Logan didn't say anything about that morning.
Not later that day. Not the next. Not when I avoided eye contact or shuffled past him in the hallway with my head down and my thoughts burning. It was like it never happened. Like he hadn't caught me staring at his body like a pervert, like my face hadn't flushed hot with something too close to shame.
Maybe that was his way—letting people have their secrets as long as they kept them quiet.
But I couldn't shake it.
I kept seeing it over and over. His eyes when he turned. That slight, knowing smile. Like he understood everything I was thinking and chose not to say a word.
It was unbearable.
And addicting.
That weekend, Sabrina left for a work retreat. Three days away, some wellness thing her firm organized. She barely told me goodbye. Just kissed Logan, handed him a printed schedule, and wheeled her little suitcase out the door in a cloud of perfume.
I didn't breathe until I heard her car pull away.
Then I panicked.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
I stayed in my room most of that first day, pretending to study, headphones on but no music playing. Every sound Logan made downstairs reached me—the clink of a fork, the rattle of a chair leg, the creak of the back door opening for a cigarette. I couldn't focus. I couldn't stop imagining what he was doing, what he looked like, whether he was shirtless again.
By evening, I had to leave the room or go crazy.
I found him on the couch watching some documentary. His legs were stretched out, boots off, beer in hand, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned. He looked half-asleep.
"You hungry?" he asked without looking away from the screen.
I nodded. "A little."
He pointed toward the kitchen. "I made too much. Go grab a plate."
It was pasta. Simple. Good. He hadn't made it for me, I knew that—but the fact that it was there, waiting, made my throat close up.
I ate quietly at the table while he stayed in the living room. The distance between us felt like a wall, but also like a door half-cracked open.
Later, when I passed by to return the plate, he looked up at me.
"You okay?" he asked.
I froze. "Yeah. Just tired."
He gave a slow nod. "You've looked tired for days."
I bit my lip. "Hard to sleep."
"Still hearing us?" he asked, voice so casual it made me flinch.
"No," I lied. "Not lately."
He didn't press. Just nodded again and went back to the screen.
I lingered.
"Do you love her?" I asked before I could stop myself.
He didn't answer right away. Just stared at the screen like it held something worth deciphering.
"I care about her," he said. "That's not always the same thing."
I stood there, holding an empty plate, not knowing what to do with that answer.
Eventually, I turned to go.
"Noel," he said.
I looked back.
"You ever have someone kiss you just to shut you up?"
I blinked. "No."
He smiled. "You talk like someone who needs that."
Then he went back to watching the documentary like he hadn't just struck a match and dropped it into my chest.
I didn't sleep that night either.
The second day started the same way. Silence. Tension. Me avoiding him. Him pretending he didn't notice.
But something had changed. The weight of his words lingered in the air between us, even if he said nothing else.
In the afternoon, I was sitting at the dining table sketching aimlessly into a notebook, trying to keep my mind off him, when he walked in and leaned against the frame of the open doorway.
"You draw?" he asked.
"Not really," I said, closing the book quickly.
"You're hiding it. Means you care."
I flushed. "It's just nothing."
He walked closer, slow, measured steps that made my chest tighten. I didn't breathe until he stopped beside me.
"Can I see?" he asked.
I handed it over without meeting his eyes.
He flipped through a few pages. His fingers moved carefully. He didn't laugh. Didn't say anything for a long time.
Then: "You're better than you think."
I stared at my hands. "It's just a hobby."
He closed the notebook and placed it back down in front of me.
"Don't downplay the shit that keeps you sane."
I looked up at him then, and for a split second, he was looking at me—not like a kid, not like his girlfriend's brother, but like someone real. Someone he saw.
The moment passed.
He moved away and said he was heading out to smoke.
I followed him outside without thinking.
The backyard was dim. The sky was a soft bruise of purple and grey. He lit his cigarette and leaned against the railing.
"You don't smoke," he said.
"No," I replied. "I just wanted the air."
He nodded.
We stood in silence.
"You ever feel like there's something wrong with you?" I asked quietly.
He turned to me, smoke curling from his lips. "Every day."
I swallowed hard. "Like… like you want things you shouldn't."
He didn't answer. Just looked at me with something unreadable in his face.
Then, slowly, he said, "Wanting isn't the problem."
"What is?"
"Lying about it."
The cigarette burned low between his fingers.
"I don't know how to want something quietly," I whispered.
He turned to face me fully.
"Then maybe you shouldn't try."
That night, the air in the house felt different. Too still. Too heavy. I could feel every footstep echo.
Around midnight, I left my room.
I wasn't going anywhere in particular. I just walked past the bathroom. Past the guest room.
The door was open again.
He was lying on the bed in sweatpants and nothing else. One hand behind his head, the other resting across his stomach.
The lamp was off, but the hallway light spilled in just enough.
I should've kept walking.
Instead, I stopped.
"Can't sleep again?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"Come in," he said.
It wasn't a question.
I stepped inside like a puppet, like someone pulled the string in my chest.
He didn't move. Just watched me.
"Close the door."
I did.
My hands were shaking. My heart felt like it had climbed into my throat.
He patted the bed beside him.
"Sit."
I obeyed.
The mattress dipped beneath me. I sat stiffly, hands in my lap, trying not to let them tremble.
"You're always so nervous," he murmured.
I said nothing.
His fingers brushed my wrist. Not grabbing. Just… touching.
I froze.
"You think I don't notice you?" he asked.
I swallowed. "I didn't think you looked at me at all."
"I do," he said. "More than I should."
I turned to him.
He was too close.
"I don't want to ruin anything," I whispered.
"Me neither."
"But I—"
He cut me off.
With his hand.
Gently over my mouth.
His palm was warm. Firm.
"Shh," he said.
The same way you'd quiet something delicate.
I closed my eyes.
My breath shook.
I wanted him to kiss me.
I wanted him to ruin me.
Instead, he let go.
"Go back to your room," he said softly.
I opened my eyes.
"Why?"
"Because if you stay, I won't stop next time."
I nodded.
Got up.
Left.
Closed the door behind me.
And leaned against it in the dark, heart pounding like thunder in my ribs.