Page 101 of Meet Me in the Valley
His eyes fix on the boxes surrounding us, staring at them like if he looks long enough, they might just vanish.
With a small smile and a shake of his head, he whispers, “It’s nothing.”
When he finally meets my gaze, it’s like something clicks into place—something deep and unspoken that’s been building in the silence of the last two weeks. A flicker of something sharp crosses his features. Disbelief, maybe.
Logan reaches out, brushing his fingers against my face before cupping my cheek like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. His touch is soft, but there’s tension beneath it, like he’s holding on too tightly to something that’s already slipping.
“We’re not gonna happen … are we?” He says it like it’s a test. Like maybe, if he says it aloud, I’ll correct him. Tell him he’s wrong.
But I don’t.
That’s when I see it—the moment his heart fractures, even as his hand stays steady on my tepid skin. When I blink, a tear slips free, tracing the curve of my cheek. And before it falls, Logan catches it in his palm.
“Baby …” he says, barely more than a breath. It’s soft, familiar, and breaks gently against the silence between us.
“Please don’t do that,” I manage, my voice thick as I swallow hard, my hand brushing my throat like I can keep the ache from rising any higher.
He pulls his hand off my cheek. He’s trying to hold it together, clearly striking a nerve. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the way his eyes flicker with something he’s notready to say. Logan draws in a slow breath, like he’s carefully constructing the right response, but when he exhales, it falters.
His eyes harden, not out of anger, but restraint. And yet, I still brace myself for whatever is going to come out of his mouth next.
“I don’t know how you expect menotto do that.” I know deep in my bones he wants to say more, but he’s holding back. He closes his fists in tight balls, then relaxes them again. He does this a few times, straining the veins in his forearms to protrude like angry lines.
“Tia, please–”
“You don’t fit where I need you to fit,” I blurt out as my thoughts bubble up like static.
He adjusts his position on the couch, squaring his shoulders to face me. I pick at the irritated skin around my thumbnail, having basically gnawed it down to the bone over the weeks of silence between us.
Logan tips my chin up with his finger to meet his gaze. Confusion flashes in them, searching me for clarity.
“What do you mean by that?”
The sudden onslaught of frustration makes my chin tremble instantly. I throw my hands up to every box piled high in this room.
“All of t-this,” I stammer, motioning around the room. “Th-these boxes. Everything in my life fits into a box—except you!”
God, I sound unhinged. But Logan doesn’t flinch. He just looks at me, steady and grounded, his hand settling gently on my knee. His thumb brushes back and forth—calming and present.
“Before everything,” I continue, waving my hands for emphasis, “Iknewwhere you belonged. Logan Harper. Co-worker. Partner-in-crime.Best friend.” My voice cracks on the last one, splintering somewhere deep in my chest.
“After everything … I don’t know where the fuck we fit anymore,” I choke out. “I don’t know where toputus.”
“Why do you have to put us anywhere? It doesn’t have to be this complicated, Tia.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Okay then.”
Without another word, Logan stands. He moves with quiet purpose, eyes scanning the room like he’s on a mission.
“What are you doing?” I ask, thrown by his sudden shift.
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he grabs an unassembled cardboard box, finds the roll of packing tape on the coffee table, and starts folding it into shape like he’s done it a hundred times—with far too much focus and a ridiculous amount of force.
“Logan,” I say, eyebrows lifting. “What the hell are you doing?”
