LOGAN
It’s been two days since the Halloween party, and Nathan still hasn’t looked at me.
Not in the kitchen yesterday morning when we reached for the same mug. Not when I waved the last inch of coffee in front of him. Not even this afternoon when I cracked a joke about Ryan and Isabella’s over-the-top, gross PDA.
He just kept walking, his eyes fixed on anything that wasn’t me, like the Halloween party never happened.
I lie back on my bed with a groan and stare up at the ceiling, where one of my hockey socks is still looped over a blade—Austin dared me to hook it from across the room, I did, and I haven’t cared enough to get it back down.
There’s a pile of laundry in the corner that I need to do and I haven’t even fucking started the essay for class I have to hand in this week. I’ve got a thousand better things I could be doing, but instead, I’m lying here replaying every second of that conversation.
And that’s the part that pisses me off the most.
Because this isn’t me. I don’t overthink, and I definitely don’t sit around dissecting why a guy can’t meet my eyes. I crack a joke, shake it off, and move on. Simple.
Except nothing about this feels simple.
Every time I glance at my door, I have to talk myself out of going down the hall and knocking on his.
Because we’re not doing this. We’re not pretending the last forty-eight hours didn’t happen. I didn’t imagine the way he looked at me or the way he blurted out that he hated seeing another guy touch me. He said it. I heard it.
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I need a drink, food, anything that doesn’t leave me rotting in bed and thinking about that night for the thousandth time.
I grab the nearest hoodie off the back of my chair and pull it over my head as I head downstairs.
Austin’s at Maisie’s. Ryan and Isabella have disappeared into his room, and the whole place feels weirdly quiet.
The kitchen’s dim when I flip the switch, one of the bulbs flickering. Someone should probably fix it. Not me, though.
I rub a hand over my face and yank open the fridge, my shoulders deflating when I see nothing but leftovers, a few beers, and someone’s unlabeled Tupperware that’s been here for… fuck, over three weeks now.
I grab some leftover lasagna, and then I hear footsteps on the stairs and glance over my shoulder.
Nathan freezes for a second when he sees me, not expecting anyone to be down here. My eyes flick down to his bare chest. The guy who gave me shit every damn day for not owning a shirt is now standing there with bare shoulders, tight abs, and low-slung gray sweats that should be fucking illegal.
He blinks once, runs a hand through his hair, and then walks right past me without a word. He grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it with water.
Cool. So that’s how it’s gonna be.
I shut the fridge, place the lasagna on the counter, and cross my arms. “You’re avoiding me.”
He takes a sip of water, still not looking at me, which pisses me the fuck off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I huff out a laugh. “You’ve barely said two words to me since the party.”
Nathan keeps his eyes on the faucet. “Been busy.”
He’s trying so fucking hard not to look at me. Trying too hard to act like everything’s normal.
“Doing what? Counting ceiling tiles? You’ve barely left your room.”
He glances at me over his shoulder. “I’m not avoiding you, Logan. Drop it.”
“Sure,” I say, pushing off the counter. “Just like you didn’t bolt out of that hallway the second someone else showed up.”
“That was nothing,” he mutters.
“Right,” I scoff. “Because blurting out that you hated seeing another guy touching me and then running is totally nothing.”