Logan Brooks, 17 years old - ML

Emily Hayes, 17 years old - FL

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The late afternoon sun cast a sleepy golden haze over Beaufort, North Carolina, washing the aging rooftops and narrow lanes in warm amber light. It was the kind of small town where everybody knew everybody—or at least claimed to—and secrets were hard to keep. The kind of town where tradition had roots deeper than the trees lining the churchyard, and rebellion was more of a whisper than a roar.

Seventeen-year-old Logan Brooks didn’t care much for tradition. Or roots. Or rules, really.

He leaned against the faded hood of his friend Eric’s rusting pickup, the smell of gasoline and salty sea air filling his nose as the engine idled beside him. The school bell had rung a half hour ago, and the parking lot had mostly cleared out—except for the cluster of boys laughing too loud, and the girls pretending not to notice.

Logan flicked his cigarette onto the pavement and crushed it beneath his boot.

He didn’t need to be told he was trouble. He knew. He wore it like a badge, invisible but undeniable, stitched into the way he walked, the way he smiled. His father wasn’t around, his mother barely tried, and somewhere along the way, Logan had decided that caring too much was for suckers. It made life easier, less messy.

At least, until last night.

The prank wasn’t supposed to end the way it did.

A freshman boy, desperate to impress, was dared to jump off the old cement factory platform into shallow river water—a rite of passage that had become legend among the seniors. But something went wrong. He’d panicked. Slipped. The splash was wrong. The silence after it was worse.

The hospital lights, the sound of sirens, the sick churn in Logan’s stomach—he could still feel all of it. He’d laughed at first. They all had. Then the blood turned everything cold.

Now, instead of a weekend full of parties and freedom, Logan sat in the principal’s office staring down consequences. Real ones.

Mr. Kelly, the school’s tight-lipped vice principal, folded his hands neatly across his desk and said, “You’re not being suspended, Logan.”

Logan looked up, confused. “What?”

“You’re being given an alternative. Community service. Tutoring underclassmen. Participation in the spring play. Every day after school. And you’ll report to Reverend Hayes for weekend service at the church.”

Logan stared at him, a flicker of disbelief cutting through his arrogance. “You’re kidding.”

“No.” The man’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m not. You have a choice—either accept this punishment, or face a disciplinary hearing. That’s expulsion.”

Logan swallowed the lump in his throat. Expulsion wasn’t an option. College applications were creeping closer, and his mother—though hardly present—would lose it if he threw away his future entirely.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Whatever.”

But he hadn’t expected her to be there.

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The church looked older than time itself—white clapboard, a steeple that stretched against the blue sky, and ivy curling around its stone base like nature’s quiet claim. Logan arrived late on Saturday morning, still half-asleep and very much annoyed, only to find Reverend Hayes waiting on the steps.

And beside him, in a sky-blue cardigan and long pleated skirt, stood Emily Hayes.

She was holding a small box of hymnals and smiling like she had never been disappointed by the world. Her honey-brown hair was pinned back loosely, strands fluttering in the breeze like dandelion seeds. She looked... harmless. Like a breeze could knock her over.

Logan had seen her around school, of course. Who hadn’t? Always sitting alone at lunch, always volunteering for events nobody cared about. The kind of girl who didn’t exist in his world.

She blinked up at him. “You’re late.”

He frowned. “You keeping track of that, or...?”

“I keep track of a lot of things,” she said simply.

Reverend Hayes cleared his throat. “Emily will be helping supervise your time here. You’ll assist her, clean, organize, and help with the upcoming school play. Rehearsals start Monday.”

Logan looked between the two of them, stunned. “You’re joking, right? She’s my supervisor?”

Emily tilted her head. “Not your supervisor. Your partner.” Her tone was calm, unbothered. “You’ll need one. The church play is a lot of work.”

Church play? Logan felt the headache forming. This was going to be worse than he thought.

And then, just as Reverend Hayes turned to unlock the doors, Emily looked up at Logan and said, with soft sincerity that somehow made his chest tighten:

“Don’t worry, Logan. I promise I won’t fall in love with you.”

He scoffed, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Good. 'Cause that’d be the real tragedy.”

What he didn’t know was that the real tragedy hadn’t even begun yet.

End of chapter 1❤❤❤❤❤

Monday came too soon.

Logan slumped against the locker-lined hallway of Beaufort High, his backpack slung over one shoulder and a permanent scowl forming between his eyebrows. The halls buzzed with teenage noise—slamming lockers, flirtatious laughter, gum smacking against teeth—and none of it cut through the weight sitting on his chest. He was officially marked.

Community service. Tutoring. The damn school play.

He could already feel his popularity leaking out of him like air from a punctured tire. It wasn’t like he cared. Not really. Except, of course, he did—at least a little. He liked his comfort zone, liked being untouchable. But now he was stuck playing the school’s poster boy for “bad decisions and second chances,” with the town reverend’s daughter glued to his side.

Speaking of which—

“Logan.” That voice—soft, measured, not quite demanding—cut through the crowd.

He turned slowly to find Emily Hayes standing behind him with her hands clasped neatly in front of her, a clipboard tucked against her chest.

“Rehearsals are in the auditorium after last period. I assume you remember.”

“I was hoping you’d forget,” he said dryly.

“I don’t forget things,” she replied simply.

Logan rolled his eyes and pushed off the lockers. “You gonna carry that clipboard everywhere?”

“It helps me stay organized,” she said, unfazed. “And I find it comforting.”

He looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language. “You’re weird.”

Emily smiled gently. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

By the time last period ended, Logan was ready to climb the walls. His friends had all bailed on him at lunch—too nervous to be seen with someone doing “Reverend rehab,” as they’d jokingly called it—and he’d had to endure two hours of geometry next to an underclassman who smelled like tuna sandwiches.

He made his way reluctantly to the auditorium, kicking a loose piece of paper as he went. When he stepped inside, the scent of old velvet and dust hit him like a wall. The stage lights were dimmed, casting long shadows on the worn wooden floor. A handful of students gathered at the front—most of them drama club types with hopeful eyes and expressive hand gestures. Definitely not his crowd.

And then there she was. Front and center. Clipboard in hand.

Emily looked perfectly at ease as she explained the scene setup to Ms. Garber, the drama teacher. Her voice carried a calm, patient rhythm. She wore a long pale yellow cardigan over a navy dress, her hair half-tied back in a way that framed her face like something out of a painting.

She didn’t notice Logan at first.

He leaned against the door frame, arms crossed. Watching.

When she did catch his eye, she walked over without hesitation.

“You’re late.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That’s not the same thing as being on time.”

He gave her a sarcastic grin. “You going to punish me?”

Emily ignored the bait. “You’ll be reading for the male lead.”

Logan blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The play is The Christmas Angel. You’ll be reading the role of Tom Thornton.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Yes, you will,” Ms. Garber said, approaching behind Emily. “Mr. Brooks, this is part of your community service. And if I may add, it wouldn’t hurt to try something that doesn't involve near-death experiences.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. He didn’t have a choice. He grabbed the script Emily held out with a muttered, “Whatever.”

The read-through was agonizing.

Logan stumbled through his lines with a mix of irritation and boredom, while Emily—standing across from him—read hers with soft clarity. She wasn’t trying to act. She just was. And somehow, it made the words feel more real.

In the middle of one exchange, their characters were meant to lock eyes. Logan glanced up, expecting the same dull neutrality he gave everyone.

But Emily looked straight into him.

And for one weird second—just a flicker—he forgot to speak.

After rehearsal, as everyone packed up their things, Emily approached him again.

“You’ll need to practice,” she said.

“I’m not planning on taking this seriously.”

“You should. There’s more to you than what you pretend to be.”

He laughed dryly. “And you figured that out already? What are you—some kind of psychic nun?”

“I pay attention,” Emily said. “You might try it sometime.”

She turned to walk away, leaving Logan staring after her, oddly unsettled.

Something about her didn’t fit. She didn’t chase him. Didn’t beg for his attention. Didn’t try to impress. She just was, and that seemed to bother him more than anything.

Later that night, as Logan sat in his room tossing a baseball against the wall, the script open and ignored beside him, he caught himself thinking about the look in her eyes when they’d read that scene.

She hadn’t been acting.

That much he knew.

And for the first time in a long time, Logan Brooks wondered if maybe he didn’t know everything after all.

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End of Chapter Two

Detention was one thing. Logan could handle sitting in a half-empty classroom, pretending to pick up trash or do equations he had no interest in. That was easy. That was punishment.

But this?

This was humiliation.

“You’ll start tutoring with Emily Hayes after school today,” Principal Kelly had told him. “It’s part of your sentence.”

Sentence. As if he were some kind of criminal.

Logan hadn’t argued. Not out loud. He just nodded, stuffed his hands in his hoodie pockets, and walked out of the office. But the irritation brewed hot in his stomach. What was he supposed to do with the reverend’s daughter? Sit around solving algebra until she smiled her patronizing little smile and told him he was “getting better”?

No thanks.

Still, at 3:15 p.m., he found himself knocking on the door of the school library.

And of course—she was already there. Sitting at the back table like she owned the place, a neat stack of textbooks beside her, glasses perched on her nose, and a pink pen in her hand.

Emily Hayes looked up, unsurprised.

“You’re on time.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Logan muttered, dropping into the chair across from her.

She pushed a sheet toward him. “Geometry. Your test scores are low.”

“You memorize those too?”

“I asked Principal Kelly. You need a C to pass.”

He slumped back, arms folded. “You really love this, don’t you?”

“What?”

“Helping the poor criminal.”

Emily’s expression didn’t flinch. “You’re not a criminal, Logan. You’re just... lost.”

He blinked, stunned into silence for a second. “Wow. You get that from your horoscope?”

“No,” she said simply. “I got that from watching.”

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The tutoring session was awkward at best.

Emily walked him through a few problems, her voice soft but steady, while Logan doodled absently on the edge of his paper. He didn’t want to admit that her explanations made sense. That she made things easy in a way no teacher ever had. That maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t doing this for the credit or for pity.

“So,” she said after twenty minutes, “how’s the play coming?”

“I’d rather fall down a well.”

“That’s not very optimistic.”

“I’m not very optimistic.”

She gave him a small smile. “You should try memorizing Scene Three. We’ll be rehearsing it tomorrow.”

He grunted. “Great.”

“Logan,” she said quietly, her tone shifting. “I know you don’t want to be here. I know you think this is beneath you. But... I’d appreciate it if you’d at least try.”

That caught him off guard. Not because of what she said—but how she said it.

Not like a teacher.

Not like a lecture.

Just… honest. Human.

He didn’t answer. Just nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and gathered his things.

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Tom: "You’re the kind of girl a guy doesn’t expect. The kind he meets once and never forgets."

He exhaled slowly.

What the hell kind of line was that?

And why did he hear Emily’s voice every time he read it?

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The next afternoon brought rehearsal.

This time, Logan showed up early.

Emily was already there—of course—seated on the edge of the stage, quietly humming to herself as she read her lines. Her voice floated softly through the empty room, and Logan had to pause for a second behind the curtain just to listen.

Something about her presence was... calming.

And annoying.

He walked out casually. “You’re singing?”

She looked up, surprised but not startled. “I like to warm up before rehearsal.”

“Figured you were just trying to hypnotize people.”

She smiled, not rising to the bait. “Did you memorize Scene Three?”

Logan held up the script, his voice half-defiant. “Sort of.”

They moved through the lines, clunky at first. He stumbled, rolled his eyes, made jokes to mask the tension. But slowly—without meaning to—he began to get it. Not the play. Not the words.

Her.

There was something about the way Emily looked at him—not with judgment, not with flirtation—but with certainty. Like she already knew he could do it, and was just waiting for him to catch up.

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After rehearsal, Emily handed him a sticky note.

“What’s this?”

“A quote,” she said. “One of my favorites.”

He read it. “‘Love is always patient and kind. It is never jealous…’” His voice faded. “What is this? Bible stuff?”

She smiled. “It’s Corinthians.”

He looked at her, then at the note again. “‘It does not boast and is not proud…’”

“Just something to think about,” she said, gathering her books.

And just like that, she walked off—leaving Logan staring after her with the strangest ache in his chest.

He didn’t know what it was yet.

But he had a feeling this girl—with her cardigans, her Bible verses, and her endless calm—was going to ruin everything..

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End of Chapter Three