Logan exhales against my mouth like it would hurt him to stop.
So he doesn’t.
The kiss deepens, still slow, still deliberate, but heavier—more certain. Like he’s choosing this with both hands.
I make a small sound I hate, and Logan’s grip tightens just a fraction, his other hand coming up to cup my jaw.
His touch is careful.
But his mouth isn’t.
His mouth feels like want.
It feels like relief.
It feels like the only thing in weeks that hasn’t asked me to be strong.
He breaks the kiss for half a second, forehead pressed to mine, breathing hard. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not,” I lie.
Logan’s mouth brushes mine again, softer. “You are.”
My throat tightens. “Logan…”
He kisses me once more—slower, devastating—then pulls back just enough to look at me.
His eyes are dark, intense, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t see pity in them.
I don’t see fear.
I see myself.
“I’m not trying to fix you,” he says quietly. “I’m just?—”
He swallows.
His voice drops. “I’m here.”
My chest caves.
I hate it.
I whisper, raw, “This doesn’t make it easier.”
Logan’s thumb brushes my cheek. “I know.”
A soft cough carries from inside the house—Pops shifting in his sleep.
We both still immediately.
Reality snaps back into place.
Logan’s eyes flick toward the window, then back to me. “We should go in.”
I swallow hard, breath still tangled. “Yeah.”
Neither of us moves right away.
