Page 49 of Logan
He takes the ring from the box, holding it between us like something fragile.
“I want all of it, Mac. The rough edges. The nights when you call me out. The mornings like this, when it’s so still I can hear your breathing and remember how damn lucky I am. I want to be yours. Not partway. Not ‘when it’s convenient.’ Always.”
I don’t even realize I’m crying until he reaches up, brushing his thumb under my eye with a touch so gentle it makes my chest ache.
“I’m not down on one knee,” he says, his voice dipping softer. “Mostly because you’d call me dramatic and tell me to get my ass off the porch.”
A laugh slips out, shaky but real. “You know me too well.”
His grin is crooked, the kind that tugs at memories I forgot I still had. “Damn right I do.”
He slides the ring onto my finger, his hand steady. It doesn’t sparkle under the morning sun, but it doesn’t need to. It fits like it was waiting for me all along.
I curl my fingers around his and lean forward until our foreheads touch. The warmth of his skin and the steady exhale from his lungs create a small space where the world doesn’t exist. The air between us hums with something more than a question or an answer.
It is a promise.
“You’re lucky I love you,” I whisper, my voice catching just enough that I know he hears the weight behind it.
His smile is soft but it lands deep. “I know.”
When I kiss him, it’s slow at first, the kind of kiss that sinks in, the kind that makes time pull its brakes. The birds stir in the trees, their calls scattering into the sky. Above us, the morning opens wider, the pale blue stretching into something brighter.
And sitting there on that porch, his hand still wrapped around mine and the ring warm on my finger, I don’t feel like we’re holding on anymore.
I feel like we’re building.
We stay like that until the coffee in his cup goes cold and the shadows shift across the yard. Then, without a word, he stands and reaches for my hand, tugging me gently toward the door. Inside, the air is warmer, carrying the faint scent of last night’s dinner and the familiar creak of the floorboards beneath our feet.
He doesn’t let go as we move through the kitchen, past the counter where his keys and wallet sit, and down the hall toward the bedroom. Sunlight follows us, spilling in soft streaks across the walls.
Back in the room, he sits on the edge of the bed and pulls me between his knees, his hands resting lightly on my hips. His eyes drop to my hand where the ring catches the light not with a flash, but with a quiet gleam and I see something in him soften.
“You sure about this?” he asks, voice low, like the question is more for him than for me.
I lace my fingers in his hair, tilting his head back so he has to meet my eyes. “Logan, I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”
The tension that had been wound tight in his shoulders all morning seems to loosen at that, and when he pulls me into his lap, it isn’t hurried or rough. It’s deliberate. Anchored. Like we’re sealing something that has been years in the making.
And as his arms wrap around me, the world outside feels distant.
Just him. Just us. Just the beginning.
***
Two months later
Logan’s leaning against the garage wall like he’s watching me walk into a war zone.
And maybe, to him, I am.
"You don’t have to do this, Mac," he says again, his arms folded, voice low and steady like he thinks that if he just says it enough times, I’ll cave. “I can take care of us.”
I pause halfway to the car, my hand hovering over the handle, and glance back at him. The morning light cuts across his face, softening the stubborn set of his jaw. His eyes are warmer than they were last night when we went back and forth over this, but there’s still something else buried in them. Worry. A thread of fear.
I get it. I do.
We haven’t gotten any more packages from Anthony. Logan has been slowly, carefully, letting me reclaim pieces of my independence. If you ask me, I think he finally figured outexactly what he’d be up against if the MC was involved. Maybe he decided Anthony wasn’t worth the consequences.
