A small, shaky laugh escaped me as I pulled back just enough to look at him, my hand still resting over his heart.
“You’re sunlight,” he said softly, his drawl rougher now, more real. “The kind that comes when you open the windows after a storm, and everything feels alive again. Like the night we danced—light hit your hair, and suddenly the whole place felt different. You bring that with you, Dani. You make everywhere feel like coming home.”
Tears welled up in my eyes, causing my vision to blur, not because I didn’t believe him, but because I did.
And I didn’t know what to do with that kind of truth.
No one had ever looked at me like I was something that could change their world.
“Okay,” I whispered.
Not because I had all the answers.
But because, for the first time, I didn’t feel like I needed them.
I settled back against him, my body relaxing fully into his, my hand still over his heart like it had found its place there without asking.
Chapter 40
Logan
Ishould be asleep.
That’s the thought circling my mind, the practical part of me still tuned to routine and responsibility. But sleep feels impossible tonight, not with Dani curled against me, warm and soft under my arm, her relaxed breathing filling the space between us. Even asleep, she has a presence that’s hard to ignore—something grounded and steady that settles deeper the longer I stay still.
Her apartment is dim, lit only by the faint glow of streetlights slipping through a gap in the curtains, casting a pale ribbon of light across the bed. It’s just enough to make out the shape of her beside me, enough to make this feel real instead of something imagined after too many beers and too many thoughts.
Her hair is a soft mess against the pillow, strands catching the light, honey-gold and tangled. My T-shirt hangs loose on her shoulders, the collar slipping just enough to expose the curve where her neck meets her shoulder.
I shouldn’t be staring.
But I am.
Because something about this moment feels fragile. Important. The kind of thing you don’t want to disturb becauseyou’re not sure it’ll ever happen the same way again. I find myself holding still, my breath shallow, like even the smallest movement might break whatever has settled between us.
My thumb moves absently along her arm, tracing slow, warm lines across her skin. She shifts in her sleep, pressing closer into my chest, fitting there perfectly, like she’s found the place she was meant to settle.
That small movement hits harder than it should.
Because somewhere along the line, something changed.
And I didn’t see it happening until it was already too late to stop.
For weeks, I told myself the same thing—that Dani helping with Harper was temporary. That everything about her being there had a clear beginning and an end. After losing Elena and barely holding things together for Harper, I had learned how dangerous it is to let anything stay too long. No matter how good it feels, it only makes it harder when it’s gone. My life needed boundaries, not more chaos.
Temporary is manageable; it means you don’t rearrange your life. You don’t notice the way someone changes the air in a room.
But nothing about Dani ever felt temporary.
Not the way Harper took to her immediately, like kids do when they sense something real. Not the way the house started to sound different after she arrived—laughter where there used to be silence, music where there used to be emptiness, the muffled hum of someone moving through the kitchen in the morning.
It didn’t happen all at once. It happened slowly, like sunlight creeping across the floor, so gradual you don’t notice until the whole room is warm. It kept finding its way in, even when I told myself it wouldn’t last, growing a little stronger each day until one morning I realized I couldn’t remember when the darkness faded.
The first time I let myself acknowledge it was a Tuesday. Harper had been stuck on a math problem, stubborn and frustrated, insisting it didn’t make sense. I stood in the doorway, watching Dani lean over the table, her hair falling forward as she tried to explain fractions using crayons and cookie metaphors.
Harper was laughing so hard she nearly slid off her chair, and Dani was right there with her, laughing just as freely. It was loud, messy, completely ridiculous—and it filled the entire house.
That was the first crack.
