Page 65 of Logan
I count the sounds of the night, his heartbeat against my spine, the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen down the hall, the faint creak of the house settling, the wind whispering against the trees outside the bedroom window. All so ordinary. All so far from the chaos in my head.
This is my life now.
Stillness.
Safety.
And yet, my body still braces for the next strike. My muscles hold the memory of the fight, and sometimes they forget to let go.
“It’s getting better,” I whisper, mostly to myself, unsure if I even want him to answer.
Logan’s lips brush my shoulder. A light kiss. A reminder. “I know.”
Some days, I believe it. I can almost feel the weight lifting, the shadows thinning. Other days… it feels like I’m learning to walk again, blindfolded, barefoot, over shards of glass. Every step forward risks a cut.
Healing isn’t a straight road. It’s loops and circles and dead ends, sharp turns you never see coming. It’s relapses in the dark and tiny, quiet victories no one else notices.
Like tonight.
Like the fact that I didn’t bolt upright and run.
Like the fact that I’m still here, in this bed, in his arms. Not hiding. Not pushing him away.
I turn over to face him. Even in the dark, I see it…the worry in his eyes. He keeps it buried when we’re around others, but with me, it’s there. Unapologetic.
“I hate that this still controls me,” I admit, my voice rough.
He reaches up, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his fingers so gentle that the contrast to the violence I’ve known almost undoes me. “It doesn’t control you, Mac,” he says. “You’re just carrying it. Doesn’t mean it owns you.”
The words hit something deep inside me. I press my forehead to his, closing my eyes, breathing in the scent of him soap, leather, the faint trace of smoke from the fire earlier. “You make it easier.”
“You do the hard part, baby. I just hold the line.”
A small smile tugs at my lips despite everything. He always finds the words. Not the kind that pretend to erase whathappened, but the kind that stand with me in the wreckage while I rebuild piece by piece.
We lie there like that for a while, our breaths syncing, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. My fingers trace the lines of his chest under the thin fabric of his shirt. I can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, each inhale grounding me a little more.
Then I shift closer, my palm pressing to his chest, not because I feel obligated, not because I’m trying to fill the space in me with something physical. But because I want to. Because this is Logan. Because trust doesn’t come back all at once but tonight, I feel strong enough to take another step.
He notices. I feel the shift in him, the way his eyes search mine in the dark, looking for permission. He doesn’t move until I give it.
“I want this,” I whisper. “With you. Slow. Just…hold me.”
He nods once. “Always.”
And that’s exactly what he does.
There’s no rush. No pressure. Just the quiet exchange of warmth and safety. Skin against skin, his hands never wandering, only holding. The blanket pulled high, the room wrapped in shadows and the faint glow of the clock on the nightstand. The intimacy here isn’t about taking anything, it’s about giving it back.
His lips find mine. Soft. Sure. Patient.
It’s not about sex.
It’s about coming back to life.
It’s about reclaiming something that was stolen and returning it to myself on my own terms, with the only man I trust to hold it with care.
When we finally fall asleep again, my head resting over his heartbeat, I don’t dream.
