“I mean…” My voice cracks. “I used to look like Braden. Like Mom. We all had the same hair. Same color. Same sunlight in our veins. And now…” I shake my head, hating the way another tear slides free. “I dyed it. I don't even know why. To be different? Maybe I was trying to be someone else. Maybe I didn’t want to see what I lost. But now I do. And I hate it. I hate it, Logan.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then his voice is steady, sure.
“Then we’ll get rid of it,” he says. “It’s just dye, Mac. That’s all. It can be stripped out.” I look at him. Really look. And something inside me—fragile and desperate—snaps loose.
“Now,” I say, breathless. “I want it gone. Please, Logan. I want it gone now.”
I stand so fast the blanket falls from my shoulders and pools at my feet, forgotten. My skin prickles in the cool air, but I don’tcare. There’s something feral in me, clawing to get out. A version of myself buried under layers I never meant to keep.
He blinks, startled, but only for a second—then he rises to his feet, steady and solid as always.
“Okay,” he says. “Let me make a few calls.”
“Thank you…I just…thanks.” The words feel small. Inadequate. I don’t know what to say, embarrassed by the bratty outburst I just had. I hate when I act like this—like I’m made of glass.
“It’s nothing, angel. Personally, I would still be a fan even if you decided to shave it all off.” There’s a hint of smile tugging at his lips, and I am not even sure if he means the words, but I cling to them anyway. I pull myself together, just enough to lift my chin and nod. “Give me a few minutes?” I ask quietly. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
He hesitates, his brow creasing. “You sure? I can help if—”
“No.” I shake my head gently, the ghost of a smile tugging at my lips. “I’m just going to brush my teeth, get changed.
His eyes hold mine for a moment longer, then he nods. “Okay. I’ll tell the boys we’re heading out.”
As he disappears down the stairs, I exhale a shaky breath and focus on what’s at hand. Before I know it, I have slipped into autopilot. Washed and brushed, I look for an outfit. I pull out a soft, navy maxi dress with tiny white flowers along the hem. It slips over my head easily, cool but unfamiliar. I shrug into a worn denim jacket, one with frayed cuffs and a faint scent of something sweet—vanilla or jasmine. Maybe both.
I gather my hair over one shoulder, giving myself one last look in the mirror. It’s not me. Not yet. I step into the hallway, the old boards creaking under my bare feet. As I move toward the stairs, my eyes catch on the door across from mine. Braden’s room. It’s slightly ajar. I stop. My heart stutters. I haven’t gone in there since I came home. I’ve avoided it like the edges of a blade. Butnow, the door is open just enough to breathe. I move toward it, slowly, and lift my hand. Fingertips meet cool wood. The ache in my chest tightens, sharp and familiar. I lean forward, press my palm flat against the door, and close my eyes.
“I miss you,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “God, Braden… I miss you so much.”
Silence answers. But I feel him—just for a second. The way sunlight sometimes touches your face on a cloudy day. A whisper of warmth. A ghost of everything we were. I press my lips together, nod once, and let my hand fall away. Then I turn, shoulders square, chin high. I head down the stairs with a knot in my throat and hope trembling in my chest. As I near the kitchen, I catch the tail end of a phone call—Logan’s voice, low and sure.
“Perfect. Thank you. We’ll see you soon.” The soft chime of the call ending echoes just before he turns. The second his eyes find mine his whole face softens. The weight in my chest lifts, like he’s already peeled a layer of this new version of me away.
“I got you an appointment,” he says, crossing the kitchen to meet me. “Downtown. Half an hour.” He stops in front of me, a breath away, his voice lower now—just for me. “We’ll get it gone, Mac.”
“I heard big guy calling different salons, so, you going full Britney or what?” Sam cuffs Trey around the back of the head, and there is a moment where they just watch me, gauging if he went too far or not. But I take no offence. It just seems par for the course with Trey.
“I guess it will be a surprise.” I tease.
“We’ll restock the food while you’re out,” Chace says saluting, “Trey’s paying because he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.”
“Yeah,” Sam adds, “Might take him for a haircut, too…maybe a reverse mohawk.” “You’re welcome, I guess?”
Logan chuckles and grabs the keys to the Charger off the hook by the door. Then, without warning, he reaches for my hand, his fingers threading through mine. He spins me in a circle, effortless and light, like we’re dancing in the middle of the kitchen. laugh—really laugh—head tipping back as I twirl.
When I land back in front of him, breathless, he grins. “Ready?”
“More than.”
Chapter 12
Logan
The Charger rolls to a stop along the curb, the tires crunching softly over fallen leaves. It’s one of those classic Vancouver September days—the kind where the air smells like damp earth and fading summer. The sky is a patchwork of soft grey and pale blue, low clouds drifting slow, like they haven’t decided yet if they’ll stay or break. There’s a crispness sneaking in around the edges, the promise of autumn creeping in. Mac shivers slightly beside me, tugging her denim jacket a little tighter around her. Her navy dress brushes her ankles as she climbs out, the hem catching the wind like its waving goodbye to something old.
I kill the engine, watching as she looks up at the salon’s front window—fingers flexing at her sides like she’s gearing herself up for battle. Her reflection stares back at her, brunette and unsure.
“I can come in with you,” I offer, stepping around the car. “Wait it out. Keep you company.”
