I mutter, "I don't think this is a good idea," and before I can stop myself, the words spill out. Logan is standing a few paces away, his posture rigid, his eyes unreadable, and my back is pressed against the cool marble wall of the hallway. The world itself seems to be holding its breath, waiting for something to shatter, and the space between us feels electric.
When he looks at me, I believe I catch a glimpse of something softer, almost vulnerable, flickering in his eyes. But before I can grasp it, it disappears, leaving only that recognizable coldness. He makes the motion of crossing his arms, which seems too definitive and too purposeful.
"Eli, are you trying to give me instructions?" The air feels heavier because of the edge in his low, controlled voice. It's an invitation and a tas
