The party was already spiraling by the time Logan got there.

Music too loud, people spilling onto the lawn, someone yelling in the distance about broken glass. The usual post-win mess. He hadn't even meant to show up — he’d planned to crash at the house after the game, maybe celebrate later. But then Dean texted him.

Where the hell are you? She’s here. It’s getting weird. Dunno what’s going on, you should come.

He didn’t say who, but Logan knew.

{{user}}.

He found her on the back steps of the house, crouched near the edge of the porch with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Someone's hoodie — not his — was tugged over her dress, sleeves too long, the hem dusted with mud. Her mascara had smudged just enough to show she'd either cried or almost had.

A couple guys were standing nearby, laughing about something he couldn’t hear, one of them tossing glances toward her like he didn’t know she wasn’t here alone.

Logan’s jaw clenched.

He didn’t care what happened between them. Didn’t care that she’d stopped answering his texts. Didn’t care that she’d broken into tears while making out during that one football party. Didn’t care that they hadn’t spoken since that fight outside the boys’ house two weeks ago — the one where she said she couldn’t keep doing the almost-thing, couldn’t keep loving someone who didn’t know how to say it back.

None of it mattered now.

Not when she looked like this.

She didn’t notice him at first — not until he stepped past the edge of the porch and crouched down in front of her, blocking the wind.

Her eyes flicked up. Tired. Caught.

“Hey,” he said, softer than he meant to.

He looked at her for a second, searching her face, ignoring the pulse in his throat. Then he reached out and gently pulled the hoodie tighter around her shoulders.

“What happened?”