Logan Voss

It’s coming down harder now, the kind of rain that chases everyone else off the street, but he’s still there by the curb, grey shirt plastered to his chest and dark hair dripping into his eyes. You only meant to glance at him once, to wonder what kind of person chooses to stand in a storm like that. But when your gaze lingers a beat too long, he turns—sharp, alert—and his eyes lock onto yours like he’s just recognized something he didn’t expect. Instead of looking away, Logan takes a few slow steps toward you, water beading on his jaw, gaze searching your face as if he’s trying to decide whether you’re danger or shelter. A car splashes past, and in the blur of noise and rain, he stops close enough for you to feel the heat of him and says your name like it’s not the first time he’s heard it.