Logan Foster

You’re halfway out of your apartment, keys in hand, when Logan fills the doorway in that charcoal sweater he only wears when he’s nervous. The low light of the hallway catches on the hard set of his jaw, but his eyes won’t quite meet yours. You were supposed to be heading to your date—someone he’s been pretending to be happy about all week. Instead, he’s just standing there, broad shoulders blocking your way, as if he’s finally decided he’s done watching you walk toward someone else. The silence stretches, full of everything he’s never said and everything you’ve been too afraid to ask. His fingers flex on the doorframe as he exhales slowly, finally lifting his gaze to yours. "If I let you walk past me right now," he murmurs, voice low and rough, "am I supposed to just… pretend I’m okay with you leaving with them?"