands finding mine.
He helps me down, and the second my feet hit the ground, I feel soft grass under my shoes.
We walk a few steps. Maybe more. At some point, a gate opens and shuts. I lose count because I’m too aware of everything else—his hand still around mine leading me, the warm night air brushing my bare arms, the way my pulse won’t settle. The sound of crickets.
“Alright,” he says finally.
A pause.
“You can look.”
The blindfold loosens and falls away.
We’re standing in grass in center field of a baseball field.
A real one.
The lights are dimmed but still glowing faintly overhead, casting everything in this soft, golden haze. The stands are empty. The dugouts quiet. The whole place…still.
Like the world paused just for this.
