Page 27 of Logan
“Hmm?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and when I tilt my head up, his eyes are already on me, unreadable in the dim light. There’s a softness there I haven’t seen in years, like for just this moment, the walls he keeps between us have cracked.
“Nothing,” he says finally, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Just… stay.”
God, it’s tempting, but I can’t trust what this means. Not yet.
Still, I don’t move when his arm tightens around me, pulling me even closer. My eyelids grow heavier with each slow beat of his heart, and somewhere between wanting to ask him a thousand questions and wanting to tell him to go to hell, I drift off.
The last thing I feel is his lips pressing against my hair, a whisper so low I almost think I dreamed it. “You were never supposed to stop being mine.”
Chapter Twelve
Mackenzie
What you want from me is unrealistic
But I run around in circles, tryna fix it
You tell me I'm wrong and I listen
Convince me that I should be different
Yeah, I love you and I wish I didn't
‘Critic’ - Avery Anna
The sunlight streaming through the windows wakes me up, sharp and intrusive, the kind that makes it impossible to pretend you can fall back asleep. It slips across the bed in warm stripes, highlighting the tangled mess of sheets around me.
My body aches in ways that are both pleasant and maddening, a soreness that keeps my mind replaying flashes of last night whether I want it to or not. Every movement is a reminder my muscles stretching, my thighs tight, my skin still faintly smelling like his.
I roll over, instinctively reaching for the solid warmth that should be next to me, but my fingers brush only cool sheets. The space beside me is empty. Too empty. The impression of his body in the mattress is already fading.
A heavy breath leaves me as I push myself upright. My gaze lands on the dresser, and without thinking, I cross the room. My hands move on autopilot, pulling a t-shirt from the top of the stack. It is soft from years of wear, the fabric clinging faintly with the scent of his skin, soap, leather, and that something that is just him. I tug it over my head, and for a moment, I close my eyes, letting myself breathe him in. My lips even twitch with a smile before reality slams back into me.
I step into the living room and the sight hits me like a blow. My clothes from last night are draped over the couch in a careless pile, and sitting on top of them is a single piece of paper. My stomach dips low, dread curling there before I even move closer. I glance toward the window, and the absence of his bike in the driveway is confirmation enough that something is wrong.
The paper is small, plain. I pick it up, my pulse already racing.
There are only two words on it.
I’m sorry.
“No.”
The word slips from my lips before I realize I’ve spoken. It’s not enough, not even close. My eyes drop, and that’s when I notice my phone sitting on top of the pile, neatly plugged in like some kind of cruel courtesy. I snatch it from the charger with shaking hands, flipping it over and opening my messages.
My thumbs move faster than my brain.
You are a fucking coward and a piece of shit.I hate you.Forget that you ever knew me.
The words are venomous, and I mean every one, even though I can barely see the screen through the tears streaminghot and fast down my face. I bite the inside of my cheek, hard, trying to keep it together, but the lump in my throat is too thick.
I shove my legs into my shorts, each motion jerky and rushed, just wanting to get out of here. My fingers close around my shirt from last night, but when I see the fabric is torn, I drop it back onto the couch. Fine. He can lose the shirt I am wearing. It’s the absolute least he owes me.
Grabbing my bag, I step outside. The air feels sharper than it should, cool against my flushed cheeks. I can’t stay in his house for another minute. My phone is at least alive enough to call an Uber, but when I open the app, I realize I have no idea what address to put in. I glance back at the house for the number, feeling ridiculous and raw and painfully aware of how I must look—bare legs, borrowed shirt, hair a tangled mess. Every inch of me screams walk of shame.
“Mac?”
