I stood there long after he was gone, staring at the place where he’d been leaning, my reflection faintly visible in the stainless steel of the fridge. My pulse was still racing, my emotions a tangled mess of nerves and warmth and something dangerously close to hope.
He liked me being here. He’d said it plainly. No qualifiers. No jokes. Just the truth. Somehow, that truth thudded in an unsettling rhythm, like a distant drumbeat growing louder, more insistent. My pulse felt heavy, drumming a chaotic tune in my ears, a reminder of the risk in his simple admission. And somehow, that felt more unsettling than if he’d said nothing at all.
Because liking led to wanting, and wanting led to risk.
I wrapped my arms around myself, exhaling slowly, trying to ground the buzzing in my chest. I wasn’t upset, not exactly. But I wasn’t calm either. I felt caught off guard, off balance, like I’d stepped forward expecting solid ground and found myself hovering instead.
Part of me wanted to replay every word he’d said, analyze the pauses, search for meaning between the lines.
Another part of me, the part that had learned early how to keep people comfortable, how to be easy to love and easier to leave, wanted to tuck it all away and pretend it hadn’t shaken me at all.
He was guarded. He was scared. He was doing the best he could.
I could understand that.
What I couldn’t quite shake was the way his admission lingered, not loud or dramatic, but persistent.
You make things easier.
That scared the hell out of him.
And somehow, knowing that I mattered enough to frighten him?
That unsettled me in ways I wasn’t prepared for.
I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and turned back to the counter.
Whatever this was, whatever it was becoming, I had a feeling we were only at the beginning of it.
???
On Monday, I met with Logan before Harper got home.
When I walked into the house, he motioned toward the table, where a neatly organized folder sat beside a spiral notebook. Logan cleared his throat, his words spilling out in a rush.
“Okay, so here’s everything you might need,” he said. “Uh, there’s the school contact info… class schedule… emergency numbers, uh, allergy—”
“Wait, she has allergies?” I interrupted, trying not to panic. He chuckled nervously.
“Just to bee stings,” he replied quickly. “There’s an EpiPen in her backpack, the bathroom, and in the kitchen first aid kit, but it hasn’t been an issue… yet. Here’s one for your purse.” He said, handing me the device.
“Okay, good,” I said, relief washing through me. “Because if she were allergic to something common, like peanut butter, we’d both be living in constant fear.”
“She’s allergic to mornings,” he deadpanned. “But I don’t think there’s medication for that.”
I laughed. “I can relate.”
He turned another page in the notebook, tapping it like a general reviewing strategy. “School drop-off is at 8:15 am. Pick up is at 3:00 pm. Dance class is on Mondays and Wednesdays at four. Dinner at six, bedtime by eight—she likes one story, sometimes two if she’s had a good day.”
“Strict schedule, huh?”
“Structure helps,” he said with a small smile. “She thrives on routine.”
I nodded, glancing around the room again. Everything in this house had asubtleorder to it, the kind that comes from someone who learned to survive through organization. My eyes lingered on the schedule, a flawless plan laid out with precision. I nearly succumbed to its strictness, but with a small smile, I reminded myself that rules were meant to be danced around every now and then.
“I get it,” I said softly. “Still… you sure there’s no room for spontaneity?”
He looked up, brow furrowed. “Spontaneity?”
