Logan, who crossed state lines in the middle of a tour. Who sat beside my hospital bed when I didn’t know him. Who never forced my memories—just waited with quiet hope and open hands.
Who stayed.
Tears rise again, but they’re different now—softer. Deeper.
Not for the journal.
But for the boy who loves me in a way that rewrites every page I thought I knew.
“I cried for Braden,” I whisper, voice thick. “I cried for losing that part of him again. But now... I’m crying for you.”
His brows pull together.
I reach out, laying my hand over his chest, right above his heart.
“Because you didn’t have to come back for me. You didn’t have to sit in that sterile hospital room or walk me through memories that weren’t yours to carry. But you did. You always do.”
His jaw clenches. “Mac…”
“I forgot us, Logan. But you didn’t. Not once. You held on for both of us. And that… that’s what love is.”
He moves then—slow and aching—and pulls me into his arms like I’m the only thing tethering him to this world. I curl into him, tears dampening his shirt, fingers fisting in the fabric.
We stay like that for a long time. Breathing. Existing.
Together.
The right person won’t just stay. They’ll hold you together when you forget how to.
Logan has.
He always has.
I feel him breathe against me—slow, steady, like he’s still holding back.
But I don’t want him to hold back. Not now. Not with me.
Not when I finally remember what it feels like to crave him.
I shift slightly in his lap, my thighs bracketing his. He stills beneath me, sensing the change in my energy, the heat pulsing from me like a second heartbeat.
I lean back just enough to look at him. His eyes are on mine—blazing, uncertain. Hopeful.
My fingers rise slowly, brushing the zipper of his hoodie. I don’t speak. I just tug it down, the sound of metal teeth parting slicing through the quiet like silk being torn. He lets me. His lips part on a soft breath, lashes low.
The hoodie slides off his shoulders. I push it past his arms, palms dragging down his biceps—firm, warm, flexing under my touch. I’ve never really felt him like this before. Never been the oneexploring.
It’s addictive.
His intense gaze never leaves mine, not even for a second—as if blinking might break whatever this is building between us. I reach for the hem of his t-shirt next, running my hands underneath, letting my fingertips glide up his skin—hot, tight, tattooed. His muscles twitch when I pass over his ribs, and he exhales a curse under his breath that only makes me burn hotter.
“Mac…” he rasps.
I lift his shirt higher, mouth hovering just over his skin as I whisper, “Let me see you…”
He does. Heletsme.
The shirt is gone, tossed somewhere across the room, and my eyes drink him in like he’s art I’ve stared at before but never trulyseen.His chest is a canvas of ink and scars, hard and lean and entirely beautiful.
