“Come in,” I say.
The door opens just enough for Logan to step through.
He doesn’t move far into the room.
Doesn’t take space that isn’t offered.
He just stands there for a second, like he’s checking—really checking—that I’m still me.
Still here.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says.
His voice is low.
Careful.
I tilt my head slightly. “So are you.”
“I don’t need it.”
“That’s not true.”
A small pause.
Then, “No. It’s not.”
I watch him for a moment longer.
He looks different here.
Less… sharp.
Still controlled. Still solid.
But not all edges.
“Are you going to stay over there?” I ask.
His gaze flicks to the chair in the corner. “I can.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Another pause.
Then he crosses the room.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Intentional.
He pulls the chair closer, but not too close, and sits—forearms resting on his thighs, hands loose, like he’s ready to move if I need him to.
Or stay if I don’t.
“You don’t like being alone right now,” he says.
