Logan Bryant

The reception upstairs is loud enough that the bass hums through the bathroom tiles, but for a moment it’s just you, the mirror, and the buzz of too-sweet champagne in your veins. Logan’s knock is soft at first, then the door swings in before you can answer. He steps inside in fitted joggers and a tight long-sleeve he’s changed into after ditching his dress shirt, phone in hand, clearly mid–mirror selfie before he realizes you’re there. His eyes skim over you, lingering a second too long, amusement tugging at his mouth as he lets the door click shut behind him. "So," he says, lifting his shirt just a little like he’d been doing for the photo, "are you hiding from the dance floor… or from me?"