Chapter 3
POV: Suzy
I blinked through the haze of pain to find myself pressed against a solid chest.
Logan.
“I saw you fall,” he said, his voice low and tightly controlled as he crouched beside me. “Let me see.”
I couldn’t believe it—Greek-god-Logan caught me before I hit the ground.
“I’m fine,” I lied through gritted teeth.
“You’re not.”
Of course the orthopedic surgeon would be the one to witness my fall from grace. Lucky me.
His hands were already on my ankle, warm and confident. His touch was clinical—gentle but firm, assessing the swelling and testing the motion with precision. And yet… my entire body felt his fingers like a slow-burn caress.
“I think it’s a sprain,” he said, frowning. “You need to get off it.”
Oh God. Now this.
“I can hop—”
“No.”
And without warning, he slipped one arm under my knees, the other around my back, and lifted me off the ground like I weighed nothing at all.
“Oh my God,” I squeaked, breath catching. “You’re really doing this.”
He didn’t answer. Just carried me across the venue, jaw tight, eyes scanning ahead for the medic station. I could smell the sharp, clean scent of his cologne and feel the radiant heat of his body pressed against mine.
Why did this have to feel so good?
Every inch of me was aware of him. The strength. The calm. The way he held me like I was something delicate. And I hated how much I didn’t hate it.
The medic confirmed the sprain, wrapped it tightly, gave me ice, and rattled off instructions to elevate and rest.
Logan never left my side. Not even for a second. His eyes tracked the young doctor’s every move, as if daring him to make one wrong step. I swear, if that poor guy had fumbled the wrap, Logan would’ve thrown him across the room.
“You didn’t have to stay,” I said quietly once we were alone.
“Yes, I did.”
Simple as that.
No drama. Just conviction.
“I don’t want to miss Lily’s presentation,” I said, worried. “She’ll freak out if I’m not there.”
“It’s okay. We’ll go back.”
“But no more carrying me, okay? People were staring,” I mumbled, heat crawling up my neck—not from embarrassment about being seen, but from how right it had felt being in his arms.
“Fine. I’ll help you walk,” he said, smirking slightly as he wrapped an arm around my waist to support me.
Back at the bleachers, Logan moved with quiet precision—setting my bag down, easing me into the seat, carefully placing the ice on my ankle.
“The painkillers should kick in within fifteen minutes,” he said, his green eyes locking with mine.
“Thank you,” I whispered, because anything louder might’ve cracked the strange, soft thing expanding in my chest.
Lily was brilliant on the floor. So was Izzy. I cheered them on from my spot, foot propped up, trying not to let pain—or Logan’s nearness—distract me.
But every time I glanced over, Logan was watching my ankle. Then me. Then the girls.
And then back to me.
He must’ve asked if I was okay ten different times.
After the competition, Logan helped me limp to my hotel room. Lily and Izzy followed, chatting excitedly about scores and semifinals.
I sat on the bed, foot elevated with a pillow—Logan’s idea, of course. The girls were bouncing with energy, so I set up a video call with Daniel and Barbara, letting them soak in the victory vibes.
Twenty minutes later, after hugs and smiles and a very animated Lily, the call ended.
And there he was.
Logan stood in the doorway holding a paper bag.
“I hope you like Chinese,” he said, stepping in.
Then, casually, “Can Izzy stay here for dinner? I’ve got a few calls to make.”
“Of course,” I said. “Thank you.”
He handed me the food and left before I could say more.
The girls were still buzzing from the competition as we unpacked the Chinese food. Izzy read the labels like a surgeon preparing for triage while Lily practically drooled on the lo mein.
“Chopsticks or forks?” I asked, already holding out both.
“Fork,” Lily said instantly.
“Chopsticks,” Izzy said, like a challenge.
“Show-off,” Lily muttered.
We ate sprawled across the floor, legs crossed, the little coffee table between us cluttered with sauce packets and crumpled napkins. Izzy was still wearing her competition warm-up, hair pulled tight in the kind of no-nonsense bun that looked like it could survive a hurricane.
“Do you think tomorrow we’ll have time to do hair?” she asked, almost offhand.
“Your bun held up pretty well,” I said, chewing. “Why? Got something fancy in mind?”
She hesitated, then pulled out her phone and showed me a picture—a braid that twisted into an intricate swirl at the back, like something straight off a Pinterest board.
“I like doing something different on finals day,” she said, a little too flatly. “Dad won’t have time. He usually just… makes it tight and done.”
I took the phone from her and studied the tutorial she pulled up. “I’ll be honest,” I said slowly, “this looks like an engineering project.”
Izzy’s shoulders sank.
“But,” I added quickly, “if we have the right tools and a YouTube video, I’m game to try.”
Her head snapped up. “Seriously?”
“I can’t guarantee it’ll be this exact… artistic sculpture situation, but we’ll get close. Deal?”
Izzy smiled—an actual, real smile that reached all the way to her serious green eyes. “Deal.”
“And I want one too,” Lily announced through a mouthful of noodles.
“Of course you do.”
And just like that, the evening turned into a mini spa night.
I braided Izzy’s hair first—her fingers holding the phone steady as I followed the steps, slowly weaving her dark strands into the closest thing I could manage to the photo. It wasn’t perfect, but when I clipped the final bobby pin in place, she turned to the mirror and gasped.
“It’s so close,” she said softly. “It’s actually really good.”
Lily insisted on a matching one, naturally, and we fell into a rhythm—laughing, teasing, experimenting. I pulled out the little emergency nail polish kit from my purse—because of course I had one—and we painted our nails in alternating colors: gold and teal for Lily, lilac and silver for Izzy.
For an hour, there was no competition pressure. No strict routines. Just two girls giggling over glitter and me, sitting cross-legged on the bed with them, completely covered in nail polish fumes and joy.
Izzy leaned against me at one point—just for a second—but it felt like being handed something precious. Like trust, quiet and unspoken.
“I like your room,” she said.
“It’s yours anytime.”
Later that night, Izzy went back to her room, and Lily was humming a tune while brushing her teeth.
That’s when I heard the knock.
Soft. Intentional.
I opened the door carefully, already knowing who it was.
Logan stood in the hallway in a plain gray T-shirt and black joggers. Casual. Effortless. Still unfairly hot. His hair was a little tousled, like he’d just run his hand through it—and somehow, that hit harder than the tailored suits ever had.
“I just wanted to check if the ankle’s okay,” he said, his voice low, warm.
“It’s fine,” I said, smiling. “Thanks to my dramatic rescue.”
He hesitated for a second. Then, “You scared me a little.”
My breath caught. “Really?”
He nodded slowly. “Although… you did look good in those heels.”
Wait—I looked good?
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” he added, eyes gleaming. “Wearing those shoes to a gymnastics arena.”
I laughed, a little breathless. “I didn’t realize there’d be so much sprinting involved.”
His mouth twitched into a crooked almost-smile. “Try sneakers next time.”
“I will,” I murmured, hugging my arms around myself, trying to stay composed—but the tension between us was thick enough to choke on.
Then his expression shifted—his jaw flexed, and something softer slid beneath his voice.
“I just… wanted to say something.”
His voice was hoarse. Frayed at the edges. It sent a pulse straight through my chest.
I blinked. “Okay?”
“I saw Izzy’s braid. And the nails.” He exhaled a rough breath, almost a laugh—but it didn’t quite land. “That meant a lot. She doesn’t really have… that kind of figure in her life.”
Something tightened in my chest.
“She’s amazing,” I said softly. “And it was fun. It wasn’t much.”
“It was everything,” he said.
And then he looked at me. Really looked.
His eyes locked on mine like he saw something there he didn’t expect. Something that knocked the air out of both of us.
My breath hitched.
We stood there, inches apart, the air so full of heat it felt electric. His gaze dropped to my mouth—and mine fell to his without thinking.
There was no mistaking what was about to happen.
His hand twitched at his side like he wanted to reach for me, and my body leaned—just a fraction—