“Are you seriously going to wash my hair right now?”
He nods like it’s the most important job he’s ever had. “Can’t have you going to bed with sex hair and shampoo still on your scalp, can I? Rockstar standards, baby.”
I roll my eyes but obey, grinning as I turn. A second later, his fingers are in my hair—strong and slow, massaging my scalp with the perfect amount of pressure. I hum, melting under his touch. His thumbs sweep behind my ears, and for a second, it’s almost too tender.
“I used to dream of this,” he says softly, fingers still moving through my hair. “You. Me. A normal night. No cameras. No screaming fans. Just us. You letting me take care of you.”
I lean my head back against his chest, eyes closed. “You always did take care of me, even when I didn’t know it.”
He kisses the side of my head. “And I always will.”
The moment simmers, sweet and close, until I reach back suddenly and flick water at him again.
“Mac!”
“What? I’m just making sure you’re rinsing properly,” I giggle.
He lunges forward, arms wrapping around me again as he spins us beneath the water, both of us laughing now—carefree and soaked and so ridiculously happy it makes my chest ache.
We towel off slowly, like we’re in no rush to let go of the moment. Logan wraps me up in one of the thick grey ones from under the sink, tucking it around me like I’m precious, his fingers brushing my shoulders and collarbones with gentle reverence. His touch is quieter now—sated, sweet—and my heart feels too full for my chest.
He takes my hand and leads me back to bed, both of us still damp, wrapped in towels and comfort and whatever this wild, beautiful thing is between us. The covers are kicked back, sheets tangled from earlier, and when we lie down again, it’s natural. Like we’ve done this a million times before. He stretches out beside me, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other curledaround my waist, pulling me close so my head rests on his shoulder.
There’s a quiet I don’t want to break—but something aches inside me, something that’s been waiting to be said.
I turn slightly, fingers drawing slow circles across his chest. “Logan?”
“Hmm?”
His voice is lazy, content. I can feel the slow beat of his heart under my palm.
I swallow. “I don’t know if all of my memories will ever come back.” His breath stills, just for a second. “But…” I lift my head and meet his eyes. “I think I could live with that. If I have you. If this—us—is what I get instead.” He blinks, and something in his gaze turns molten. His hand finds my cheek, thumb brushing softly across my skin.
“Mac…”
“I mean it.” My voice trembles with the truth of it. “You make me feel… like I don’t have to remember who I was, because this version of me—the one who’s falling for you all over again—might be even better.” His mouth is on mine before I can say another word, slow and deep and worshipping. When he pulls back, his eyes are glassy, voice low and rough.
“I’d spend a thousand lifetimes helping you fall in love with me again, Mackayla Smith. Every single one.” And just like that, I melt into him. I tuck my face into the warm curve of his neck, breathing him in, the steady thrum of his pulse grounding me like a lullaby. His arms tighten around me, and I swear he fits around me like he was always meant to—like the space I’ve carried inside me all this time was shaped just for him. The room is quiet, kissed by the soft hush of early evening, and as we lie tangled in skin and warmth and unspoken promises, I let my thoughts drift. I remember something my Grams used to say to me and Braden when we were little. That maybe…maybe everything really does happen for a reason. I never used to believe it. Not when Braden died. Not when the memories slipped away like smoke. But lying here now, in Logan’s arms—with his heartbeat under my cheek and his breath brushing the top of my head—I think maybe I can. Maybe I don’t need to know the reason. Maybe it’s not mine to understand. Maybe it was never about answers—just about finding the right path. And maybe, just maybe, that path has always led right here. To him.
Chapter 14
Logan
The sound of the front door creaking open cuts through the quiet like a whisper shouted through a megaphone.
I blink, groggy but aware, my body tangled with Mac’s, her skin warm against mine, her breath soft and even where she sleeps curled into me. It’s just past ten. Outside the window, the sky’s gone indigo, that deep velvet just before full dark.
She doesn’t stir, not even when I slide gently out of bed and plant a kiss on her bare shoulder.
I tug on my gray joggers, quietly pulling the door mostly closed behind me before padding barefoot down the hall. Voices—loudones—spill in from the kitchen. Laughter, bags rustling, glass clinking.
“Shh! Dude, you’ll wake her up!”
“She’s already up,” someone else hisses. “Probably calling the cops on the ransack job we just did.”
I step into the kitchen—and stop dead.
It looks like the boys bought the damn store.
