I hold her while she sobs quietly into my chest, muffling the sound like she’s ashamed of it.
I hold her like she’s allowed to break.
After a minute, her breathing stutters and steadies.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes glossy and raw.
“You shouldn’t still want me,” she whispers suddenly, like the thought just hit her. “I’m a mess. I’m?—”
I lift my hand and brush my thumb under her eye, catching a tear before it can fall.
“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” I tell her, voice firm but gentle. “Not to me.”
Her throat works. “Logan?—”
“You don’t need to pretend with me. I’ve got you. Let me carry anything I can for you, okay?” I lean in and press a kiss to her forehead.
Not a kiss that asks.
Not a kiss that takes.
A kiss that promises.
When I pull back, her eyes are wide.
I lower my voice, just for her. “You get to be a mess. You get to be angry. You get to be numb. You get to be all of it.”
Her lips tremble.
“And I still get to want you?” she whispers, like it’s a confession she’s afraid will ruin something.
My heart lurches.
I keep my face steady, because if I look as wrecked as I feel, she’ll retreat.
So I give her a small, soft half-smile.
“Yeah,” I say. “You already have me, Rhodes.”
Her eyes flutter shut for a second.
Then she exhales like she’s been holding her breath since 4:54 a.m. on April 6.
Behind us, the living room creaks.
I glance toward the doorway.
Cameron stands there, one hand braced on the frame like he’s holding himself upright by sheer spite. His hoodie hangs off him wrong—like he threw it on out of obligation, not comfort. His eyes are red, but his jaw is locked, working like anger is the only thing keeping him from breaking in half.
His gaze lands on Sloane in my arms.
Then it lands on me.
Something sharp flickers there. Not surprise.
Awareness.
Like a door in his head just swung open, and he doesn’t like what he sees on the other side.
