Page 77 of Defensive Desire

I pour another circle of batter into the pan, but it sizzles too quickly. The heat’s too high because I'm not watching properly.

Logan lingers behind me. His hand comes to rest gently on my shoulder, thumb stroking the curve like he always does when we’re alone, when we’re us.

But we’re notusright now. Not really.

I move, just enough to pretend I’m adjusting the pan, and his hand slips off.

His brows furrow. “Em… are you sure—”

“I’m fine,” I say, scraping at the pancake’s edges. It’s already starting to burn, but I can’t seem to care. “Just thinking about all the café stuff. The Arena Experience. The grant. You know.”

It’s only half a lie.

“Yeah,” Logan says slowly. “Alright. That makes sense.”

But it doesn’t. I can hear it in his voice. He’s trying to connect the dots, and I’m not handing him the pencil.

We fall into a strange, silent rhythm. I flip pancakes, Logan pours coffee, and the brothers awkwardly pretend like they aren’t watching this entire thing go down in real time.

I feel the heat of Logan’s cautious gaze like hot sun through glass.

But what am I supposed to do? What should I say?

Hey babe, while you were snoring like a caveman, your brother told me you might be traded out of state and you apparently didn’t think it was important to mention it.

Yeah. That would go well over breakfast.

I crack another egg and dump it into the bow.

My brain won’t stop spinning.

Has he really been carrying this all alone? While we’ve been playing house up here in the woods—laughing, fishing, kissing like the world isn’t lurking just outside the treeline—he’s been dealing withthis?

And he didn’t tell me?

The voice in my head sounds disturbingly like my mother’s:You’re always so self-absorbed, Emma. So quick to fall in love with your dreams. You never see what’s real.

Maybe she was right all along.

Maybe I’ve been so busy convincing myself that this is real, that I missed the cracks in the foundation.

Or did he just not trust me enough to tell me the truth?

The pancake on the griddle starts to smoke again. I flip it too late.

“Babe,” Logan says gently. “You sure everything’s okay?”

I plaster on a smile and turn, holding out a plate like it’s a shield. “Yup. One slightly overcooked pancake, coming right up. Here. Take it.”

He takes it, but his eyes don’t leave mine. And for the first time, Ican’tmeet his gaze. Not without cracking.

We all settle down at the small table, our shoulders touching as the scrape of knives on old plates screeches inside my head.

Nate makes a joke about the bacon being perfectly crisped for once. Cole says something about needing five more cups of coffee before he can even look at another beer.

Logan chuckles along with it all, but there’s an edge to it. Like he’s performing.

Like webothare.