“I have no idea how to do that, Trey.”
“Oh, of course not. Caveman Logan. Terrified of technology.”
“You know what’s coming now, don’t you?” Logan says, his voice tight with barely restrained irritation.
“I lay low for a few days until Sam forgives me? No? Okay. Fine. We’re going full Taken. I’m gonna yell out identifying features when he finds me. You call the Mounties if it gets bad.” He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Oh, shit. Someone just walked in.”
There’s a rustle.
“Occupied!” Trey calls out in the worst falsetto I’ve ever heard.
A beat later, a very familiar voice cuts through the speaker, dangerously calm. “Found your ass.”
“BALD HEAD! TREE TRUNK ARMS! FUTURE SAGGY BOOBS—" Trey’s voice cuts off in a mix of shrieks and chaos. Something about piercings being yanked and Phil being a traitor.
“Sam?” Logan asks, brow furrowed. There’s a grunt of affirmation. “He alive?”
“For now,” Sam replies with a low, satisfied cluck.
“Alright man. Good job.” Logan ends the call and palms his phone, sighing.
I burst out laughing, hard. The kind that makes my ribs ache and my eyes water.
“I swear,” he mutters, rubbing his temple. “I turn my back for five minutes…”
“You might want to call and check Sam didn’t actually kill him,” I manage between giggles.
He exhales hard. “Honestly? He probably deserves it. You know Trey once dumped a whole pot of white pepper into Sam’s protein powder?”
I snort. “You boys are feral.”
Logan’s eyes soften as they land on me, a smile playing on his lips. “I can be as feral as you want, angel.”
He leans in, brushing his nose against mine. “Now, where were we?”
We’re still laughing as Logan turns the wheel and pulls the Charger into the drive, the engine rumbling low like it’s just as done with the day as we are.
The sky’s shifting now—dusk bleeding into twilight, casting soft gold and lavender hues across the porch of my childhood home. The meadow behind it sways dreamily in the breeze.
Logan kills the engine but doesn’t move right away. He sits there, eyes on the house, thumb brushing over the steering wheel, quiet in a way that makes me feel like he’s taking a snapshot of this moment—like he’s filing it away, like it matters.
“I used to dream of bringing you home,” he murmurs. “Not just back to the house. Home. This.”
My breath catches.
He turns to me, eyes soft, reverent. “You—blonde again…You look like her. My Mac. My wild girl from the meadow. The one who used to spin in circles with daisies tucked into her braids, barefoot, beautiful, untouchable.”
Tears sting the back of my throat.
I rest my hand over his. “She never really left. You just had to remind her who she was.”
He leans in like he might kiss me again, but a voice—mine—softly interrupts.
“Come inside with me?”
His smile is immediate. And a little dangerous.
“Baby, you say things like that and expect me to behave?”
