Crossing the Line
The text came in the early evening, short and vague, but impossible to ignore:
Logan: “Need your help. Come over.”
I told myself not to read into it, not to let my mind wander to places it had no business going. But as I stood outside his house, my hand poised to knock, my pulse betrayed me. It thudded in my ears like a war drum, a reminder of all the reasons I shouldn’t be here.
The door opened before I could knock, and there he was, leaning against the frame with that easy, cocky smirk that never failed to make my knees weak.
“You actually came,” Logan said, his voice low, a teasing edge to it.
“You said you needed help,” I replied, trying to keep my tone steady.
He stepped aside, letting me in, and the familiar scent of his house—warm, a little smoky, and undeniably him—wrapped around me like a trap.
“It’s upstairs,” he said, leading me toward his room.
“Logan, what do you even need help with?” I asked, my suspicion growing.
He glanced back at me, his smirk deepening. “You’ll see.”
***
His room was its usual mess: clothes draped over the back of a chair, a half-empty bottle of soda on the nightstand, and his bed unmade. He plopped onto it, stretching out like a cat, while I hovered awkwardly by the door.
“Well?” I asked, crossing my arms. “What is it?”
Logan sat up, resting his elbows on his knees as he gave me a once-over, his eyes lingering in a way that made my cheeks heat. “Honestly?” he said, his voice dropping. “I just wanted to see you.”
I froze. “Logan—”
“Relax, Em,” he said, patting the spot on the bed beside him. “Sit down. I won’t bite.”
I hesitated but eventually sat, careful to keep a safe distance between us. Not that it mattered. The air between us was charged, and every nerve in my body felt alive, hyperaware of his presence.
“What’s really going on with you?” Logan asked, his tone softer now, less teasing. “You’ve been weird ever since the party.”
“I’m not weird,” I said quickly.
He raised an eyebrow. “You ran out of the library like I’d set it on fire.”
I looked away, my fingers twisting in my lap. “I just… I don’t know how to do this, Logan. Whatever this is.”
His hand reached out, brushing against mine, and I jumped at the contact. “It’s not that complicated,” he said, his voice low.
“Not for you, maybe,” I muttered, but my words faltered when his hand moved to my arm.
His fingers traced a slow, deliberate line from my wrist to my elbow, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. My breath hitched, and when I glanced up, his eyes were on mine, dark and unreadable.
“Em,” he murmured, his voice rough. “You feel this, don’t you?”
I nodded, barely aware I was doing it.
“You can run all you want,” he said, leaning closer, “but it won’t change anything.”
My heart pounded as his face came closer, his lips hovering just a whisper away from mine. “Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice barely audible. “And I will.”
