Page 48 of Logan
Baby, I'm the one to beat
'Cause the sign on your heart
Said it's still reserved for me
Honestly, who are we to fight the alchemy?
‘The Alchemy’ - Taylor Swift
I don’t expect anything different this morning.
The sun is just starting to crawl through Logan’s curtains when I roll over in his bed, still tangled in his scent. Cedar, leather, and that faint trace of the cologne he wears only for himself, not for show. The sheets are warm on my side, but his space is empty. The pillow holds the faint dip from where his head rested hours ago, and I press my face into it, breathing him in before I even open my eyes fully.
Typical Logan.
Wake up early.
Brood in silence.
Pretend he’s not spiraling about something.
I stretch until my toes brush the cool edge of the mattress and then swing my legs over the side. The floor is chilled from the night air, and I wince slightly before spotting one of his old MC shirts crumpled by the dresser. I pull it over my head, the fabric soft and worn thin from years of use, hanging loose enough that it feels like armor and comfort all at once.
The house is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional pop of the wood as it adjusts to the morning chill. I pad barefoot into the hallway, my steps light, but there’s no need to be stealthy. He knows I’m awake.
When I reach the doorway, I see him outside.
Logan is on the front porch, sitting on the top step with his elbows resting loosely on his knees. A coffee cup is in one hand, steam curling up toward his face, and in the other is a small black wooden box. The kind of box that looks like it’s been handled a thousand times before. The edges are rounded from years of use, the paint dulled by time.
Not a ring box. Not anything polished or fancy. Something old. Worn. Real.
My heart stutters.
I push the screen door open with my hip and step outside, the boards cool beneath my feet. The morning air is crisp, the kind that clings to your skin and smells faintly of damp grass and distant woodsmoke. It’s the kind of air that makes everything feel sharper, like it’s harder to lie to yourself in this kind of light.
“Hey,” I say quietly, settling beside him on the step. The wood is rough under my palms as I brace my hands. “You good?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just taps the box against his palm in a slow, steady rhythm, like it’s keeping time for a thought he hasn’t said yet. His eyes stay on the tree line in front of us for a few seconds longer before he finally turns toward me.
There’s no flicker of defense in his gaze this time. No sharp edge to hide behind. It’s steady. Grounded.
“I’m done pretending,” he says.
He holds the box out to me.
I glance between him and the box, my brows pulling together. “What is this?”
“Open it.”
I flip the lid. Inside is a ring. It is not glittery, not new, not the kind that catches the sun just to prove a point. It is a thin twist of gold and silver, the metals braided together in a way that looks both delicate and unbreakable. The surface is worn, the shine softened by time. It is imperfect in a way that feels honest.
“It was my grandma’s,” he says quietly. “Dad’s mom. She wore it ‘til the end. Mom kept it in a drawer like it was too sacred to touch.”
I look up at him, my throat tightening until my next breath feels uneven.
“Logan…”
“I don’t have a speech,” he says, shifting his body toward me. “You know I’m terrible at those. But you told me to show you, that night at the pond. And you were right. I’ve spentmy life halfway in. Halfway yours. Halfway mine. And I’m done with that. I’m done choosing safe when all I’ve ever wanted was you.”
