“You’ve got to see a doctor,” she said suddenly, her voice sharp, adopting a new tactic. “You can’t even keep an erection anymore.”
Logan’s breath caught, his hands shaking. “What did you say?” This wasn’t the first time this topic arose for debate, but it was the first occasion that Sandy was so direct about it.
“You heard me,” she snapped. “You’ve got issues, Logan. You need to see someone about it. We’ve been over it before, and I tried to be understanding, but you just won’t do anything about it! So yes, I’m saying it plainly now. You need help!”
The words landed like a lash, but he recoiled from them, unwilling to face their truth. He feared the rage swelling inside him, the crushing weight of expectations pressing down on his chest, an unyielding force he could never escape. He was trapped in this unspoken performance, a game he hadn’t signed up for, suffocating in his own skin, drowning in the hollow ache of it all.
His soul ached for release—for the quiet gaze of eyes like amber whiskey, for strong arms to wrap around him, a sun-kissed chest to hold him close, to look at him as though he were the universe itself, worthy of every sacrifice, every breath.
Breathless and shaking, he was about to leave the room, a storm of emotions crashing over him, carrying him away.
He wasn’t broken in the way she thought.
He was just… elsewhere.
Some part of him—thepart—was still thousands of miles away. On a cliff. In a river. In amber eyes and strong hands. In the memory of being held like he mattered.
His breath caught, heat rising to his face, shame and anger coiling in his throat like smoke. He moved, barely aware of his own movement, ready to walk out, to escape this house, this lie of a life.
But then Sandy’s voice, softer now, stopped him. “What about your urologist appointment?” she demanded. “You said you’d look into it!”
Logan felt his whole body freeze. “I’m fine, Sandy. I don’t need a doctor.”
“Logan, don’t be stupid. You can barely get it up! You need to fix this. Maybe it is dangerous!” she pleaded. “It could be something serious. You… you don’t look good, Logan.” She added silently. “You… have lost a lot of weight… you barely sleep, and you drink too much!”
Her words stung, raw and painful. Logan turned away, gripping the back of the couch as his anger and shame churned within him.
“So now I’ve got even more problems?” he snapped, voice rising. “Go on, Sandy. What else is wrong with me?” He stepped away from the couch, hands clenched at his sides. “I work too much? You mean the job that pays for our lives? The one that helped you open your stores and pays for basically everything here?” His laugh was bitter, joyless. “Right. That’s a flaw now.” He turned, eyes flashing with something between fury and fatigue. “I’ve got stress at work, and suddenly I need a urologist? I don’t sleep enough, again, working, and I have a drink from time to time, so I must be an alcoholic? I’ve lost weight, so now I’m falling apart?” His chest rose and fell, breath ragged, like he was trying to hold something backand failing. “Go ahead. Keep going. Let’s make a list. All the ways I’m not enough for you.”
“That’s not what I said, and you know it,” she snapped, stepping toward him, her voice steady despite the heat rising in the room. “Don’t twist this into some story where you’re the victim and I’m the villain.” Her eyes didn’t waver. “I’m not some naïve little girl who’s going to back down just because you raise your voice.” She took another step, hands clenched at her sides. “You’re not okay. You haven’t been okay in a long time.” Her voice lowered, firmer now—not angry, but unshakable. “You don’t want to hear it? Fine. But I’m not going to lie to make you comfortable.”
He turned away, shoulders taut. “I’m fine,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. Let it go.”
But she didn’t.
She stood her ground, arms crossed—not defensive, but bracing herself. “If you’re so fine, then why do you look like a ghost in your own house? Why can’t you even touch me?” Her voice cracked, but her spine stayed straight. “Tell me the truth, Logan. Is it me?”
He froze, chest tightening like a fist inside him. His throat worked, but no words came.
“I didn’t marry you to become a stranger to you,” she said. “I deserve to know what I’m even trying to hold onto.”
Logan squeezed his eyes shut. The ache in his chest wasn’t just pain, it was pressure, memory, grief, desire, guilt, all crashing down at once.
“It’s not you,” he finally said, barely above a whisper. “I swear, it’s not you.”
He could feel the bracelet against his skin—Adrian’s bracelet. His fingers found it without thinking, rubbing the worn threads like a prayer.
He wanted to explain. To pour everything out and watch her understand.
The saddest part was that he knew, deep down, if he ever told Sandy the truth… she would understand. She would cry, maybe. Shout, maybe. But she wouldn’t hate him. She’d listen. She’d be kind. She would have been his friend.
But he never told her.
Not once.
Instead, he dragged her into this; into a marriage that was always half-alive. Into a home that never felt like home to him. Into a life built on the hope that if he constructed the right pieces—house, wife, job, routine—it might quiet the thing inside him. The ache.
He thought if he just acted like the man he was supposed to be, maybe he would become him.
