She doesn’t answer right away, just shifts closer—pressing her cheek to my chest, the thrum of my heart loud enough for us both to hear.
By the time the credits roll, Mac’s breathing has deepened, her head resting against my shoulder, her body warm and relaxed in my arms. I shift slightly, careful not to jostle her healing ribs, and slide the blanket up over us. The bedside lamp casts a soft amber glow, painting her features in gold as she blinks sleepily up at me.
“You still with me?” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
She nods, voice thick with sleep. “Barely.”
I smile and lean in, kissing her forehead. “Then let’s call it a night.”
She stretches, careful and slow, before curling back into me—her leg tangled with mine, her palm resting right over my heart like it’s always known the way.
For a moment, neither of us says anything. The room is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels earned. Sacred. Like after the storm, when all that’s left is the peace.
“You know… Everything is a mess in my head. I don’t know how much time is lost, and when I saw you and didn’t immediately recognize the man that you have become. I know it must have hurt you… and piecing together everything that happened… I just want to say…”
I close my eyes, the weight of those words hitting something deep. “angel, it’s fine.” I whisper.
She shifts so we’re face to face, eyes glimmering in the soft light. “Let me finish. Logan… You’re stitched into every moment of my life. Like you’ve always belonged here….Logan, promise me. If I ever try to push you away that you’ll stay. That you’ll talk sense into me, and wait out my tantrums. That you’ll be there. Because I can’t picture a day going forward without you in it.”
Something lodges in my throat. I cup her cheek, brushing my thumb over the soft skin beneath her eye. “That’s an easy promise to make, angel, I am considering wrapping you up with bubble-wrap, maybe tying one of those balloons to your wrist so you are easier to spot in a crowd?”
Her lips curve, and I swear the whole damn room shifts.
“Logan Dale… I love you,” she breathes, not like a confession—but like a truth that’s been there all along. It bubbles out, and her cheeks flush, eyes flaring at realizing what she has said out loud. The thrill those words give me, are a high I will never get enough of. I feel dizzy. Giddy even.
“I’ve loved you since the moment you stole my bike and made me chase you down that damn hill, laughing like you already had me. You’re not just in my lyrics, baby—you are the reason I write. You’re in every line I bleed onto the page, in the strum of a chord that makes my chest ache, in the roar of a crowd that means nothing without you there. Even in the silence before thelight hits the stage, when everything else fades—it’s still you. It’s always been you.”
She gasps softly into the space between us, and I catch it with my mouth—soft just a brush of our lips.
Then we settle. Her head finds its place in the crook of my neck. My arm wraps tighter around her waist. Her fingers trace circles on my chest. Content, but lost in thoughts.
“I can’t believe we just said all that,” She is still glowing as she continues sleepily, “I still feel like I probably love you more.”
And when her breathing evens out, I let mine follow.
Two heartbeats, one rhythm. But, alas, there is no way for what she said to be true, as you see, I know I love her most.
Chapter 9
Kayla
Something is wrong. Something is missing. I wake slowly, eyes burning. Heart racing.
My hand drifts out instinctively, searching the bed beside me for him—for the steady, grounding presence that helped me fall asleep last night.
But all I find are cool sheets, rumpled and abandoned.
A small frown pulls between my brows as my eyes crack open, blinking against the soft wash of morning light spilling through the curtains.
Panic tugs at my chest before my gaze shifts and finds him.
Logan.
Leaning against the doorframe like some beautiful, reckless dream.
He’s shirtless, every muscle and line of him carved by golden light. Tattoos curve across his ribs, over his shoulder, the dark ink a stark contrast against the sun-warmed tan of his skin.
His arms stretch lazily overhead, hands gripping the frame, which only makes the ridges of his abdomen tighten and flex in ways that make my throat go dry.
