Standing too close in a too-small doorway, caught somewhere between gratitude and something we didn’t have words for yet.
He reached up, like he was going to run a hand through his hair, but his fingers brushed mine instead. It was clearly an accident, soft and brief, but enough to stop both of us cold.
His green eyes lifted to mine, and suddenly, the air felt heavier.
“I’ll call when I land,” he said finally, his voice low.
“Okay,” I whispered.
He nodded once, lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary before turning toward the door.
A few hours later, as I sat in the school pick-up line, I thought about the look on Logan’s face when he’d left, that mix of fear and trust.
He’d handed me his whole world.
And I planned to take care of it as if it were my own.
Chapter 15
Logan
The first few days away felt like breathing through fog.
Work was fine. Busy. Predictable. This was where I felt in control. Tampa didn’t ask anything of me beyond long hours in the heat, being on guard, checking boxes, filing reports. Everything where it belonged. Everything controlled.
That was the point of the job.
As an executive security consultant, my work existed in the margins. I assessed risk, controlled access, and identified vulnerabilities before they could become threats. Sometimes that meant coordinating with federal agencies, port authorities, and private security teams. Other times it looked like reviewing surveillance and manifests, or planning for scenarios no one else wanted to consider. My job was to stay ahead of risks, to see what others missed, and ensure everything held together without anyone ever noticing.
I’d been doing some version of this work since I left the Marine Corps. Same instincts, different uniform. Less noise. Fewer people asking questions. Out here, I was respected for being thorough, for being composed, for not needing my hand held. I could lose myself in procedures and protocols, in the comfort of checklists and contingencies. The work didn’t carehow I slept. It didn’t ask me to feel anything. It just needed me to be present and sharp.
And I was.
During the day.
But when the sun dipped low and the heat finally broke, when the radios went silent and the paperwork was done, that fog crept back in. Because control only worked when I had something to protect in front of me. Out here, everything was contained and accounted for, except the part of me that kept drifting back to Huntington Beach.
The hotel room smelled faintly of bleach and citrus cleaner. The air conditioner hummed too loudly. Yet not loud enough to drown out the thoughts cycling in my head.
At home, quiet had shape to it. Harper’s footsteps padded down the hall, cartoons murmuring in the background, the scrape of a chair as she climbed where she wasn’t supposed to be. Quiet there didn’t mean empty.
Here, it did.
I told myself I was lucky. I’d said it more than once. Not every parent got to leave their kid behind knowing things would be fine. Maybe it was because not every parent had a Dani to step in effortlessly, filling in the gaps. That thought irritated me more than it should have.
She texted the first night, right after dinner.
Dani:We made pancakes and watched
The Princess And The Frog. I might’ve cried.
Harper says it’s okay though everyone
cries at that part.
I stared at the screen longer than necessary, then shook my head. Laughed. Actually laughed. Right there in the hotel lobby. The guy at the desk looked at me like I’d lost it.
The next night came a picture. Harper covered in flour, hair wild, grin too big for her face. Dani stood beside her, hands on her hips, failing to look stern. Flour dusted her eyelashes. I noticed. Didn’t want to.
