She shot me a look that was half amusement, half challenge. “You’re lucky you’re charming, cowboy.”
“Believe me, I know.”
Inside, the hostess seated us near the window. The ocean breeze carried in the scent of salt and something faintly sweet.
Dani’s eyes widened as she looked around. “This is… beautiful.”
“Yeah,” I said, watching her rather than the view. “It is.”
Her cheeks flushed slightly.
I realized she had pulled out a part of me that I didn’t know had ever existed. It was like she was touching something raw, a vulnerability I had long buried under layers of composure and solitude. I caught myself thinking and saying things that made me uneasy, as though stepping into the light after years of shadow. Anticipation mingled with a thrill, knowing that sharing these thoughts meant handing over pieces of myself I had always kept hidden. But with her, it came on its own.
The conversation started light. Work, Harper, her upcoming cases. She talked with her hands when she got passionate, her eyes lighting up when she described helping a client get justice. As her hands moved, I could see the determination in her gestures. Watching her, I realized how deeply she cared about her work, and how, through her passion, she hoped to bring a sense of closure and healing.
When she’d laugh, she’d throw her head back, and she’d let out a soft snort that always caught me off guard. Her shoulders would shake a little, and she’d wipe a tear from the corner of her eye, a distinctive touch that made her laughter unmistakably hers. And each time she laughed, something in my chest loosened a little more.
When the food came, we ate slowly, like neither of us was in a rush to break the spell. I told her about how Harper’s first years were spent with me on base, turning grown marines into mush as they held her in their arms. Dani nearly choked on her drink from laughing.
“Of course she did,” she said.
The laughter faded into something softer, quieter. She leaned back in her chair, watching me. “You’re a good dad, Logan.”
An old, familiar voice in my head wanted to challenge her, to recall all the times I felt I fell short, the nights I lay awake questioning every decision, every struggle to balance duty andfatherhood. I looked down for a moment, the lump in my throat forming faster than I could swallow it away.
“I try,” I said finally.
“You do more than try,” she said, voice low. “You show up. Every day. And that’s everything.”
For a second, the world went still.
The restaurant noise blurred into the background — the clink of glasses, the soft music, the murmur of voices.
All I could focus on was her.
The warmth in her eyes. The sincerity in her voice. The way she saw straight through to the parts of me I kept buried.
I don’t know what to do with someone who sees me like that, I admitted.
She tilted her head. “Maybe you don’t have to do anything. Maybe just let yourself be seen,” she offered with a gentle smile.
Something in me cracked open at that.
I reached across the table before I could think better of it, brushing my fingers over hers. Her breath caught, but she didn’t pull away.
Her skin was soft, her hand small in mine — but the connection felt solid, unbreakable, like something anchoring me.
“Dani,” I said softly, “you’ve changed things for me.”
Her bright bright eyes flickered up.
“You came into my house like it was nothing,” I said, my voice low but sure. “You helped Harper when I couldn’t be there. You helped me remember what it feels like to have a home that’s more than just walls. For once, I didn’t feel followed by the dark cloud of grief. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough for that.”
Her eyes shimmered, but she smiled. “You don’t have to thank me. I was just… being there.”
“Exactly,” I said. “No one’s been there for a long time.”
We sat like that for a moment, hands still touching across the table, the air thick with everything we weren’t saying.
