By the time Logan awoke, I was already dressed and ready. He found me in the kitchen, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the tense expectation hanging in the air. He opened his mouth to speak, but I held up a hand.

“Logan,” I said, my voice steady and firm, “we need to talk.”

He nodded, relief flickering in his eyes. Perhaps he thought an apology would suffice, that words could stitch together the fabric of trust he’d torn apart. But I had no interest in apologies. I was past that now.