Logan
I told myself I was giving her space.
That every quiet glance she threw over her shoulder, every moment she slipped down the hallway without meeting my eyes–it wasn’t avoidance. Just time. Just distance. Just a bruise that needed to fade.
But the truth was harder to swallow. Emily wasn’t drifting. She was retreating.
And I was letting her.
I stood outside her bedroom door, hand poised in the air for far too long, debating if I should knock. Without thinking I just turned the knob and stepped inside her space, uninvited.
I wasn’t supposed to be here.
Not standing in her room, not pacing by her window, not staring at the line where her shower steam still fogged the mirror or the far walk
But I’d lost count of the ways this arrangement had unraveled. And tonight, I couldn’t stomach another hour of pretending her
absence didn’t bother me.
She’d been gone all weekend and come back quieter than ever. She slipped past me in the halls like a ghost. The worst part wasn’t the distance–it was how easy she made it look.
And I couldn’t take it anymore.
The click of the door behind her sounded like a trap snapping shut.
My eyes zeroed in on her hair, damp and curling around her collarbone, skin flushed from the heat, towel knotted across her chest. Drops of water clung to her bare shoulders and slid down her arms in slow rivulets.
She froze in the doorway, eyes going wide. The tension sharp as a blade between us.
“Logan,” she said, her quieter than I expected. “What are you doing here?”
I should have left. Apologized. Given her privacy. But I was past that point.
“Waiting for you,” I said simply.
Her brow lifted. “In my bedroom?”
“I needed to talk.” My voice came out rougher than I intended.
She didn’t move, didn’t relax. Just stood there like she wasn’t sure if this was about to become another fight–or something
worse.
“Towels aren’t usually part of my preferred wardrobe for conversations,” she said, dry as bone.
“I’ve noticed,” I replied, tone matching hers.
That got a flicker of a smile. Not much. But enough to remind me she was still in there. Still had that fire in hers drawn to.
I looked away, jaw tight. Not because I didn’t want to stare. But because I did.
“Whatever this is,” she said, arms folding beneath the towel, “you could’ve waited.”
“No,” I said. “I couldn’t. You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I needed space.”
“And I need answers.”
1/2
She moved further into the room, deliberately turning her back to me as she picked up a folded shirt from the dresser. “We’ve said enough, haven’t we?”
“No,” I said, heat curling under my skin.
The air between us pulsed, charged and electric. She was still standing there in nothing but that damn towel, and I hated myself for noticing–but gods, I noticed.
Every inch of bare skin, every drip of water that kissed her throat, her thighs. She was fire and ice and fury all at once.
She narrowed her eyes, suspicion flaring. “Why now, Logan? Why after everything?”
“I’m not here because of everything,” I said. “I’m here because of you.”
That stopped her.
“You’re the one who keeps walking away.” I growled, my power becoming harder to contain.
She blinked. Once. Twice.
I wanted to touch her. I wanted it more than I’d wanted anything in years.
Her breath hitched. Mine followed. She turned away again–half a defense, half a retreat. And my instincts told me that was unacceptable.
I took one step closer. Then another. It was enough to close the gap and make her breath hitch. Her chest rose slowly, carefully. Her grip tightened on the edge of the towel.
We stood there, both too angry to fully close the gap but too close not to feel it in our bones.
“I came here to talk,” I said again, but my voice had shifted–lower now, rougher.
2/2
