Every headline is another hit to the chest.
“Sex, Secrets, and Stage Lights – The Truth About Logan Dale’s Wild Past”
“Fans Divided: Rockstar’s New Relationship Sparks Outrage”
“Love in the Pines? More Like Lust in the Pines…”
My stomach churns.
There’s footage I won’t watch. Paparazzi pics I can’t unsee. And rumors—so many rumors—they feel like claws raking through my mind.
But then… I see us.
Captured in soft focus and stolen angles. At Reverb in the Pines.
Logan and me.
His arm around my waist. My fingers tangled in his shirt. The kiss he gave me just offstage like the world didn’t exist beyond that moment. A dozen snapshots where we look like exactly what we were: in love. Before it all shattered.
The comments surprise me.
“He’s never looked at anyone like that before.”
“You can’t fake that kind of love.”
“They deserve a chance.”
I swallow hard, chest tight.
Because I don’t know if I believe it anymore.
But I want to.
A rustle of movement behind me makes me turn slightly. I can just make out Logan’s silhouette through the window, firelight painting gold across his jaw as he leans back in one of the old Adirondack chairs. He’s not laughing. Just… watching the flames like they might burn away everything he regrets.
I hold the phone tighter.
The coffee machine clicks off, and I reach for a mug with shaking hands. The ceramic is warm. Real. Unlike the noise on my screen. Unlike the war in my chest.
Tonight’s the Halloween party.
Everyone’s excited—costumes and drinks and music—but I feel like a ghost walking through my own skin. Smiling when I’m expected to. Laughing when it won’t raise suspicion. Pretending I’m not unraveling every time I see his eyes on me.
Not over the chill creeping into my chest as I glance back at the screen. My thumb flicks past another fan edit—Logan with his guitar, Logan kissing my cheek, Logan with that damn smile that made me forget how to breathe the first time I saw it again. For a second, I pause. Let it sting. Let it sit.
Then I lift my gaze toward the window.
And he’s already watching me.
His elbows rest on his knees, firelight flickering across his face, jaw shadowed in stubble. Those eyes—blue and bottomless—They don’t plead. They ache.
And it’s the ache that destroys me.
Because I want to go to him. I want to crawl into his lap and press my forehead to his and tell him we’re okay—even if we’re not.
But I can’t.
Because that look? It holds pain.
