But it’s Logan I can’t stop watching.
He’s not just hot—he’s devastating. Focused. Electric. And when he steps forward to sing, his voice rasps into the mic like smoke and sex and promises I want to cash in on later.
My entire body hums in response. Mine, I think, watching the way girls in the crowd crane their necks to catch a better glimpse of him. All of them looking. Some even calling his name.
But he only looks at me.
Logan’s fingers fly across the strings like they’re a part of him, each note slicing through the chill in the air. Sam’s bass throbs beneath it, a heartbeat pulsing in time. Chace drives them forward, tight and precise, while Trey’s voice cuts above it all—smoky, strong, somehow both jagged and smooth as velvet.
They’re not just playing.
They’re performing.
And for the next song, Logan takes over vocals, stepping to the mic like the stage was built beneath his boots. His voice is lower than Trey’s, rougher around the edges, but there’s this ache in it that punches straight through my chest.
He catches my eye as he sings one of their newer ballads, something slow and aching and beautiful—and I know he’s singing it for me. Every lyric. Every breath.
I press my hand to my chest, like that’ll help keep everything inside.
They run through four songs total, and by the end of it, a small crowd has gathered just outside the barriers. Festivalgoers who wandered in early, drawn by the music—or maybe just the buzz of them. Phones are already out, screens glowing as they record snippets of the band’s soundcheck. The boy’s wave as they finish, all smiles and easy charm, but Logan comes straight to me.
“You okay?” he asks, brushing a thumb over my cheek. His skin’s cold, but his touch is warm.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “You were—Logan, that was incredible.”
He leans in, brushing his lips against mine, just enough to steal the rest of my air. “Just wait for the real thing, cariño.”
Chapter 22
Logan
We’re huddled on a bench near the food trucks, the kind of spot that’s supposed to be low-key. But nothing’s really low-key when your face is on the lineup posters and half the crowd knows your name.
Doesn’t bother me. Not when I’ve got her beside me.
Mac’s curled into one of my hoodies under her coat, fingers wrapped around a hot chocolate, legs tucked beneath her like she owns the damn bench. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, and every time she laughs, I feel it like a goddamn earthquake under my ribs.
People start noticing. They creep up in twos and threes—phones out, eyes wide, asking for selfies, signatures, shaky videos. It’s routine now.
One girl leans in, her phone raised, her hand hovering near my shoulder. “Can I kiss your cheek?” she asks, eyes hopeful.
Before I can glance at Mac, I smirk. “You’d better get permission from my girlfriend first.”
Mac doesn't miss a beat. She raises her brow and grins over the rim of her cup. “Depends. Do I get to pick which cheek?”
The girl bursts into laughter—pink in the cheek now—and so do the rest of them. I laugh too, pulling Mac in and pressing a kiss to the side of her head. God, I love her. Her mouth. Her confidence. Her total lack of jealousy. She knows she’s mine. Knows I’m hers.
And I don’t give a damn who sees it.
When the fans finally scatter, Trey lets out a low whistle. “You two are dangerous.”
“Power couple energy,” Chace mutters, reaching for another fry.
Sam just grunts and says, “Someone remind me why I agreed to public spaces again?”
My hand stays on Mac’s thigh, my thumb slipping just under the hem of her hoodie to stroke the bare skin at her hip. It grounds me—touching her. Always has.
She steals a fry off my plate. I let her. Always do.
