Page 16 of Ruined

I’m only a few hundred feet from Logan’s apartment. He can help. I don’t have much of a choice, anyway.

Before I can second guess myself, I start making my way toward Logan’s building. I’m limping from the pain in my ankle, and I probably look miserable and hurt and embarrassed as I stand before the entrance.

Last time, I managed to slip in without having to call the intercom. This time, there’s no such luck. I press the button for “Baker, L.” and wait, heart pounding.

What if he’s not home? Or what if he is? Both possibilities seem just as scary. I’m about to say fuck it to the whole thing and limp my way to a bus stop instead, but then there’s a crackle, and Logan’s voice nearly makes me topple over.

“Yes?”

“I’m—” I cut myself off, eyes filling with tears, both from the pain and the relief of hearing his voice.

“Ollie?”

“I fell off my bike.” I choke the words out, holding back a sob. It hurts. It really hurts.

No more than a second passes before the door beeps and opens, and I wheel my fucked-up bike into the elevator and up to the fourth floor. The hallway smells like fresh paint, dust, and a little like motor oil.

When Logan opens his door, he looks the same as he did when I last saw him. Gentle brown eyes above a thick salt and pepper beard, broad shoulders, and an immediate calming presence that I can’t describe.

His brow furrows in worry at the sight of me. I must look pathetic with my ruined bike, bloody palms, and teary eyes.

“Come in.” He takes my bike and sets it aside in the hallway, and I limp inside without thinking too much, without considering what this means or what lines I’m crossing.

Only days ago, I ran away from him in a fit of hurt and anger, but now I show up at his apartment, injured and needing help. His help. It was the convenient choice, but it’s not random. My body and mind would lead me to him sooner or later. Whether I’d come to him bruised and bloody or whole but still in pain, come to him I would. Inevitably.

His apartment is simple and modern, with a dark gray sofa near the window, a big screen TV, and a kitchen island separating the living room from the kitchen. The bedroom door is cracked a bit, allowing me a glimpse into a small space with black-out curtains and dark, rumpled covers.

When he leads me to the kitchen, Logan elbows the bedroom door shut, and I tear my gaze away from the intimate space.

“Come sit.” He points to a kitchen chair, and I obey, feeling a bit embarrassed about coming to him like this. He doesn’t look happy to see me; he just looks concerned.

He gets out a first aid kit from a kitchen drawer. When he sits down on a chair beside me, it creaks with his weight.

“Where are you hurt?” he murmurs, gaze roaming over me, as if he’s wondering it mostly for himself.

I hold out my hands regardless, showing my scraped-up palms. “Here.” Hiking up my loose jeans, I expose my leg, where blood is running down my shin from a wound on my knee. “And um… my foot hurts.” Even though I try to keep my voice steady, I can’t help but sniffle as Logan gets out a bottle of wound cleaner and a packet of gauze pads.

“What happened?”

“I fell off my bike. A truck was about to…” I hiss when he rubs the wound cleaner on my knee. “Ow.”

“Shh, it’s okay.” He works with calm efficiency, cleaning my knee and covering it with an adhesive bandage. “Where?”

“Just at the crossing. I-I didn’t know where else to go.”

His eyebrows are pinched with focus, but his voice is soft. “I’m glad you came here.”

I inhale a sharp breath. When he wipes my raw palms, I hiss, tears filling my eyes again. Don’t cry, don’t cry. I want to prove him wrong about being an adult, and adults don’t cry from a simple flesh wound, right?

“It really hurts,” I whimper, unable to help myself. It was scary, falling off the bike. I haven’t been in an accident like that since I was a kid.

“Shh.” He holds my wrist as he wipes my hand, and his voice is low, focused. “Daddy will help.”

I stare but otherwise don’t acknowledge what he said, too shocked and in pain to respond. It’s the sort of thing he’d say when I was eight, but now, the word carries a different meaning. A meaning I’m not sure I’m ready to acknowledge yet.

He notices my stare, and his cheeks flush in realization. “Oh.” He clears his throat. “Sorry.”

I want to tell him that it’s okay—more than okay—that I really, really liked it. But that would be wrong and too much, so instead I force myself to focus on my aching body.