Logan appeared at the kitchen door, his eyes heavy with fatigue and something else—guilt, perhaps? He opened his mouth to speak, but I silenced him with a single glance. My silence, potent and palpable, hung between us like a third presence.

“Claire, about last night—” he began, his voice faltering under the weight of my gaze.

“I think it’s best you pack some things,” I interrupted, my tone calm, steady. “You need to leave.”

His mouth opened and closed, words failing him. “We need to talk about this,” he insisted, though his voice lacked conviction.

I shook my head slowly. “There’s nothing left to say, Logan. Your actions spoke volumes.”