The rooftop had gone quiet in the late afternoon hush, the kind of silence that wasn't empty but expectant, as though the sky itself was holding its breath. But up there, it was just the two of them, the sunlight slicing through the table where a dog eared poetry anthology sat between them, its margins scribbled with Maya's neat, handwriting and Logan's careless, bold scrawl.
Maya, tucked into her usual seat, angled the book so it faced him. Her tone was clipped and professional, her posture a study in self-control.
"So," she said, "today we're analyzing 'Love's Philosophy' by Percy Bysshe Shelley. Structure, theme, language. Go."
Across from her, Logan lounged like he had all the time in the world.
But his eyes were seemed to be present, watching her like she was the lesson.
He glanced at the page, then back up at her. "You already wrote your notes.'
"I want to hear yours."
He tilted his head. "You sure about that?"
"Logan."
"Fine," he leaned forward. "The fountains mingle with the river...And the rivers with the ocean.' He's talking about inevitability. About how everything in nature finds its match, its complement. You can resist it, but it still pulls you in."
Maya's fingers froze mid-note.
Logan watched her, a vulnerable expression crossing his face.
"He uses metaphors of nature," he continued, quieter now. "because nature doesn't ask for permission. It just connects. It's instinct. Gravity and Chemistry."
She lifted her gaze to meet his and regretted it immediately.
There was something in his stare that disarmed her, something naked and too real. His words dripped with double meaning. Not even veiled anymore.
She then cleared her throat. "So you're saying love is...a biological inevitability?"
"I'm saying some connections don't care about logic or schedules. Or the perfect five-year plan you keep pretending you're not obsessed with."
She bristled. "This isn't about me."
"Isn't it?"
"Don't do that," she snapped.
"What?"
"Use poetry to get inside my head."
He leaned in further, elbows planted now and the book forgotten. "You think this is about the poem?"
"It's supposed to be."
"But...," he murmured, his voice like smoke. "You're the one who picked it."
She stared at him. "You think I did that on purpose?"
"I think you don't do anything by accident, Maya." His eyes dropped briefly to her mouth, and it wasn't subtle. "Except maybe this."
Maya caught her breath in her throat.
Then the only sound that was heard was the page of the book rustling in the wind as Shelley's words whispered accusations neither of them dared to voice aloud.
Then Maya stood, too fast, her chair scraping against the rooftop floor.
Logan's head tilted, as his eyes narrowed just slightly, "running again?"
"I'm not running."
"You always do when it gets too close."
She turned her back to him, gripping the railing and sucking in air like it might ground her. "You're not as deep as you think, Logan."
"Maybe," he said softly behind her. "But I'm deep enough to know that when someone builds walls like yours, it's because they're scared of what's underneath."
Was that a dare? She thought.
When she turned to face him again, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with heat and something dangerously close to vulnerability. "I'm not scared of you."
"I didn't say you were."
Their eyes locked once again.
And somewhere between poetry and posturing, a truth curled into the space between them like a fog. They were no longer reading the page. They were living it.
---
The apartment smelled like vanilla and kettle corn, a scent that clung to the cozy two-bedroom space Sienna had somehow transformed into a shrine for soft throw blankets and wildly clashing patterns that by some interior design miracle worked. The television buzzed with an overdramatic monologue from Sienna's latest binge-worthy drama, and she was curled on the couch in her polka-dot socks, giggling like a middle schooler with a crush.
When the front door opened, she didn't even glance up.
"Took you long enough," she called, eyes glued to the screen. "Did he finally try and recite Byron at you shirtless or something?"
Maya closed the door behind her with more force than necessary and dropped her bag onto the armchair. Her entire posture was tight and her shoulders were stiff mouth set, tension radiating from her like static in the air before a storm.
Sienna clicked pause and blinked at her. "Okay...that's not your usual 'I just dissected Victorian tragedy' face. That's your 'I'm repressing deep emotional conflict with a side of horny' face."
"I don't have that face."
"You do. You're wearing it. Right now."
Maya exhaled hard and ran a hand through her hair. "Sienna, can we not?"
Sienna straightened up, folding her legs beneath her. "Oh, we can. But should we?" She tapped her chin with mock thoughtfulness. "Repressed sexual tension is bad for your skin. And your grades. And your soul, Maya."
"I'm not talking about it."
"You never talk about it, which is why your brain is melting into a Logan-flavored smoothie."
Maya shot her a glare and made a beeline for the kitchen, muttering something about chamomile tea and peace.
Then the bell rang.
Sienna shot up immediately, her dramatic instincts flaring. "Ooooh. Plot twist."
"Sienna, don't-"
But she was already at the door, swinging it open with a flourish and a grin that promptly froze.
Because standing on the other side, dressed in black, hair wind-tossed and blonde, was Logan Hayes.
Logan stood there, in all his tall, brooding, infuriating glory.
And Gold help her, Sienna blinked because damn, that man was unfairly hot up close. Like, "walked out of a forbidden romance novel with unresolved trauma" hot.
"Evening," Logan said casually.
Maya had walked into view and stopped dead. Her mouth parted. "What...what are you doing here?"
"You left this." He held up a book, A Room of One's Own, her annotated copy.
Sienna turned toward Maya with an oh no, girl expression, but gracefully stepped aside. 'I'll just go get a latte, or maybe move to France. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
Maya didn't even look at her as Sienna swept out, smothering a grin."
The door clicked shut.
Maya folded her arms, chin lifting defensively. "You didn't have to bring that here."
"I didn't want you to lose your notes," Logan said simply. "You're kind of obsessive about them."
She narrowed her eyes. "I'm not obsessive."
He then raised a brow. "Your color-coding system says otherwise."
She snatched the book from his hand and turned toward the table. "Thanks. You can go now."
"I could," he said, and his voice dropped half a pitch. "But I'm not in a rush."
She turned slowly, the book pressed to her chest like a shield.
Logan stepped further into the apartment, his eyes skimming over the soft chaos of the living room before looking back onto her. "This is your place?"
"Yes."
He smiled slightly. "It's cozy."
"It's not a compliment," she snapped. "You can't just show up wherever you want."
"I'm here to return a book, not start a war."
She glared. "You're still playing games."
"I'm not. Not now."
Something in his voice made her stomach flutter, seriously, with none of the usual smirk behind it. His gaze settled on her like a caress, too direct and too intense.
He stepped closer. One slow stride at a time.
Maya didn't back away.
Her breath hitched as the distance between them shrank to inches.
He reached up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Her skin shivered beneath the touch.
"I could kiss you right now," Logan said, so quietly it wasn't a line, it was a confession.
Then her lips parted. "You won't."
"No," he said, hand still hovering near her jaw. "Because I'm trying, really trying, not to mess this up."
And then he stepped back.
Just like that.
The air felt charged, crackling with everything they weren't saying, everything they were pretending not to feel.
Maya blinked, trying to catch her breath. "Thank you... for the book."
Then he nodded once.
And then he turned and left.
Maya didn't move.
Not until the door shut behind him.
Then finally, she exhaled, the book slipping from her fingers and thudding softly to the floor.
And somewhere in the hallway, Sienna squealed like a teenage girl watching a K-drama finale through the peephole.