Logan.
I sit up, stretching, my fingers brushing the soft indent in the pillow beside me where he must’ve laid with me for a while. My chest tightens in that aching, swoony way it always does when I think about how gentle he is—how deeply he loves.
I pad downstairs, the old floorboards creaking beneath my feet. The kitchen is quiet except for the soft scratch of pen on paper. Logan’s hunched over the table, shirtless, tattoos on full display, a cup of coffee steaming beside him. His dark hair is mussed, and there’s a smudge of ink on his knuckle.
He glances up and smiles that grin—that slow, sinful one that melts every bone in my body.
“Hey, baby,” he says, setting the pen down. “How’s your head?”
“Better,” I murmur, crossing the room to lean on the back of his chair. “Completely fine now.”
“Good,” he says, brushing his fingers along my arm. “You scared me for a minute.”
“What’re you working on?”
He turns slightly, the grin widening. “Music.” Then, softer, more intimate: “You.”
I arch a brow, and he laughs under his breath, reaching for my hand and kissing my knuckles.
“You’re my muse, Mac,” he says. “Even when you’re asleep, you’re in my head, rewriting every song I’ve ever started.”
My heart stutters. God, how does he say things like that?
He checks his watch, groaning. “Shit, I’ve gotta head to rehearsal. They called everyone in—Trey, Chace, Sam, the whole crew. I just… I wasn’t leaving till I knew you were okay. Didn’t wanna wake you.”
I smile, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “I’m fine. Really.”
“You sure?” he asks, searching my face for any hint of discomfort.
“Positive. I think I’ll stay here and read more of Braden’s journal.”
He nods, standing and pulling me into his arms for a quick kiss—soft, lingering, like a promise.
“Text me if you need anything,” he murmurs against my lips. “Anything at all.”
“I will,” I whisper.
And I mean it.
Once the door clicks shut behind him, the house settles into a soft stillness—the kind that feels lived in, not lonely.
I drift into the kitchen, still warm with the scent of earlier. A few crumbs from the brownie cake remain on the counter, and I smile, heart full as I reach for the kettle.
The familiar routine soothes me. Spoonful of coffee. A splash of cream. A little cinnamon, just how I like it. I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my palms before I head upstairs, cross the hall and open the door to Braden’s room.
It doesn’t hit like it used to—not anymore. The ache is still there, always will be, but it’s softened, settled. Familiar.
I step inside and run my fingers along the edge of his dresser, tracing the wood grain like it might whisper stories back to me. A faded concert ticket, a cracked guitar pick. Little pieces of him, still scattered like breadcrumbs.
I crack open the window, letting the late afternoon breeze drift in. It carries the scent of autumn leaves and something floral from the backyard.
Climbing onto his bed, I tuck my feet beneath me and settle in with my coffee and the journal. The cover is warm against my fingertips, worn soft from time and touch. I flip it open, letting the pages fall where they want.
I breathe in the silence.
And then I begin to read.
July 14th
