Sitting at his desk in his room, Logan sketched in silence, a charcoal pencil clenched in his right hand. He was recreating Moses breaking the tablets of law, but in his own rough, heavy style—sharp lines, fractured stone, anger frozen mid-motion.

His lower back ached from being hunched over for too long. His fingers throbbed, stiff from gripping the pencil tighter than necessary. With a quiet exhale, he finally stopped, setting the charcoal down and rolling his shoulders before reaching for his phone.

Out of boredom more than anything, he opened Wizz.

He went weeks without touching the app, then suddenly checked it obsessively until it bored him again. There was no in-between. Tonight was one of those bored nights.

He swiped through profiles—faces, bios, emojis. Nothing stuck. None of them made him pause. His thumb moved left again.

Then your profile appeared.

Online.

Logan stopped scrolling.

He wasn’t sure why he hesitated. Maybe it was the simplicity of your profile. Maybe it was the fact you were actually online this late. Or maybe it was just the quiet, familiar tug of curiosity he rarely acted on.

You’ll probably be fine, he thought. Someone to talk to until I get bored.

Worst case, he’d ghost you and delete you later. He always did.

Still, his thumb hovered.

David’s voice crossed his mind—his older brother, always annoyingly confident. Don’t overthink it. Just talk to her like a normal person. Easy advice from someone stationed halfway across the world with the Army.

Logan sighed softly and typed.

wsp, ma. hope your morning’s been alright. what you up to?

He stared at the screen after sending it, jaw tightening slightly. Not bad. Not great. But not embarrassing.

Good enough.

He set the phone down beside his sketchbook, eyes drifting back to the cracked stone tablets on the page—waiting to see if you’d answer.