His After The Heartbreak (BL)
Chapter 213: You Have An Hour

Chapter 213: You Have An Hour

Chapter 213- You Have An Hour

LOGAN’S POV

News flash!

I didn’t die.

Yeah, I know—I said "over my dead body" would I ever go on that stupid trip or even try to make peace with Tyler... but guess what?

I’m alive.

I should’ve known words don’t have superpowers. If they did, I’d probably be six feet underground by now, buried in my own pride.

I thought my dad was joking. I thought maybe he’d laugh first, then come through later.

But guess what?

Plot twist. I was dead wrong.

He didn’t help. He didn’t say a word about helping. Instead, he left me to believe there was still hope.

And then it happened.

Last night, right when I was about to fall asleep, I got an email from school. One of those annoying group mails. It said we should all pack and get ready to meet at the school grounds the next day by 1 PM sharp for the school trip.

I sat up so fast, I almost threw my phone.

I didn’t even waste a second—I called my dad.

"Dad, what’s going on?!"

And you know what this man said?

"Logan, I never promised I’d help you. I told you, son. Sometimes, you just gotta suck it up and deal with life."

Suck it up?

I swear, heaven bears me witness—I almost cursed him that night.

I wanted to curse him so badly. I wanted to say words so heavy they would follow him into his dreams.

But I didn’t.

Because apparently, I’m trying to be a better person now.

I stared at the ceiling, hoping the universe was just playing a joke on me.

But the universe doesn’t like me like that.

This morning, I got another email. Even worse this time.

It said—and I quote—"Failure to report at the school before 1 PM will result in a zero in your final grade for this term."

Do you know what I did next?

I jumped out of bed like it was on fire.

Final grade? Zero?

Hell no. After all the effort I’ve put into school this term? No way I’m failing because of one stupid trip and one emotionally constipated boy.

"F*ck it,"

I sighed and continued brushing my teeth like my life depended on it. Then I rushed into the bathroom and took the fastest shower of my life.

After what felt like a damn lifetime, I came out dripping, half annoyed, half defeated. I started dressing up as quickly as I could. No time to waste.

Then it hit me.

I hadn’t even packed a single thing.

This is why I hate school trips. They come with stress, forced bonding, and unwanted roommates who think sending breakup letters is a personality trait.

Like, what’s the point? Force everyone into tight buses, throw them into weird cabins, make them share bathrooms, and then pretend it’s some kind of "team bonding" experience?

Yeah, no. It’s just stress in disguise.

I muttered curses under my breath as I tried to shove clothes into my bag. My room looked like a war zone—shirts on the floor, socks that didn’t match, and my charger somehow tied in a knot like it was trying to strangle itself. I was doing the best I could, okay? I figured I’d pack what I could and leave the rest to fate. If I forgot toothpaste, I’d chew mint gum for three days. It is what it is.

Then, out of nowhere, I heard a knock at the door.

I froze and glared at it.

Seriously? Whoever it was—didn’t they realize I was busy fighting for my academic life here?

I ignored it.

Flat out.

I wasn’t about to waste my energy walking across the room to open the door.

Then the door creaked.

Opened.

"What the fuck!?" I yelled at the top of my lungs, jumping back like I’d just seen a ghost.

What if I’d been naked? What if I was doing something private? What if I was crying into my hoodie because I missed being emotionally stable?

And guess who waltzed in like he paid rent?

My father.

"And who cares if you’re naked, Logan?" he said with zero shame, flopping down on my bed like it belonged to him. "There’s nothing special about you. Get over it."

Excuse me?

I dropped the shirt I was holding and stormed up to him.

"Get the fuck off my bed," I said, pointing like my finger could stab him.

He didn’t move. Not even a blink.

"I said get the fuck off my bed!"

"Okay, okay, okay!" he laughed. "Easy, tiger. No need to bite me just because I’m sitting on your royal mattress."

I rolled my eyes so hard I almost saw my childhood trauma.

"Now get out of my room," I said, crossing my arms.

"And why would I do that?" he asked, like we were having a friendly conversation and not me trying to evict him from my personal space.

"Because it’s my room," I snapped. "My privacy. My rules. Now get the fuck out."

And what did this man-child do?

He laid down on my bed. Pulled out his phone and started scrolling like he was in a hotel.

I swear, I hate him.

I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw hurt. But arguing with him was a waste of energy. He loved it when I got worked up. It was like entertainment for him—his own personal reality show.

So I did the one thing I was good at.

I ignored him.

I went back to packing. Or, at least, I tried to.

But ignoring my dad doesn’t work the way it works with normal people. He doesn’t get mad. He doesn’t feel rejected. He sees it as peace of mind. Like, "Wow, my son isn’t yelling? What a great day."

So I was stuck there, stuffing clothes into a bag while he lay there tapping away on his phone, probably playing Candy Crush or texting the devil. Who knows.

After like twenty minutes of packing and repacking, my room looked worse than before. I swear I packed five different times and still ended up with the same pile of clothes that made no sense.

T-shirts I didn’t need. Two left socks. No towel.

I gave up.

Dropped on the floor next to my bag and just stared at the wall.

"This is a joke," I muttered to myself, face-palming so hard it echoed. "What a waste. Just what the hell am I even doing?"

Then—bam!—an idea hit me.

The house help.

That’s what she’s for, right? Helping? Organizing? Making sure my life doesn’t fall apart before 9 a.m.?

"Where the hell is she?" I muttered, spinning around like she’d suddenly appear with a suitcase and a halo over her head.

But then... it clicked.

"Oh, fuck," I groaned, slapping my forehead again. "She went on break."

And not just for a day. No. Two whole weeks.

I was officially ruined.

Packing this luggage was going to kill me. I could feel it in my soul. This was how I was going to die—drowning in socks and emotional exhaustion.

I groaned loudly and dragged my eyes across the room, hoping someone would rescue me from this hell.

And then I saw him.

My dad.

Sitting on the couch like a king, legs crossed, phone in hand, still pressing it like his life depended on it.

He hadn’t even looked at me once since I started struggling. Like I was invisible. Like I wasn’t clearly falling apart right in front of him.

"Nope. Not letting that happen," I muttered, fire rising in my chest.

I dropped the shirt in my hand dramatically and stomped straight up to him.

Then—without thinking twice—I snatched his phone out of his hand.

He sat up immediately, blinking like he’d just been slapped by a ghost. "Logan, what the hell is going on?" he snapped. "Why would you grab my phone like that? You know I was busy!"

I didn’t flinch.

"You’re busy?" I asked, voice shaking. "You’re busy? While your only son is dying over there trying to pack a bag and get his life together?"

He raised his hand calmly, like I was a crazy customer at a restaurant and he was the poor waiter. "Give me my phone."

"Say something first," I challenged him. "Aren’t you even gonna say sorry for not helping me?"

He sighed like I was the biggest burden in the world.

Then he said, "Whose fault is it that you’re suffering, Logan?"

I blinked. "What?"

He leaned back with a shrug. "If only you had listened when I told you to prepare for the trip, you’d be done by now. But no, you thought I was joking. Now look at you."

I wanted to scream.

"This isn’t my fault, Logan," he added, hand still stretched out. "Now be a good boy and give me back my phone."

"Nope," I said, holding the phone close to my chest like it was a winning lottery ticket. "Not until you help me pack."

"You’re bargaining with me? You really want to play games when you have just one hour left to be at school?"

I froze.

"What?" I said, voice cracking. "No. That’s wrong. I have three hours left. It’s 9:00 a.m. right now and I’m supposed to be there by 1 p.m."

Dad smirked.

"That’s because you didn’t read the date in the email properly. Go check again."

I opened the email on his phone with shaky hands.

And right there.

Departure time: 10:00 a.m. sharp.

Failure to appear means failure in final evaluation.

Meet at school gates by 9:50 a.m. latest.

I stared at it.

I blinked.

I read it again.

It was 9:13 a.m.

"FUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!"