Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
You really think my brother’s that scary?
Lulu
I throw my favorite running set on—the same light blue crop and leggings I was wearing the day I accidentally traumatized the neighborhood with my podcast—and then pull my door open.
Across the hall, a door opens, and Logan appears, broad-shouldered and scowly. If someone sculpted an early-morning complaint into a man, it would be him. He’s in a long-sleeve Nike shirt, running shorts, and a grim expression that says he regrets every decision that led him here.
“You look thrilled,” I whisper, crouching to lace my shoes.
He yawns without apology. “If I die on your hill, bury me under the flamingo.”
“Please,” I say, standing up again and grabbing Dusty’s harness. “The swan has stronger leadership qualities.”
His mouth twitches—there and gone. Victory.
We step into the quiet of Birch Lane at dawn.
Houses sleep with their porch lights low, mist clinging to the lawns, the sky an unripe peach above the roofs.
My breath fogs, and Logan’s does too. We fall into the pace that I set, and he matches without comment, Dusty trotting between us as our very own conductor.
“You always run this early?” he asks after a block, voice still rough with sleep.
“Before school most days,” I say. “Clears the head. Makes the matcha taste better.”
“That’s a lie,” he mutters. “Nothing makes matcha taste better.”
I grin into the chill. “We can agree to disagree.”
We climb. The street tilts up toward the ridge, the good kind of burn sliding into my calves.
Logan’s stride is infuriatingly even. He doesn’t puff or show off; he just exists as though gravity’s his best friend.
If I tripped, I’m certain he’d catch me without looking, and I hate how much I notice that.
“Cardio’s efficient,” I say breezily, because poking the bear is a love language. “You were just being dramatic last night.”
His side-eye lands warm against my cheek. “And you were being smug.”
“Smug?” I fake gasp. “I’ve never been smug a day in my—”
He reaches out, palm flattening at the small of my back as the sidewalk narrows to a steep path. “Step there,” he says, guiding me around a slick patch of leaves and taking the road side of the bend.
The touch is incidental. Gentle. Not incidental is the heat that spikes low in my belly.
“Bossy,” I breathe, not moving away.
“Efficient,” he counters, and when I cut him a look, he’s not smiling, but he’s close.
We crest the last switchback, and the ridge opens up like a stage, the whole neighborhood laid out in squares and shingles, the reservoir beyond taking on a shy ribbon of gold before the city behind it. It’s always beautiful, but today, it feels shared. Larger because he sees it, too.
I throw my arms wide as we dodge through the trees and reach the clearing. “Ta-da! My spot.”
He comes to a stop beside me, breath even, gaze fixed on the horizon. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, quietly, an admission. “Okay, now I get it.”
We stand there with the kind of silence you want to memorize.
Dusty sits between us, leaning his warm weight into my shin and then into Logan’s.
The sun slips higher and the lake winks.
I want to bottle this—the clean air, the soft scrape of his sleeve against mine, the way it feels like the morning cracked open just for us.
“You were right,” he says at last.
My brows jump. “About what?”
“It clears your head.” He tips his chin toward the water. “And… yeah. Gets the blood moving.”
The way he says that last part makes my face heat even though it’s cold up here.
I exhale and bend to scratch Dusty’s ear to keep my shaking hands busy.
That’s when I notice them—two scrappy dandelions pushing through the gravel near the overlook.
Little bursts of fluff in a place where nothing else is supposed to grow.
I pluck them both, hold one out to him. “Make a wish.”
“What?” he asks, but he still takes it.
“Like this.” I cup mine between my palms and close my eyes, blowing the seeds into the wind. When I open them, he’s still standing there with his fist around the stem like it’s a live grenade.
He stares at me, dry as ever. “You made a wish on a weed, Lulu.”
“Dandelions bloom in the worst soil, Logan. That’s the point.”
I nudge his hand holding the other one. “Come on, humor me.”
For a long second, he doesn’t move. Then he exhales, mutters something under his breath, and tips his head back to scatter the seeds in one blow.
Dusty barks his approval, and the sight makes something in my chest squeeze. Because Logan Miller just made a wish on a weed for me, and he’ll never know how much that matters.
“We can run a little farther,” I say quickly, trying to cover the thrum in my voice. “Then loop back.”
“You’re really gonna make me earn breakfast, huh?”
“Already earned,” I say, starting down the path. “I’m making smoothies when we get home. Green ones. Efficient.”
He groans like I’ve suggested we sprint to Wyoming, but he falls into step, close enough that our arms brush every few strides. I don’t apologize.
Neither does he.
By the time we push back through his front door, the house is awake enough to feel lived-in but not loud. I toe off my shoes, peel out of my jacket, and head for the kitchen island. Logan disappears down the hall toward the shower, and I’m left alone with Dusty, who looks at the blender hopefully.
“Not for you, sir,” I tell him, dropping spinach into the pitcher with banana, frozen mango, Greek yogurt, a splash of milk, a scoop of protein powder, and a scandalous squeeze of honey. The blender purrs to life, loud and cheerful against the early morning light.
Logan reappears right as I’m pouring—hair damp, clean shirt clinging in ways that should be illegal before seven a.m. He looks less like a complaint and more like a problem now. My problem.
“What’s in it?” he asks, suspicious of anything not beige and chicken-shaped.
“Hope,” I say solemnly. “And also spinach.”
He eyes the glass. “You trying to convert me?”
“To joy? Always.” I slide him one. “Just try it.”
He does, warily, then takes a second sip, then a longer one as if he’s unwilling to concede defeat but also unwilling to stop enjoying it. The corner of his mouth does that nearly-smile again.
“It’s not terrible,” he admits.
“High praise,” I deadpan, and raise my own glass. “To efficient mornings.”
He clinks his against mine. “To not dying on hills.”
We drink. We don’t look away. A ridiculous amount of static hums between us while I pretend to be very invested in the way some spinach is stuck to the side of a glass.
On the counter, my phone buzzes. A dating app notification banner slides across the top.
Evan, 31: Let me take you out this week? Winky face emoji.
Of course. The universe, with its sick sense of humor.
Logan’s gaze snaps to the screen, then back to my face. “You’ve got a message.”
I thumb the notification away, going for nonchalant. “Mm. Evan thinks Topgolf counts as a personality.”
His voice goes lighter than the words. “You’re still dating.”
“Yeah…” I turn to rinse the blender pitcher. “I’ve got nothing to lose, right?”
He doesn’t answer, and I scramble for something to say. The quiet stretches, fine as thread, and then Dusty breaks it by nosing Logan’s elbow for the last inch of smoothie.
“You looked…” I start, then stop. Too close. I soften it. “You ran well.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Wow. A gold star from Coach Parnell.”
“Please, I don’t give out gold stars. I give participation stickers.”
“And what do I get?” He leans on the island, arms crossed, eyes heated and honed in on me.
Dangerous. That’s what that look is. Enough to warn me off, enough to remind me he’s Eli’s teammate and best friend, and therefore, the last guy I should be circling like this.
But then Dusty sighs at my feet, and Logan’s standing there, calm and impossible and close. And I think about every date that fizzled flat, every almost-kiss that felt like nothing, every time I faked coming to get it over and done with. And I can’t stop myself.
The words are fizzing up, too sharp to swallow. “Depends. You ever teach private lessons?”
His brows notch. “In running?”
“Not exactly.” My pulse skips, but I lean into the pause, letting the flirtation live right there in the space between us. “I’ve been thinking… maybe fireworks aren’t about the right restaurant or the right guy on paper. Maybe they’re about chemistry. Technique, too, but mostly chemistry.”
Silence hums and his throat works, and I can almost hear the thoughts crashing into each other behind his eyes. For a second, I think I’ve actually broken him.
“Lulu—” he starts, voice rough.
My heart kicks hard, panic and thrill tangling, so I laugh lightly to cover it. “Relax. I’m not asking you to”—I circle a hand vaguely in the air, my grin too bright, too shaky—“be a one-night stand. I’m just saying maybe you could… show me how it’s supposed to be.”
Logan goes stock still, bracing for impact.
I lean my hip against the kitchen counter, pretending I haven’t been rehearsing this in my head. He’s standing there, broad shoulders and crossed arms filling the space like he’s physically blocking whatever I’m about to say.
“Most guys would be flattered if a woman said she wanted to… you know… learn with them. Discover what they like.” I keep my voice light. Casual, like I’m not dangling dynamite between us.
His eyes narrow. “Most guys aren’t trying to avoid a slow, painful death.”
“You really think my brother’s that scary?”
“He’s a forward—he hunts people for sport.”
“But…” I let the pause linger, smile tugging slow. “You haven’t said no.”
His mouth tips like he might smile, and for a second, something shifts in his gaze—heat, maybe. Or hunger. The kind that could ruin us both.
Then it’s gone, replaced with that maddening, careful calm.
“I’m still weighing up whether it’s worth the funeral.”
I should laugh. I do, a little. But the sound doesn’t hide the way my pulse thrums. “So maybe not lessons…”
Chocolate eyes holds mine, sharp enough to pin me in place. “But how about questions?” His voice drops low. “Questions, I can handle.”
I arch a brow, finding bravado because if I don’t, I’ll crack wide open. “Can you? Because if you're offering, I plan to be very thorough.”
His jaw flexes, and the air tightens the way it does before a storm—the huge sky, the crackle. He doesn’t step back, though. Neither do I.
A knock carries from the door, and we both jerk.
“That’ll be PuroClean,” I say, grabbing my keys and tugging on his hoodie I haven’t given back. “Day two dry-out check.”
“I’m coming,” he says immediately, already reaching for his shoes.
“That’s what I want to do.” I grin, reckless, because I can’t help it.
I watch as he visibly pales, then head for the front door before I can take it back.
We cross the street to my house. The crew measures, nods, promises one more day for the floors, maybe two, then the plumber swaps the split line under the sink. They leave behind the low thunder of fans and a neat invoice on the counter.
“Couple days,” Logan says, scanning the paper. “Tops.”
“Couple days,” I echo, trying not to listen to the part of me that is relieved and disappointed in the same breath.
Back at his place, I linger in the doorway to the guest room, fingers worrying the edge of his hoodie. I quickly get myself organized for work, then head back to the living room to say goodbye.
“Thanks for the run,” I say, too earnest to cover. “And the… everything.”
He searches my face, something soft knocking at the edges of his eyes. “Anytime.”
The word lodges in my chest, heavier than it should be. Because I believe him. Because I think if I asked, if I pushed harder, he’d give me more than anytime.
And that is exactly what I plan to do.
I smile, shouldering my bag. “Keep an eye on your phone today."
His brows twitch, but he doesn’t answer, and I don’t wait for him to. I step out into the morning after saying goodbye to Dusty, the sun now fully risen in the sky. I repeat my morning mantra to myself, feeling it today more than ever.
Wildflowers don’t just bloom in cracks, they split concrete.
And I plan to do the same to Logan Miller.