Him.
28
LOGAN
The first rays of dawn creep through the window, painting strips of pale gold across Sloane's sleeping form.
Her chest rises and falls in steady rhythm, dark lashes fanning against her cheeks, lips slightly parted. Her hair spills across my pillow in waves of chestnut and shadow.
I've been awake for half an hour, just watching her. There's something almost surreal about having her here, in my bed, wrapped in my sheets. The woman who crashed into my life like a meteor, trailing fire and secrets. Now she looks so peaceful, all her sharp edges softened by sleep.
When was the last time I let anyone this close?
A strand of hair falls across her face, and before I can stop myself, I reach out to brush it away. My fingers linger, tracing the delicate curve of her cheek. She stirs at my touch, a small smile curving her lips before her eyes even open.
"Why are you smiling?" I ask, voice rough with disuse.
Her eyes flutter open, hazel irises catching the morning light. "Because you're the first thing I see."
Something warm and unfamiliar expands in my chest. I try to swallow it down, but it spreads like wildfire through my veins.
No one's ever looked at me the way she does—like I'm not just the soldier, the protector, the man with too many walls.
Like I might actually be worth waking up to.
Her hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing over my stubble. "You're blushing, Logan."
"I don't blush." The words come out gruffer than I intend, heat creeping up my neck.
"Oh really?" Her smile widens. "So this lovely shade of pink is what—tactical camouflage?"
I grab her wrist, intending to pull her hand away, but somehow end up drawing her closer instead. "You're impossible."
"And you're cute when you're flustered."
Cute.
Christ.
I've been called many things in my life—most of them involving various degrees of danger or violence—but never that. The fact that it makes my pulse skip is... concerning.
I roll away before she can notice any more tell-tale signs of my inexperience with this kind of intimacy. "We should get up."
"Mmm, should we?" She stretches like a cat, deliberately slow and sinuous. The sheet slides down, revealing the curve of her shoulder, the elegant line of her throat.
My mouth goes dry.
She catches me staring and arches an eyebrow. "See something you like, soldier?"
Instead of answering, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand.
Two can play at this game.
I stretch deliberately, knowing exactly how the morning light catches the muscles in my back. Her sharp intake of breath is deeply satisfying.
"Bathroom's this way," I say, heading for the door. "Unless you'd rather stay in bed all day?"
"Tease," she mutters, but I hear the rustle of sheets as she follows.
