Chace leans back in his chair, tapping a rhythm against the wood with his fingers. “He’d be proud of you.”
I don’t say anything.
I just let myself sit in it.
The warmth. The stillness. The sense that—for the first time in a long time—I’m not drowning in the grief.
I’m floating.
The kitchen hums with quiet. The occasional clink of Chace’s spoon against his mug, birdsong drifting through the open window, the low murmur of Trey’s voice outside.
And then I hear bare feet on wood. A familiar rhythm.
Logan.
I don’t even have to look to know it’s him.
He enters the room shirtless, hair tousled from sleep, tattoos catching the morning light like art meant only for me. His eyes find mine instantly—still heavy with sleep, but soft in that way that undoes me.
“Morning, cariño,” he murmurs, walking straight to me.
His hand brushes the back of my neck as he leans down and presses a kiss to the top of my head—gentle, soothing.
“Didn’t even feel you get up,” he says, his voice low and rough with sleep.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
He pulls out the chair beside me and drops into it, arm slung lazily over the back of mine.
It’s then he notices what’s resting on the table in front of me.
Braden’s journal.
He stills, eyes locking on the worn black cover.
I run my thumb over it. “I found it in his drawer.”
Logan says nothing at first. He just watches me, like he’s trying to read the weight in my expression.
“I’ve never read his words like that before,” I whisper. “Not lyrics. Just… thoughts. Feelings. About me. About you. About everything.”
His fingers brush my knee beneath the table. “That’s huge, Mac.”
“I know.” I nod. “But it didn’t feel heavy. Not like I expected it to. It felt… right. I don’t want to read it all at once. I want to drag it out—keep him with me for a little longer.
His voice, his words... they’re all I have left. And I want to cherish them.”
I glance back down at the journal, my brow pulling slightly. “Some of the pages are missing, though. Ripped out.”
Logan leans in a little. “Think he didn’t want anyone to read them?”
“Maybe,” I say quietly.
I close the cover, holding it like something fragile. “But I think… I think he wanted me to have this. I felt guided to his drawer in some way. I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”
Logan watches me with that look—the one that always makes my chest ache in the best way. The one that says he sees all of me, even the parts I’m still figuring out.
“Of course he would,” he says softly.
