I study him through the haze of pain and medication. The shadows under his eyes. The messy tumble of dark hair, longer than I remember. He looks older—worn in places—but not in a bad way. If anything, he’s even more beautiful now, inthat cinematic, heart-throb-meets-tragedy kind of way. Like life carved its story into his skin while I was gone.
Eight years. Lived without me.
“I used to know your face so well,” I whisper, not sure if it’s a comfort or a confession.
His lips curve into a smile that’s equal parts hopeful and heartbreakingly sad. “You still do.”
Before I can ask what he means—what any of this means—the door slams open like someone kicked it off the hinges.
“Aye aye, Cap’n Mac!”
The voice is loud, booming, and impossibly bright. A guy bursts in, arms overflowing with balloons and an outrageously huge sunflower bouquet that’s practically swallowing his head.
I blink at him. No recognition stirs. Not the way it does with Logan.
But the two guys trailing behind him? My heart gives a little jolt. Not memory exactly—more like muscle memory. Instinct. One of them is built like a gym ad: broad shoulders, ebony skin, a sculpted goatee, and the kind of presence that commands attention just by existing. He flashes a crooked grin and lifts a crate of fruit like he’s offering it to the God’s.
“You’re lookin’ alive, Mac,” he says. “That’s an upgrade.”
The other guy? Pure trouble in golden packaging. Long blond hair, green eyes full of mischief, and an easy swagger that screams chaos. “Figured you’d hate hospital food,” he says, lifting a mystery takeout bag like a trophy. “No clue what any of this is, but it smells expensive.”
They know me. That much is clear. And from the way Logan exhales—somewhere between relief and secondhand anxiety—I know this wasn’t a casual visit.
Their voices stir something deeper. Like sunlight hitting dust in a long-forgotten attic. Fleeting warmth. Echoes of chaos and comfort. A life I can almost taste but can’t quite hold.
Then I look at the first guy again—the one with the flowers—and something in my chest tugs.
He sets the bouquet down on my bedside table with more gentleness than I expect, then straightens. And that’s when I really see him.
He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you stare. Not because he’s flawless—because he’s interesting. His face is all sharp cheekbones and soft curves, and just beneath the left corner of his mouth sits a small beauty mark. But it’s the ink that catches me. Tattoos spill across his skin like whispers—delicate lines and intricate designs that wind down his arms and disappear beneath his collar, crawling all the way to his fingers.
My confusion must be obvious.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I don’t… know who you are.”
The air shifts. Subtle, but unmistakable.
Logan’s fingers tighten around mine. The guy—Trey—freezes, like I just hit him with a wrecking ball. Then he laughs. But it’s empty. A brittle echo of what I somehow know his laugh should sound like.
“Damn,” he says. “And here I thought I was unforgettable.”
“You are—to everyone else,” the golden one quips, elbowing him with a grin.
“Yeah, alright, Chace. Let the man have his moment,” the big guy—Sam, I think—grumbles, shaking his head like he’s seen this movie before.
Trey steps closer, cautious. Like I’m glass.
“I’m Trey,” he says softly. “Trey Baker. You and me… we’ve been through a lot. You used to call me your annoying little brother.”
My chest tightens. “I did?”
He nods, lips curving into a wobbly smile. “Yep. I annoyed you on purpose. ’Cause I liked making you laugh. And, let’s be real—pissing you off was hella fun.”
Something flickers. A ghost of a smile. A feeling I can’t name. Like I’m chasing a memory I’ve already lost.
I reach out and brush the edge of one of the sunflowers. “These are beautiful.”
“They match you,” Trey whispers, blinking fast. “Do me a favor, Macademia Nut… don’t scare us like that again, yeah?”
