It’s gone in an instant, but the warmth it leaves behind? Real. Tangible. Like slipping into a sweater I forgot I owned.
“I…” I press a hand to my temple. “I think I remember something.” Every head turns toward me.
“You do?” Logan’s voice is soft. Hopeful.
I nod. “A couch. Sunflowers. I was laughing… I think it was at you,” I add, glancing at Trey.
His eyes go wide. Then his face splits into the softest, most vulnerable smile I’ve ever seen. “God, you always laughed at me.”
“Still do,” Chace mutters, and it’s not teasing—it’s love.
Trey rubs the back of his neck. His tattooed fingers tremble.
“That couch was in our first rental house,” he says. “You called it The Pit. We all crashed there between gigs. You swore it had its own ecosystem.”
A laugh escapes me—small, unsteady. But real. It’s not everything. Not even close. But it’s something.
A piece of me stepping back into the light.
“I think…” I swallow hard. “I think I want to remember more.”
Sam steps forward, his grin soft, eyes kind. “You will, Mac. That’s a promise. Just give it time.”
They don’t stay much longer. And when the door finally clicks shut behind them, the room feels a little too quiet. The hum of machines fills the silence, but it can’t drown out the lingering scent of sunflowers or the ghost of laughter still floating in the air.
I stare at the door, heart still fluttering from that flicker of memory. It wasn’t much. But it was. And that feels monumental.
“They’re… a lot,” I say, trying for a smile.
Logan chuckles beside me, the sound low and fond. “They always were.”
I turn toward him. He’s still holding my hand, thumb tracing lazy circles over my knuckles like it’s second nature. Like he never stopped.
“I remembered something,” I whisper. “Just a flash. But it’s a start… right?”
He nods, eyes shining. “Yeah. It’s a start.”
His voice is steady, but I see what’s behind it—hope and heartbreak, teetering on a razor’s edge. Like he’s scared to want too much. Like if he reaches, the moment might slip away.
“I don’t really remember Trey,” I whisper. “Not properly. But when he spoke… something cracked open. It wasn’t what he said. It was how he looked at me. Like I mattered.”
“You do,” Logan says—no hesitation, no doubt. Just truth.
I shift, turning fully toward him on the pillow. “And you… I know you. Your face, your voice, your eyes. But it’s like I’m watching through fogged glass. You feel familiar in a way nothing else does, but I can’t reach it.”
His gaze softens. He nods, like he understands every broken piece I’m trying to hold up.
“I’m not here to force anything, Mac,” he says gently. “I just want to be here. However you need me.”
“Why does it hurt so much?” My voice cracks, raw and aching. “Not knowing? It feels like I lost you. Like I lost me.”
He looks away, jaw tight, blinking fast. “Because we had something worth losing.”
The words hit like a punch to the chest.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, still clutching my hand like it’s the only thing holding him together.
“You once told me I was your safest place,” he says quietly. “That even when the world felt like it was burning down, I was the one thing that made you feel whole.”
