“What else do you remember about your dad?” I asked, and a hard, guarded mask overtook his face.
“Does it matter? I ended up surrounded by the war and death and duty I was supposed to be spared.” His face was impassive as he rattled off the powerful words, words that should have been significant and symbolic but instead were merely routine for him.
I nodded, realizing that this topic of conversation was closed. Sensing that Logan needed a minute alone, I excused myself to grab my notebook from where I’d left it in the living room—and, of course, got caught in a mini-inquisition from my father.
“Just keep the door open,” Dad cautioned me again as I headed back inside. My eyes rolled of their own accord at that reminder. My dad was nearby, and he was a walking, talking cold shower. What did he think was going to happen? I had my feelings in check.
But when I returned to my bedroom, I practically swooned at the sight that greeted me. We’re talking resting-my-head-against-the-door-and-sliding-down-to-the-floor-with-my-hands-clasped-over-my-heart-level swoonage.
Logan was asleep in the beanbag chair, his hand resting on Mercer’s belly as my cat stretched along his denim-clad thigh. Logan’s lips were slightly parted as he breathed deeply, his dark lashes resting on the deep shadows that spread underneath his eyes, which were even more prominent as his face relaxed. He curled his legs and tilted his head toward me, his hair a messy dark tangle on top of his head.
I smiled at how, a few weeks ago, I would’ve never imagined that Logan, the Dottie-dubbed “potential dreamboat,” would be in my life beyond stealing all my pens and making random conversation in class—let alone curled up in a warm, sleepy ball on my pink beanbag chair. But that was a time before demons and warlocks came into my life. Before I realized that there was no “potential” about it—Logan was beautiful to me, a complicated and wonderful person, who I was slowly realizing needed me as much as I needed him.
While my dad would probably love the fact that Logan opted to fall asleep in my room rather than make a move on his daughter, I knew Logan would flip out if Dad found him unconscious in my room. I gave his shoulder one gentle shake, and Logan’s eyes flew open immediately, his hand flying over his shoulder to grab at his sword before his eyes focused on me, realizing where he was. Mercer shot off Logan’s lap, scrambling to find refuge underneath my bed.
“And I thought I was irritable when I woke up in the morning. Don’t take my head off. I mean that literally,” I warned, wrapping my hand around his and pulling it down.
“I can’t believe I fell asleep.” He sat up straighter and rubbed his eyes as he tried to wake up, looking at me with adorably bleary eyes and messy hair.
“I can’t believe how cute you look right now,” I replied, the words out of my mouth before I could stop them, and we both blushed.
“I’ll forgive you for calling me ‘cute’ since I fell asleep on you, but I should go.” He pushed himself off the floor and clasped his hands together, raising them over his head in a stretch.
“It’s okay. You looked tired. You don’t have to leave.”
“I actually have a bunch of stuff I need to get done with Rego. I just wanted to make sure I came by. I didn’t want to disappoint you again.” Logan stuffed his hands into his back pockets as he looked down, gazing up at me through his dark lashes.
“Thank you. I appreciate it,” I said, squeezing his arm. “Anything specific got you so tired?”
“Just a bunch of stuff. Still helping make weapons.” He brushed it off. “Now, I know your dad is here, so hook me up with a hug before I go.”
Logan widened his stance, curling his fingers at me.
“Well, okay. I guess I can suffer through a hug,” I teased, before grabbing him by the collar and surprising him with a kiss that I could still feel that night as I sat at my desk, finishing the assignments that I’d missed during my fake bout of the stomach flu. The kiss definitely distracted me during my Spanish homework. With the amount of time I spent reminiscing about Logan’s lips, you’d think I was an honors French student.
Logan was picking me up in the morning—he insisted—and his arrival was barely seven hours away by the time I finally finished everything. My cat was gently snoring as he stretched out across the foot of my bed, so I hugged my pillow to my chest as I tried to find a comfortable position around the fur ball when I heard the soft rustle of paper.
I fanned my fingers out, running them underneath my pillow as I tried to find whatever scrap of homework had made its way into my bed.
Stupid homework, taunting me in my dreams.
But instead, my fingertips found a folded-up piece of paper, with my name written on the front in a neat, but definitely masculine handwriting. I turned on my light and started to read.
Dear Paige,
The art of the handwritten letter. It’s pretty much lost, isn’t it? Well, I’m bringing it back, because I don’t have a phone and I’m not going to shout these words after finagling a phone call in a diner. Besides, my handwriting is awesome and everyone should be subjected to it at least once.
I wanted to tell you that last night was important to me. Significant. Life-altering, if you will. In the story of my life, that’s where you cracked the spine of the book. The mark is there, forever tattooed on my narrative and I couldn’t be happier. You have to understand: I’ve spent a long time being angry. I’ve been fueled by rage and vengeance. It’s why I shut down whenever we get too deep: you and I exist in this perfect bubble. That might sound crazy, but to me, it’s perfect. I don’t want to taint it by bringing anything ugly from my past into it. And last night you reminded me of a life outside of all this ugliness—a life where the words fulfilling and happy and rich mean something. You reminded me what it feels like to have someone care.
You offered me an out last night, asking me if this thing between us was too much for me. It’s not. But considering everything I’ve just written, I’m wondering if it’s too much for you. At some point, it will be too much for you, and you’ll want nothing to do with me. I know it. And it’s not fair to you. I’m in if you are. And if you’re not, this is your out. I won’t hold a grudge or be mad. I won’t ever stop protecting you. I’ll understand—hell, I’m offering the out. I see the reason for it and I’m sure you’ll take me up on it at some point. But I’m a coward who has to put it in a letter, because I don’t want to hear the words.
But, if you’re in, please take my hand tomorrow morning, since I’d probably turn 900 shades of red if you mention it to me. And then we can go look for my man card, because clearly I’ve lost it, and am now a pathetic emo boy, asking for reassuring hand squeezes from a beautiful girl when I should be pleading for you to wear yoga pants more often.
I hope you’re reading this at night, in your bed, so I can tell you to have sweet dreams. If you found this, Mr. Kelly...um...hi.
Logan
I reread the letter until I nearly had the words committed to memory. I knew we’d had some kind of emotional breakthrough last night, but I hadn’t realized how significant—or to use his term, life-altering—it was for him.
It was scary. Scary that I could have that kind of effect on someone. Scary because I was afraid of hurting him. But he had the power to crush me, as well.
I rolled onto my stomach, burying my face in the crease between two pillows as I clutched the letter in my hand. Logan was the only person who saw me—the real me—stealing my pens and sparking random conversations as an excuse to get to know me.