Chapter 35 Sloane
SLOANE
Logan drives like he’s memorized every part of me that flinches.
No sudden turns. No surprise detours. No “trust me” cliff edges. Just steady hands on the wheel and a route that keeps the world quiet—side streets instead of highways, long stretches of sunshine instead of stop-and-go chaos.
My iced vanilla latte sits in the cup holder like proof that this day is real.
He doesn’t talk over the music. He lets it play low, something soft and familiar, like he picked it because it wouldn’t demand anything from me. And every time I catch him glancing over, it’s quick. Not checking. Not hovering.
Just…there.
Like he’s proud I’m here.
I rest my elbow on the window ledge and watch the town slide past—stucco buildings, a mural of a basketball player mid-jump shot, palm trees that sway like they don’t have a single problem in the world.
My chest tightens anyway.
Because when you’ve been living in survival mode, peace feels suspicious.
Logan reaches over and taps the back of my hand with two fingers, gentle. “Hey.”
I blink, pulling myself back. “What?”
“You went somewhere,” he says.
“I’m sitting right here.”
His mouth twitches. “Your body is, but your brain’s far away.”
I snort, but he’s not wrong.
He takes my hand for real this time—slides his fingers between mine, right there over the center console like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like he’s been doing it forever.
And I let him.
I hate how much it helps.
“Better?” he asks.
I squeeze his hand back. “Maybe.”
Logan’s thumb brushes my knuckles, slow. “Good.”
We pull into a small parking lot beside a familiar little strip of shops, the kind of place I’ve gone a hundred times when I needed air and didn’t want to admit it.
My stomach flips. “Wait.”
Logan’s grin is soft around the edges. “Recognize it?”
“The bookstore?” I say, already feeling the warmth bloom under my skin.
“Mm-hmm.” He unbuckles and leans over to press a quick kiss to my forehead—like it’s nothing, like it’s everything. “First stop.”
The kiss is so simple I almost don’t know what to do with it.
Almost.
I tilt my face up, catching the corner of his mouth with mine before he can pull back.
Logan freezes for a second, surprised—then his smile turns slow and stupidly pleased.
“Okay,” he murmurs, like he’s trying not to sound too happy about it and failing. “Hi to you too.”
“Shut up,” I say, already smiling.
He laughs, gets out, and opens my door like he’s committed to being annoying about it.
I step down, and he immediately takes my hand. No hesitation. No asking.
Just mine.
We walk into the bookstore together, and the bell above the door rings softly, the sound familiar enough to settle something in my ribs. The air smells like paper and dust and new ink. Safe. Quiet. Controlled.
Logan leans in, voice low like we’re sharing a secret. “I’m letting you lead.”
“I always lead,” I mutter.
He nods seriously. “Yes, ma’am.”
I glare. “Don’t call me ma’am.”
He presses a kiss to my temple. “Yes, ma’am.”
I elbow him lightly, and he laughs under his breath, squeezing my hand.
We wander the aisles, slow and unhurried. Logan doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t trail behind bored. He reads the back covers of books I pull out like he actually cares what I’m into, his brow furrowing in concentration like romance tropes are a game plan he’s trying to master.
“This one says ‘enemies to lovers,’” he says, squinting at the description. “Sounds toxic.”
“It’s not toxic,” I say, taking it from him. “It’s character development.”
Logan’s eyes flick up, amused. “Uh-huh. And the part where they hate each other is…foreplay?”
My face heats. “Logan.”
He grins like he lives for that reaction. “I’m just trying to understand the genre.”
“You’ll never understand the genre,” I tell him.
He leans closer, voice dropping. “I understand you.”
My breath catches in my throat.
He’s watching me like he knows he hit something tender.
Before I can respond, he straightens, clears his throat like he needs to shake it off too. “Pick one. Two. Whatever you want.”
“I can pay,” I argue automatically.
Logan’s expression shifts—gentle but firm. “Let me.”
I blink.
Because it’s not about money.
It’s about being taken care of without having to earn it.
So I pick two: one comfort read and one new release I’ve been wanting but wouldn’t let myself buy. Logan pays without blinking, then hands me the bag like it’s precious.
“Next,” he says, swinging our hands between us. “We eat.”
I lift a brow. “Where?”
Logan looks at me like I’m cute for even asking. “Your place.”
My steps slow. “My place?”
He nods. “The little café with the lemon pastries you pretend you don’t like but always order anyway.”
My mouth opens, then shuts.
Because—yeah.
That’s exactly my place.
Logan’s smile widens. “Told you. I pay attention.”
We walk there, and the café is calm—midday, not crowded, sunlit tables and soft music. Logan guides me to the corner spot near the window, the one I always choose, the one with my favorite view of the street without being in the middle of it.
He pulls out my chair.
“Stop,” I whisper, half mortified.
He leans down, kissing my cheek. “No.”
I sit, cheeks warm, and he sits across from me like he’s done it a hundred times. Like this is our routine.
He orders for us without being controlling—just confident, like he already knows: my favorite sandwich, the lemon pastry, water with extra ice because I’m picky. He gets himself something simple, because of course he does, and then he nudges my foot under the table with his.
“How’s it going so far?” he asks.
I take in the sunlight, the quiet, the way my shoulders don’t feel like they’re trying to crawl off my body.
“It’s…perfect,” I admit.
Logan’s eyes soften. “Good.”
My chest tightens again, but this time it’s not fear.
It’s gratitude.
And something else that scares me more.
Because I’m starting to realize how badly I want this to last.
We eat slowly, talking about dumb things—Jade’s obsession with making everything a competition, Blakely’s secret talent for trash reality TV impressions, the time Logan tried to make boxed mac and cheese at the house and set off the smoke alarm when Cam was late getting back from practice in high school.
“It was al dente,” he insists.
“It was crunchy,” I counter.
He points his fork at me. “You ate it.”
“I was starving,” I say, then add, softer, “And it was still better than the dining hall.”
Logan’s gaze holds mine, something warm flickering there.
He reaches across the table and brushes his thumb over my knuckle. “You okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. I just…haven’t laughed like this in a while.”
Logan’s smile is gentle. “Then we’ll do it again.”
I swallow. “Logan—”
He cuts me off with a light tone, like he can hear the emotion building and wants to keep it from tipping us over. “Don’t make it weird.”
I blink. “I wasn’t going to.”
“You were,” he says, eyes dancing.
I glare, but he’s right.
After lunch, he takes me somewhere else that feels like he built it specifically for me—an easy walk along a quiet coastal path, not the crowded beach, not the loud boardwalk. Just ocean air, sun on skin, and the sound of waves that makes my brain finally shut up.
We stop at a bench overlooking the water, and Logan sits behind me, legs stretched out, pulling me back between his thighs like it’s natural.
Like we’re a couple.
Like we’ve always been.
His chin rests on my shoulder. His arms wrap around me, snug but not tight, and he kisses the side of my neck once—soft, slow.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs.
“I’m trying to soak it in,” I whisper.
Logan hums. “Good. Because you deserve it.”
My throat tightens.
He shifts, turning my face slightly with his fingers until I’m looking at him. His eyes are darker in the sunlight, the expression on his face steady. Present.
He kisses me then—no desperation, no fear. Just a kiss that says I’m here, I’m staying, this is real.
I melt into it without thinking. Without bracing.
When we pull apart, I rest my forehead against his, breathing him in.
Part of me feels like us spending this day together, trying to forget the heartache at home, is selfish. As if we’re taking something that doesn’t belong to us.
“This feels selfish in a way,” I admit quietly. “Letting myself be happy when I know he’s sitting at home.”
Logan’s thumb strokes my cheek. “It’s not selfish to take care of yourself. You can’t keep pouring when your own cup is empty.”
My eyes sting, but I blink it away.
We stay there a while, letting the ocean do what it does—move forward no matter what.
Eventually, the sun shifts, and Logan checks his phone, then looks at me. “You want to head back home?”
My stomach twists instinctively, because back means reality.
But then Logan adds, softly, “Or…we can keep it going.”
I blink. “How?”
He smirks. “Movie at the football house. Takeout? You can steal my hoodie and pretend it was an accident.”
“I would never,” I say, offended.
Logan’s grin widens. “Liar.”
I should go home.
I should be there when Pops is awake, just in case. I should keep my life small and careful and contained.
But he told me to go.
He told me to have fun.
And for the first time in weeks, I can feel how exhausted I am from trying to be the glue.
I look at Logan, his hand still holding mine, his gaze steady.
And I make a decision that feels like breathing.
“I want to keep it going,” I say.
Logan goes still, like he’s making sure he heard me right.
Then his expression softens into something unbearably tender.
“Okay,” he says quietly, like he’s honored. “We can. If you want.”
“I want,” I repeat, firmer.
Logan leans in and kisses my forehead. “Then we’ll do it.”
We drive back toward PCU as the sky starts to turn gold, the day settling into evening. Logan keeps one hand on the wheel and one hand on my thigh the whole way, his thumb tracing slow circles like he’s reminding me I’m not alone.
When we pull into the football house driveway, he doesn’t rush me out. He just turns to me and brushes my hair behind my ear.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod, then pull out my phone, fingers hovering.
Because this is the part where guilt tries to bite.
I open my texts with Pops.
My heart squeezes.
staying the night at the football house. love you.
I hit send before I can overthink it.
A response comes quickly, like he was waiting, like he’s been holding the phone in his lap.
Pops: See you in the morning. Love you more.
My chest tightens so hard I have to swallow around it.
Logan watches my face, concern flickering. “What did he say?”
I turn the phone slightly so he can see, then press it to my chest like it’s something sacred.
“He said…see you in the morning.”
Logan’s expression softens, and he leans over, pressing a kiss to my temple.
“Good,” he murmurs. “We’ll see him in the morning.”
I nod, blinking hard.
Then Logan gets out, comes around, opens my door, and holds his hand out.
Like he always does.
Like he always will.
I take it, stepping down into the warm evening air.
And when he laces his fingers through mine and leads me inside—past the noise and the laughter and the familiar chaos of boys pretending everything is fine—I realize something with sharp clarity:
This isn’t escapism.
This is a lifeline.
And for one night, I’m choosing it.