Beside me, Logan sleeps.
He’s curled on his side, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting inches from mine. His breathing is slow and steady, like a melody I didn’t know I needed until it played in thesilence. His dark hair is a mess, his lashes casting shadows over those electric eyes I know will crack me open the second they find mine.
But right now, I am free from all his yummy distractions.
Carefully, I slip out from beneath the covers, trying not to wake him. The cold air bites at my skin, the warmth from his body tempting me back to bed like a siren call.
I don’t listen.
I take the chill as a dare.
Because today, I feel bolder. Today, I feel capable. I don’t flinch. Even as goosebumps chase across my skin, I hold my ground. I move.
For days I’ve danced around that door like it might swallow me whole. Like Braden’s room was sacred and forbidden all at once.
But grief is strange like that—how it traps you in place and makes the silence feel sacred.
Last night changed something in me.
Logan’s hand in mine, steadying me.
Chace’s teasing, Sam’s stories, Trey’s relentless laughter echoing in my bones long after they left the room.
They reminded me that I’m not doing this alone.
Braden might be gone, but I’m not. And I know my big brother would be pissed if he saw me lingering like this. He didn’t when Mom and Dad died. Or Grams.
It’s just… hard.
But hard is okay.
I move down the hall, each step a quiet declaration: I’m ready. I’m ready. I’m ready.
When I reach his door, I don’t hesitate.
I twist the knob.
I push.
The door opens with a sigh.
And I step into the place that still smells like him.
Pinewood. Cologne.
Some things have changed. He has different posters up; his clothes look a lot less Sunday best and lot more dive bars and denim. But it’s about the same shock I had entering my room.
The bed is unmade, just how he used to leave it. Posters peeling slightly at the corners. An old hoodie tossed over the chair. One of his guitar picks on the floor like it’s been waiting for me to come find it.
A quiet ache pulses through me.
I cross the room and sit on his bed.
The mattress dips, and it’s suddenly so easy to pretend he’s just out with friends, or still at rehearsal, or will walk in and groan at me for touching his stuff.
I press a hand to the comforter, fingers trembling slightly.
“I miss you,” I whisper.
