Page 52 of Life After You

All I know is that one second, I’m staring into those impossible blue eyes, and the next, his hand is on my jaw, fingers sliding into my hair, andfuck. It’s like a missing piece of me is filled.

I feelsafe.

I feelclaimed.

Branded by the heat of his palm, the weight of his touch.

I tilt my face up,just slightly, just enough for his breath to ghost over my lips. A shiver runs through me, my body leaning into his like it has no choice, like the space between us has never been real.

His thumb brushes my cheek.

I can feel how close he is. Howbadlyhe wants this.

How badlyIwant this.

He lets out a slow, ragged breath, andpulls back.

I blink. My head spins.

He’s still looking at me, jaw clenched so tight I think it might crack.

“I can’t.” he says, his voice hoarse.

I don’t know if he’s talking to me or himself.

Maybe both.

The loss of his touch is like a slap. My bodyachesfrom the absence of him, my chest tight, throat burning.

Maybe I should tell him it’s okay. That I understand. That, from a reasonable standpoint, this is for the best.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

I’ve been so fucking selfish—wrapped up in me. My pain. My grief. My need to run. It’s all me, me, me. I’m sad. I’m grieving. I’m leaving.

And now? Now there’s this between us.

This thing that’s been simmering for years, bubbling under the surface, threatening to spill over. But tonight—tonight it boiled over. In the way his hands found me like he already knew exactly where I’d break. In the way he whispered my name like a prayer, like a plea.

And for one fleeting moment tonight, I let him.

Because in that moment, I wasn’t drowning. I wasn’t lost in the echoes of the past. I wasn’t running.

I was his.

But reality doesn’t give a shit about stolen moments. And neither does time. Logan has a life that doesn’t include me, and I made a choice to walk away from everything we were before.

So I just sit there, gripping the swing, fingers aching with the need to hold onto something.

But there’s nothing to hold onto.

Not when Logan exhales, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake me loose from his mind, and turns away. Not when he heads inside without another word.

Not when I’m left here alone, with nothing but the ghost of his touch and the ache of everything I will never say.

I shut the front door of the boarding house behind me, the lock clicking into place like the final beat of a song that’s been building forever. The house is quiet—no grunts, no moans of the girls that have been brought back, haunting the hallways, leaving their mark.

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