A nightclub. Lights strobing like lightning in a thunderstorm. His hands are on my hips. My arms are around his neck. We’re lost in each other. His forehead pressed to mine. A slow, private rhythm in the middle of chaos.
Gone.
A bed. Sheets tangled. His body over mine. His lips on my neck. That same voice, low and reverent, whispering promises I was too afraid to let myself believe at the time.
Gone.
But not lost.
Not anymore.
My breath trembles as I lower the journal, blinking through the sting in my eyes. My body feels like it’s been through a war, every muscle tight with something I can’t explain.
They're mine.
These memories—they’re mine.
Ours.
My heart pounds as I stare across Braden’s room, the echoes of Logan’s voice swirling through the air like ghosts finally finding their way home.
I jerk upright, heart in my throat.
The journal slides off my lap, my coffee sloshing dangerously on the nightstand—but I don’t care. I’m already moving.
Feet hitting the floor.
Hands shaking.
I burst out of Braden’s room, my breath catching in my chest as I sprint down the stairs two at a time.
“Phone—where’s my phone?”
I spot it on the kitchen counter where I left it earlier, screen down beside the brownie tin. I snatch it up with trembling fingers, unlocking it so fast I nearly drop it again. My pulse is thundering in my ears, and all I can think is—
I remember him.
I remember us.
And I need to hear his voice like I need air.
I press his name with a trembling thumb. The phone rings once.
Twice.
“Come on, come on—”
“Mac?” His voice is laced with concern. Background noise hums behind him—guitar strings, distant voices—but everything fades the moment I hear him.
I press a hand to my chest like I can hold my heart in place. “Logan…”
Something in my voice makes him go quiet. “Baby, what is it? Are you okay?”
I nod even though he can’t see it. My eyes sting. My throat tightens.
“I remember you,” I whisper.
Silence.
