Day seven.
Elara hadn't responded to Logan's flowers. Or the house. Or the fifty texts.
She couldn't. Didn't know what to say.
She sat in her apartment. Staring at the key. Thinking.
A knock at the door made her jump.
She checked the peephole.
Logan. He looked wrecked. Unshaven. Hollow-eyed. Desperate.
She opened the door.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
"Can I—" He gestured inside.
She stepped back. Let him in.
He looked around. At her small apartment. At the roses wilting in vases. At the key on the table.
"You didn't throw it away," he said quietly.
"No."
"That's something." He turned to her. "I know you don't want to see me—"
"I didn't say that—"
"You don't have to." His voice was raw. "I can feel you pulling away. Building walls. Protecting yourself."
"Can you blame me?"
"No."
