Logan nods once, his expression soft. “I’ll get the water running.”
By the time I reach the top of the stairs, he’s already in my en suite, sleeves rolled to his elbows, checking the temperature and pouring in a capful of the bubble bath my mum used to buy. He’s careful, thoughtful, like he’s done this a thousand times before. And in a way… he has. Not the bath itself, but everything else—looking after me, being here.
I step into the doorway and watch him for a moment, the gentleness in his movements, the way he tests the water againwith his hand, adjusting the temperature just slightly. My chest tightens.
“Logan?” I ask softly.
He turns, a smile already tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, baby?”
“Will you stay with me tonight?”
His expression shifts—something warm and steady filling his eyes as he nods. “Of course. I was planning on it. I can sleep on the—”
“No, Logan.” I cut him off gently, stepping closer, the words trembling from my lips like a secret I’ve been keeping for far too long. “I want you to stay with me. In my bed.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes—surprise, longing, something deeper—and then he straightens, crosses the space between us, and gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Then that’s exactly where I’ll be.”
Chapter 8
Logan
Ifinish running the bath, the scent of vanilla and lavender curling up with the steam. I test the water one last time, then flick off the tap and glance toward the bedroom.
She’s in the closet, half-hidden by the open door, rummaging around.
“Hey,” I call gently, “I’m gonna order the pizza. You want your usual? Extra olives and mushrooms?”
She twists at the waist, peering out with a small smile. “Really glad some things have not changed, because I cannot lie, Logan, if you brought me pineapple, I would probably have a breakdown.”
“Oh, no, angel! We can’t be having that now, can we?”
She laughs lightly, but it catches—turns into a sharp inhale as she bends down to grab something from the bottom shelf. Her hand flies to her side, her body freezing mid-movement.
I’m across the room in seconds.
“Mac.” My voice is rougher than I mean it to be, but fear manifests in a ripple of gooseflesh, my mood shifting from one of joviality to concern.
She’s gripping her side, breathing shallowly through the pain. “It’s okay,” she says quickly, her voice tight. “Just one of the ribs. They’re still a little tender.”
I don’t buy it. Not completely. But I also know better than to push her too hard. I slide my arm around her back, supporting her as I guide her toward the bed. “Sit. Let me take care of it.”
She doesn’t argue, which tells me everything I need to know.
Once she’s settled against the pillows, I pull my phone from my back pocket and order the food, keeping one eye on her the whole time. She’s biting her lip like she doesn’t want me to see the discomfort, but I see it. I see all of it. Every flinch, every breath that takes a little too much effort.
When I hang up, I sit on the edge of the bed beside her. “You want help in the bathroom?”
Her cheeks go pink instantly. “I, uh... I might not be able to wash my hair,” she admits, eyes dropping to her lap, like it’s something to be ashamed of.
I reach for her hand, curling my fingers around hers. “Mac,” I say softly, tilting her chin so she’s looking at me again, “you never have to hide anything from me. Ever.”
There’s a pause, like the air between us is holding its breath.
Then she nods. “Okay,” she whispers. “I’ll call you when I’m ready.” I am filled with relief that I don’t have to fight her more on this.
I press a kiss to her forehead, then stand. “Take your time, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”
