Viola McCoy
Amirah pours tea into two mismatched mugs and sets one in front of me without asking. It smells like cinnamon and honey. Like her.
I curl my fingers around the mug and stare at the steam rising in soft spirals. Outside her apartment, the city buzzes in the distance, but here, it’s quiet. Gentle. Safe.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” I say finally. “But I can feel him slipping.”
Amirah doesn’t flinch. She just sips her tea, eyes on me.
“Logan?” she asks, though she already knows.
I nod, my throat tightening. “He’s… off. Distant. He tries to hide it, but I see it. It’s in the way he zones out mid-conversation, or how he kisses my forehead instead of my mouth. He used to look at me like I was his whole damn world, Amirah. Now—”
“He blinks through you,” she finishes softly.
“Yeah.”
I exhale shakily, fingers tightening around the ceramic. “He says he trusts me. That he’s not worried about the stupid headlines with Adrian. And I believe him. Or I want to. But… it’s more than tha
