The waves rolled in soft and slow, frothing against the sand like sighs that traveled a long way to reach him. The sky wore the weary gray of approaching dusk, casting the beach in a solemn hush. Logan sat alone, elbows braced on his knees, fingers laced loosely, the cold breeze threading through his hair.
This place, the quiet curve of the coast tucked away from everything, had become his church, his confessional, his one safe retreat that Maya didn't get to see. He came here when the memories clawed too close, when the masks he wore felt too tight, and when pretending became unbearable.
Today, the past came for him hard.
He was eight when his world turned upside down.
His mother had been sunshine in human form, warm hands, the scent of vanilla, bedtime stories read in a soft tone that made even monsters feel less scary. She had loved fiercely, she had looked at him like he was the best story she'd ever written.
Then she got sick.
Then she died.
And everything after that burned.
His father didn't cry at the funeral. He didn't hold him. He didn't even look at him for a long time. Instead, there were nannies, tutors, instructions barked more than spoken. Discipline over affection. Expectations over comfort.
"Don't be weak, Logan."
"Fix your face."
"Men don't fall apart."
The first time Logan cried after her funeral, his father had walked away mid-sob, muttering something about "useless emotions." That silence and the hollowness of it, sank into Logan's bones and made itself home.
He learned quickly that pain wasn't something you shared. You bury it deep.
By twelve, he had mastered the art of smiling on cue, charming his way through attention he didn't want and praise he hadn't earned. The grades came easy, he was smart, too smart for his own good. But for emotions and people, they were puzzles he took apart just to understand why they mattered to everyone else.
The only place he could remember ever feeling safe was in the pages of a book, his mother's old ones. She'd underlined passages, left little notes in the margins. He used to trace her handwriting like a life line.
She would have loved Maya.
That thought hit him with the force of a wave he hadn't seen coming.
She would have loved Maya. The fire in her. The way she didn't bend easily. The spine of steel beneath the academic armor. His mother would have told him not to mess it up.
And yet he felt like he was already doing exactly that.
Logan drew in a shaky breath and stared out at the horizon where the water kissed the sky. The ache in his chest was a different kind of hunger now, one rooted in everything he never got as a child, everything he craved as a man.
A connection that was real, raw and terrifying.
He wanted Maya.
Not just in the predictable, hormone fueled way of a boy who liked a pretty girl. No, he wanted for her to see him. Past the charm. Past the performance. Past the layers of survival he'd wrapped around himself since he was eight.
But how could he ask that of her when he didn't even know if he had anything left to give?"
A gull cried overhead as the wind rose, whispering a lullaby in a tongue he couldn't quite name. Logan dropped his gaze to the sand, he let it sift through his fingers like time, like a memory and like grief.
Maybe the boy he used to be was still somewhere inside.
Maybe Maya would be the first person who'd ever see him without him having to sell her on a version.
Maybe-just maybe-he didn't want to be alone anymore.
The tide came in, and Logan stayed right there, listening to it. Wondering what it would feel like to finally let someone reach him.
He sat with the ocean at his feet and the wreckage of his childhood unfolded like seaweed around his ankles and it was impossible to ignore.
He then remembered his father's voice before he remembered his own. It was not loud neither was it cruel. Just absent in all the ways that mattered.
"You'll thank me someday."
That was the line. The dismissal dressed as wisdom. The closing line to every argument he never got to finish.
Logan had been nine when the first boarding school acceptance letter arrived. It was not a conversation neither was it a choice. Just a bag packed by the housekeeper, a uniform laid out on his bed, and a car waiting at the gate like an executioner's carriage.
"You'll be better off there. Boys need structure."
But what he needed was his father. What he got was silence that echoed down the hallways, teachers who cared more about discipline than damage, and other boys just as hollowed out and performance-trained as he was. They learned to excel because approval was a currency, and Logan...He learned fast. Learned that achievement earned affection or the brittle approximation of it.
Top marks. Medals. A perfect posture. Quiet brilliance.
That's when his father looked at him. When he really finally looked at him.
"You're a Hayes. Act like it."
The affection had always been conditional. Warmth dangled like a carrot he'd never quite catch. And eventually, Logan stopped trying. He taught himself to live off mimicry, charm, intellect and seduction. Make them smile and make them curious. Stay ahead of the game so they never catch your truth.
Until her.
She had walked into his life with a confidence he didn't have himself. She didn't fall for the act. Not entirely. And God, that made him want her more.
And he was scared. Terrified, really. That his past would stain her. That the rot he grew up with would touch something as vivid and alive as Maya. But the fear wasn't bigger than the need. Not anymore.
He dropped his head into his hands, the weight of years pressing down on him. His father's voice echoed again. "Crying won't change anything."
Tears burned behind his eyes anyway. They threatened and teetered. But he bit them back with a silent curse and a jaw that ached from the effort. He wouldn't give his past that satisfaction.
He wouldn't let that man, his neglect, his damage, decide how his story ended.
Logan lifted his head slowly, as the wind curved against his cheek like penance. The ocean churned, unrelenting and alive. Just like him and just like Maya.
Then he stood.
The sand shifted beneath his shoes, with a loud heart in his chest.
No more games, no more hiding behind charms and misdirection.
He was going to find Maya.
He was going to look her in the eye and tell her the truth, that she was the first thing in his life that felt real. That he didn't care if it scared the hell out of him. That she mattered, not because she challenged him or intrigued him, but because she reached him. Touched a part of him that had gone untouched for too damn long.
And maybe, if he was brave enough to offer something real, she might not walk away.
Then he turned from the sea and started toward the road. Toward Maya.
And the waves crashed behind him like an applause.