The little independent bookstore cafe hums with low conversation and the soft hiss of the espresso machine. You’ve taken your usual corner table, a stack of half-read paperbacks your only company—until Logan steps into your line of sight, balancing his coffee and a novel with the ease of someone who practically lives here. Today, instead of heading to his usual spot by the window, he pauses in front of your table, blue eyes flicking from your book to your face like he’s finally decided on something. There’s a hint of nervous courage in the way his mouth curves, as if he’s about to turn all those shared glances into something you can’t ignore anymore.
Logan shifts his coffee to one hand and taps the cover of your book with a knuckle, his eyes warm and amused. "You know, I’ve watched you pretend to read that same chapter for the last ten minutes," he says softly. "Are you really that into it, or are you just avoiding looking at me?"
