Page 102 of The Lost and the Found

Logan’s smile turned sheepish. “Don’t be mad. I picked your lock.”

“You picked my lock?” That was possible? How was I supposed to feel safe in this apartment now? I should be raging mad that Logan let himself in uninvited, but all I felt was fatigue and stress.

“Yes. I came around one. I didn’t want to spend my night without you. And I hated the thought of you here by yourself. But when you didn’t answer your door or your phone, I was worried.”

“So you picked my lock?” I asked again.

“Yeah.”

I didn’t know how to respond to this. And what did that say, when only the night before, Clarissa had done the same thing to him. Granted, she didn’t pick his lock—she actually had the key and elevator code, but still, she was in his apartment, uninvited.

As if he read my mind, he tightened his arms around me, as if to prevent me from escaping. “We’re not her, okay? We’re in a committed relationship with each other. I didn’t break in to harm you in any way or force you. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He ran his fingers down my cheek, and I resisted the urge to close my eyes.

“I just needed you to be okay. But then I got here, and you were shivering. And you called my name. I couldn’t leave you then.”

“Are we, then?”

His brows furrowed. “Are we what?”

“In a committed relationship.”

“Of course, we are. Why would you even ask that?”

“I didn’t know where we stood after yesterday. You wouldn’t even look at me when you dropped me off.”

He shot me a regretful look. “I was trying to control myself. I knew if I looked at you, I would say fuck the consequences and kidnap you. I would lock you in my apartment and not let you leave. I didn’t think you’d appreciate that.”

Despite the somber mood, I let out a small laugh. Logan’s eyes twinkled. “I’m too old to be kidnapped. You would call that an abduction.”

He laughed then, and yes, I was weak, because something as simple as that did funny things to my insides.

So last night wasn’t a dream. I did fall asleep in Logan’s arms.

“I’m scared,” I said, my heart beating something fierce.

“What are you scared of, baby?”

I pulled the fabric of his white shirt, fidgeting. “I hated seeing Clarissa like that.”

“Hayden, I’m sorry she got in. I changed the elevator code and the lock. And security knows not to let her in. I promise you, that won’t ever happen again. You have nothing to be scared of.”

I shook my head. He didn’t get it. “I’m scared to be like her.”

His eyes widened in understanding. “You know that would never happen.”

“She loves you so much.”

He scoffed and shook his head. “You think that’s love? You’re wrong. Maybe it’s lust. Maybe there’s some affection there. But it’s not love. It’s toxic.”

“Then what’s love?”

“Love?” He seemed startled by my question. Then a gentle smile overtook his face, and I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. He placed a hand on my chest, where my heart laid, where each beat belonged solely to him.

“Yeah.”

“Love is the sensation of flying. The exhilaration of it and the hope that we wouldn’t fall to our deaths. It’s the unknown and the possibilities. It’s this growing need for the other person—more than water or food or oxygen. It’s the willingness to step down, to lose everything, as long that person is happy.”

“It is?”

---