Cracks in the Armor

By Friday, Logan was a man on autopilot.

He showed up to school. Went to classes. Smiled at the right people. Laughed at the dumb jokes. But beneath all that, he was distracted—haunted by Emily’s words echoing like a ghost:

“Don’t fall in love with me.”

Who the hell says that?

Why?

And why had it felt like she knew something he didn’t?

At lunch, the teasing was louder than usual.

“Logan and the preacher’s daughter, sittin’ in a tree—”

“Bet she makes him say grace before he touches her—”

Logan slammed his tray down hard enough to make everyone jump.

“Shut up.”

Eric blinked. “Dude, it’s just a joke.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not laughing.”

Silence.

Then Logan turned on his heel and walked out, fists clenched.

He didn’t even like Emily like that.

Right?.

After school, she wasn’t waiting at the auditorium. Not at rehearsal. Not anywhere.

He tried texting her—nothing.

So he drove to her house.

He didn’t even think about it, didn’t question why. Just went.

Her father answered the door, his face tight with something that made Logan’s spine straighten.

“She’s not feeling well,” Reverend Sullivan said.

“Oh.” Logan shifted on his feet. “Can I maybe—just talk to her for a sec?”

The older man hesitated. “Not tonight, son.”

Logan caught a glimpse through the window. Emily sitting in a chair, blanket around her shoulders, book in her lap. She wasn’t reading. She was staring off at nothing.

And the ache in his chest doubled.

That night, Logan couldn’t sleep.

Not because of guilt.

Not because of rehearsals.

But because she was hiding something—and that wasn’t like her.

The next day, she showed up to school like nothing happened. Smiling that calm smile. Wearing that same cardigan. Talking softly in class.

Logan cornered her after Chemistry.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You weren’t at rehearsal.”

“I wasn’t feeling great.”

He stepped closer. “Emily, look at me.”