I held his gaze. “Then help me understand.”
He hesitated, the wall flickering uncertainly.
“You make things easier,” he said finally. “And that worries me,” he added.
My breath caught as my brain struggled to understand what he was trying to say.
“I’m not used to that,” he continued. “Not anymore. I’ve built my life so tight. Schedules, routines, rules… because that’s the only way I knew how to keep things going.”
He looked at me then, really looked, his eyes somehow darker now. “And then you walked in with your chaos.”
I swallowed.
“Harper relaxes when you’re here,” he said. “So do I. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
The honesty in his voice was discreet but devastating.
“I can’t afford to let Harper get attached to people who won’t stick around,” he went on.
I nodded slowly. “You’re trying to protect her.”
“And myself,” he admitted.
“I’m not here to hurt you or to disappear. I’ll always be there for you and Harper,” I said gently.
That was enough.
The silence lingered between us.
Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just dense, like the air had thickened around us in a way that almost felt tangible. It felt as though something substantial had been placed in the space between us, a presence neither of us quite knew how to hold or let go.
Logan shifted his weight, hands bracing on the counter behind him. His posture suddenly less defensive, exposed. Like he’d opened a door and immediately realized he didn’t know how to close it again.
“I should—” He stopped, jaw tightening, before he tried again. “I’ve got to go.”
The words landed softly, but the finality of them wasn’t lost on me.
“Oh,” I said, because my brain needed a second to catch up with my heart. “Right. Of course.”
He nodded once, already retreating a half step, as if distance were something he could reassert simply by moving away from me. “I’ll talk to Harper this weekend. Make sure she knows the plan hasn’t changed.”
I swallowed. “She’ll appreciate that.”
“She always does.” His mouth twitched, the smallest hint of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Then, softer, “Thank you. Again.”
I shook my head gently. “You really don’t have to keep thanking me.”
He looked at me, and something unreadable flickered across his face. Gratitude, maybe. Or regret. Or the dangerous edge of something he wasn’t ready to name.
“Thanks, Counselor.”
“Anytime,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
He hesitated for half a second longer, like he might say more.
Then he turned.
The sound of the door closing behind him echoed through the kitchen, final and deliberate.
