“Mac,” he says, his voice thick, “I didn’t fall in love with a version of you. I fell in love with you. All of you. Past, present, future—you’re still you.”
My throat tightens again. “Even like this?”
“Especially like this.” His smile curves, fierce and full of feeling. “You’ve survived hell. And you’re still standing. You’re brave. You’re beautiful. And you’re mine—if you want to be.”
My breath catches.
“I want to,” I whisper. “But I’m scared.”
He pulls me down gently beside him. Our knees touch. His hand finds mine, and he doesn’t let go.
“I’m scared too,” Logan admits, his voice low and earnest, barely audible over the distant hum of traffic and the quiet tick of the wall clock behind us. “Scared I’ll lose you again. Scared I’ll mess this up. But I’d rather be terrified with you than without you.”
I trace the lines of his fingers, memorizing every scar and callus like they hold the truth of us. “I can’t picture you scared.”
He lifts our joined hands to his lips, brushing a kiss across my knuckles—soft, reverent.
“Angel,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin, “you’ve scared me my whole life.”
I meet his eyes—those electric blue eyes that have haunted my dreams for years—and it hits me. It’s not fear I see there.
It’s hope.
Blinding, fragile hope.
My heart skips a beat, and before I can stop myself, I blurt, “Do you think it can really be home? My home, I mean… so much has changed.”
Logan goes quiet, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles over my hand. In the distance, a siren wails, soft and fading. He lets out a breath and shrugs, casual but careful.
“Home doesn’t have to be the place you left behind,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “It can be wherever you feel safe. Wherever you’re loved. I don’t care, Mac. As long as I’m with you.”
Something soft and aching unfurls in my chest. Like the first warm breeze after a bitter winter. A smile tugs at my lips—small, shaky.
I lean in, pressing my forehead to his. The scent of him surrounds me—faint soap, worn leather, something unmistakably him.
“Then I guess we’re going home,” I whisper.
His smile mirrors mine—hopeful, a little broken, but whole in a way only we can be.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “We are.”
A beat passes. Quiet. Gentle.
“Logan…”
“Yes, angel?”
“You don’t… have a kid or anything, right?”
His breath hitches, and then he lets out a sound—half snort, half horrified laugh.
“I don’t think so, angel. Why?”
I wince. “I don’t know. Just… had this thought that maybe you had a kid and forgot to mention it.”
“Oh, dios mío…” He groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. Yes. No. Not that I’m aware of.”
“Okay. Cool. Cool-cool-cool.” I bury my face in his neck, trying to breathe. Calm the sudden panic like I haven’t just embarrassed myself beyond recovery.
