Chapter 17 Sloane #2
And then he kissed me, and my body said, Nope. We were never over it.
“I feel…” I start, then stop.
Jade and Blakely both go still, waiting.
I exhale. “I feel like he’s going to ruin my life.”
Jade’s eyes sparkle. “That’s romance.”
“That’s a problem,” I correct.
Blakely smiles softly. “Sometimes it’s both.”
I swallow hard, then look away, pretending to examine a shelf of hair ties like it’s fascinating.
—
Lunch is at a booth in a casual place near campus. Greasy fries, iced tea, and Jade talking with her hands like she’s directing traffic.
Blakely picks at her salad thoughtfully. “Have you…talked to him?”
I snort. “We talk.”
Jade arches a brow. “You mean you snarl at him, and he smiles like he’s winning.”
I glare at her. “He does not smile like he’s winning.”
Jade points her fry at me. “He does.”
Blakely’s gaze is gentle. “Do you want him to stop?”
My stomach drops.
The question is simple, and it shouldn’t be hard.
It is.
Because part of me wants to say yes, slam the door, lock the house, keep everything clean and controlled.
But another part—the part that felt his mouth on mine and didn’t run—wants to say no.
Wants to say stay.
Wants to say don’t go anywhere.
“I want…” I start, then my voice catches.
Jade and Blakely both go quiet.
My throat burns. I force the words out anyway, because they deserve truth, and maybe I do too.
“I want him to be normal,” I admit. “Not…intense. Not sweet. Not careful. Just—Logan.”
Jade’s expression softens. “Maybe he is.”
Blakely nods. “Maybe you’re just noticing it differently now.”
I stare at the table, the wood grain blurring.
Because that’s the terrifying part.
What if our kiss didn’t change him?
What if it only changed me instead?
—
When Jade is taking me back to the house later, it’s late afternoon, the sun already dropping low because winter steals daylight like it’s petty.
My stomach tightens as the familiar driveway comes into view.
The cozy, nice home that has always felt safe—until lately, when safety started feeling like a countdown.
Jade parks and turns to face me, suddenly serious. “You call me if you need me.”
I roll my eyes, because if I don’t, I’ll cry. “I always do.”
Jade’s mouth twitches. “You don’t. But you will.”
Blakely leans over from the passenger seat and squeezes my hand. “We love you.”
My throat burns.
I nod once, sharp. “Love you too.”
Then I get out before emotion can stick to my skin.
Inside, Pops is in the recliner again, TV low, blanket over his legs. He looks up when I enter and smiles faintly.
“There’s my girl,” he says.
The words hit me like a hug.
“Hey,” I say, voice softer than I mean it to be.
Logan is in the kitchen, I realize a second later. I hear the fridge open and close, the clink of a glass. I feel my pulse jump like my body is annoying.
I set my bag down, then walk to Pops and press a kiss to his forehead.
He smells like coffee and aftershave and home.
“You have fun?” he asks.
I hesitate, then admit, “Yeah.”
Pops’s smile deepens just a little. “Good.”
From the kitchen doorway, Logan appears with a glass of water in his hand.
Not offered. Not pushed.
Just…there.
His gaze flickers to me, and it isn’t smug. It isn’t challenging.
It’s quiet.
Like he’s asking, without words, if I’m okay.
My chest tightens.
I make my voice sharp out of reflex. “What?”
Logan’s mouth twitches. “Nothing.”
I narrow my eyes. “That was a ‘something’ face.”
He lifts the glass slightly. “Your dad asked.”
Pops snorts. “I did.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I’m fine.”
Pops sighs dramatically. “My two favorite liars.”
Logan huffs a soft laugh, and something in my chest loosens a fraction.
Pops watches us like he’s cataloging the way we orbit each other, and I hate that he can probably see everything.
I cross my arms defensively. “Don’t.”
Pops lifts a brow. “Don’t what?”
“Nothing,” I mutter.
Logan takes a sip of water, gaze steady. “How was girls’ day?”
“It was…fine,” I say, then immediately regret how normal that sounds because it invites follow-up.
Logan’s mouth curves faintly. “Target?”
I blink. “How did you know?”
He shrugs. “Just a guess.”
I huff a laugh before I can stop it.
Logan’s eyes flick to my mouth again, just for a beat.
My stomach flips.
I hate him.
I hate my body.
I hate that the only thing I can think about in this living room full of hospice pamphlets and staged equipment is the way Logan looks at my mouth like it’s a bad idea.
Pops’s voice cuts through my spiral, amused. “All right, I’m gonna take a nap before you two start flirting and pretend you’re not.”
I choke. “We are not flirting.”
Logan’s brows lift. “We’re not?”
I glare at him, cheeks burning. Pops chuckles and stands slowly, careful. “Behave.”
He shuffles toward his room.
When the door clicks shut, the house changes.
Quieter. More intimate. More dangerous.
Logan sets the glass down onto the counter and leans back against it, posture casual like he’s not watching me too closely.
I stay by the couch like it’s a boundary line.
He breaks the silence first, voice low. “You okay?”
I snap on instinct. “Stop asking me that.”
Logan’s jaw tightens. “Okay.”
The calm “okay” is going to make me insane.
I exhale hard. “I’m fine.”
Logan watches me for a beat. “Did you have fun?”
The question lands differently—less loaded. Less about my grief. More about me.
It throws me off balance.
“I…” I hesitate, then say quietly, “Yeah.”
Logan’s mouth curves faintly. “Good.”
I swallow hard and look away, because I can feel something soft trying to crawl out of me, and I don’t trust it.
Logan’s voice stays quiet. “Jade and Blakely good?”
“Yeah,” I say, then add defensively, “They’re annoying.”
Logan smirks. “They love you.”
My throat tightens. “I know.”
Silence stretches.
Then Logan clears his throat. “I’m gonna—uh—ice again.”
I blink. “Okay?”
He hesitates, like he wants to say something else. Like last night is sitting between us, waiting.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he mutters, “I’ll…be in the living room.”
I nod once, still stiff. “Whatever.”
Logan’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but he holds it back. He limps—careful and controlled—back to the couch and settles with his ice pack, like he’s trying to be as small as possible in a house that keeps getting heavier.
I stand there for a long second, watching him.
Not because I want to.
Because my eyes won’t stop.
He looks different when he’s quiet.
Not the smug, cocky wide receiver everyone talks about. Not Cameron’s golden-boy best friend. Not the guy I’ve blamed for two years because it was easier than admitting I cared.
Just…Logan.
Tired. Hurt. Present.
And the worst part is that my chest aches with something that isn’t anger.
It’s want.
It’s fear.
It’s the realization that I might actually need him.
I hate that.
I hate that I might not.
And as I turn toward my room, the only thing I know for sure is this:
Girls’ day gave me a few hours of normal, but normal is temporary.
Logan isn’t going anywhere.
And neither is what happened between us.
Not anymore.