Honest.
He reaches out then, slow and deliberate, giving me time to pull away.
I don’t.
His fingers wrap around mine, warm and steady, not gripping—offering.
My hand settles into his like it’s always known where it belongs.
Not possession.
Connection.
“You held the line,” he says quietly.
“So did you,” I reply. “I don’t know what would have happened if you weren’t paying attention.”
The helicopter begins its descent, the rhythmic thrum shifting pitch.
Below us waits safety. Debriefings. Questions. Fallout.
But right now, in this narrow slice of air and motion, there’s only the quiet understanding passing between us.
This isn’t gratitude.
This isn’t trauma-bonded confusion.
This is recognition.
When his thumb brushes lightly over my knuckles—once, grounding—I feel it settle deep and sure.
Whatever comes next, we won’t pretend this didn’t happen.
Logan Carter doesn’t look away.
And for the first time in a long while—
Neither do I.
20
Logan
The helicopter hasn’t fully powered down before I’m on my feet.
I don’t remember deciding to move.
I just… do.
Scout shifts like she’s going to stand on her own, and something in my chest tightens at the effort it costs her.
“I’ve got you,” I say quietly.
She looks up at me—searching, measuring.
Not resisting.
Not pretending.
