As soon as Greta called his name, Bear was running. He hit the clearing at full speed, and Logan was already coming up off the log. He didn’t make it fully upright—his knees buckled on the first step, the way legs do after hours of sitting still in the cold—and Bear caught him before he went down. He went to his own knees on the pine needle floor and pulled his son in with both arms, and Logan’s hands came up and fisted in the back of his jacket.
He was vaguely aware of Greta taking the dogs back down the path, and then there was nothing except the kid—his kid—shaking in his arms. He put his chin on top of Logan’s head. The boy was already over six feet tall, but still folded into his chest like a much younger version of himself, like the three-year-old with the Spider-Man shirt.
“I’ve got you,” he said into his son’s hair. “I got you, and I’m not letting go.”
Logan shook harder. His breath came in uneven bursts against Bear’s jacket.
“I’ve got you.” He said it again and again, as above them, the last light of day died between the branches.
Then Logan said it.
The word Bear had wanted to hear again for twelve years.
Muffled, face pressed into Bear’s jacket, ragged in a way that made his chest split down the middle.
“Dad.”
He closed his eyes. His hand found the back of Logan’s skull, and he held him there. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Long enough for the cold to settle into his knees through the pine needles and for the forest to go fully dark around them. Long enough for the shaking in Logan’s shoulders to slow, then stop, then start again at a different rhythm—shivers instead of the fast, panicked tremor of before.
When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were red and puffy with tears. “You’re not mad?”
Bear looked at his boy’s face. That little boy who used to ride on his shoulders could almost look him in the eye now.
“No.” His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat. “Christ, no. I’m not mad. I’m just so fucking happy you’re safe.”
Logan wiped his face with the heel of his hand, the way boys did when they didn’t want to be caught crying. The cold had brought a flush to his cheeks and turned the tip of his nose red, and he suddenly looked very young.
“I’m sorry. I— I left my backpack. I know. I know it was stupid.”
Bear shook his head. “I don’t care about the backpack.”
Logan’s breath hitched, and he looked down at the pine needles between his boots. “Kolby said stuff.” His voice was quiet. “About you and Greta. On the porch.” A pause. “He said Mom wasn’t even cold yet.”
Jesus. How did he even respond to that? He wished Walker were here. Or Johanna. Or Nessie. Hell, even Jax would know what to say now.
But they were all at the ranch. He had to do this himself.
“Logan, you know your mom and I were over a long time ago.”
“I know.”
“And my relationship with Greta or anyone else has nothing to do with how I feel about you. You’re my son, and I love you. I’ve loved you from the second your mom handed me that positive pregnancy test. Nothing and no one will ever change that.”
“Okay,” Logan said, softer now.
Bear stayed on his knees. The cold had settled into his joints, a deep, structural ache that he’d feel later, but he wasn’t moving. Not yet. Not until the kid was ready.
Logan kicked at the dirt, then made a face. “Kolby’s a piece of shit.”
Bear almost smiled. “He is.”
“And his mom watches our house.”
“His mom watches everybody’s house.”
Logan looked up at that, and a faint smile touched his lips. “She’s so creepy.”
“She is.”
