Logan's POV
Oops. I've done it again.
Elliot stumbles back, blood already blooming across his split lip. For a second, the satisfaction of punching that smug face drowns out everything else—until there's a beat—just one—where guilt wriggles into my chest. Where I think of Noah, hear his voice in my head whispering with disappointment:
"This again? I thought you promised to be better."
"You didn't have to hit him."
"Do you only think with your fists?"
"You're going to get in so much trouble for this."
But then Elliot lifts his head, and—
Motherfucker.
He's smiling. Eyes wide, delighted, like he's been waiting for this. Blood drips from his nose, splattering the sidewalk between us.
"That fucking hurt," he croons, pressing a thumb to his busted lip. "Goddess, fuck." His fingers come away red. His grin turns feral. "You really shouldn't have done that."
Whispers ripple around us like wildfire—pedestrians stopping, murmuring, heads turning. "Are they fighting?"
