“The next assignment’s longer.”
Something inside me stilled. “How much longer?”
“Two to three weeks,” he replied. “But it’s in Florida.”
I watched him closely as he spoke, noticing the way his fingers flexed at his sides, how his gaze flicked toward the hallway like he could already feel the distance pulling.
“And you leave…?”
“Sunday night.”
The silence that followed felt heavy, pressing in on my ribs.
“And Harper?” I asked gently.
That did it.
His breath hitched, and I caught it. He pushed off the counter and took a step, then another, pacing once like he needed movement to keep from unraveling. As he did, I wrapped my fingers tightly around the strap of my bag, feeling the leather bite into my palm. It was a grounding force amid the turmoil, the pinch of awareness sharpened by the tension of the room.
“That’s why I asked you to come early,” he said. The thick and palpable hint of guilt lacing every word.
“I know this is more than what we talked about,” he continued. “I know you didn’t sign up for this. If it’s too much, say no. I’ll figure something else out.”
I nodded, watching him closely, the words he spoke contrasting with the vulnerability in his eyes. He said it with a certainty that almost fooled me, yet I heard the unspoken truth—the hesitation, the anxiety that he wouldn’t actually find another solution. It was a plea disguised as an offer, and I felt the pull to reassure him, to take on the weight he was trying not to show.
But this felt like more than that.
“Logan,” I said softly. “I don’t have a problem staying.”
His head snapped up. “You don’t?”
“No.” I shrugged lightly, though my heart was pounding. “My schedule’s flexible right now. And Harper’s doing really well.”
He searched my face, like he was waiting for the catch.
“I like being here,” I added before I could stop myself.
The words landed between us, fragile and exposed.
Something in his expression shifted. Not relief exactly, but surprise tinged with something deeper. Gratitude, maybe. Or fear.
“You shouldn’t have to complicate your life because of me,” he said quietly.
“I’m not,” I replied, attempting to offer reassurance.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging just a fraction. “I hate asking for help.”
“I know,” I said, smiling faintly. “You’re terrible at it.”
A breath of a laugh escaped him — short, surprised. It loosened the room just enough.
We stood there, the hum of the refrigerator filling the space between us. I could feel the tension. It wasn’t sharp, more like a humming. Like something waiting to be acknowledged.
“I’ve been trying to give you space,” I admitted, the truth slipping out. “I wasn’t sure if… if you wanted it.”
His jaw tightened again.
“That wasn’t personal,” he said quickly. Then paused. “Okay. Maybe it was. But not in the way you think.”
