And then there were the evenings.
The mellow ones.
After homework and bath time, after Harper’s curls were detangled and her favorite stuffed bunny tucked under her chin, I’d work again.
She’d sit beside me, coloring in her sketchpad while I typed. Sometimes she’d hum softly. Other times she’d ask questions about words she didn’t know.
“What’smotion to dismissmean?”
“It’s when someone asks the court to stop a case before it really starts,” I’d explain.
She’d consider this seriously, then scribble something on her page. “I think that’s like when I tell Daddy to stop arguing with me because I’m already right.”
I’d laughed so hard I had to set my laptop down.
Those were the moments that stuck. The small, unremarkable ones that somehow built an intimacy all their own.
I knew this was temporary. Two weeks, maybe a little more.
But the truth was, it didn’t feel temporary anymore. Harper wasn’t just Logan’s daughter now. She’d wormed her way intomy routines, my thoughts, and my heart. Letting her in was unplanned, a beautiful surprise I didn’t quite know I needed. There’s a vulnerability in opening up to someone that small, trusting them with parts of yourself you’ve kept guarded. With every drawing she gifted me, every unabashed laugh, Harper wrapped herself around my heartstrings.
And Logan…
He was dangerous in the softest way.
Not because of anything he said or did, but because of the way hesawpeople. The way he’d looked at me during the call, like he was memorizing me, like he’d found something in my face that caught his attention. It wasn’t loud or showy. It was quiet and real and terrifyingly gentle.
My pulse stuttered at the audacity, this whispered suggestion gripping my heart with a warm insistence. For one impossible second, I believed him. My hand hovered over the phone, a sudden urge to text him tugging at my fingers as desire flared against the fear of what getting closer might mean. I stopped myself just in time, the unspoken words lingering like a held breath.
The next morning, Harper woke up earlier than usual, still in her fuzzy pajamas, hair an adorable disaster.
She climbed onto the couch beside me, blinking sleepily. “Did Daddy call yet?”
“Not yet,” I said, brushing a curl from her face. “He’s probably working.”
She frowned. “He works a lot.”
“Yeah. But he works so you can have dance classes and ice cream and spa nights.”
She tilted her head, considering. “Does he get spa nights?”
I laughed. “Pretty sure that’s a no.”
Her eyes widened with indignation. “That’s so sad.”
“Maybe we can fix that when he gets back,” I said softly.
She nodded solemnly. “We’ll paint his nails.”
I bit back a grin. “Perfect plan.”
We spent the rest of the morning making breakfast — her version of pancakes that somehow involved whipped cream, sprinkles, and half a bottle of syrup. She insisted we send a picture to Logan.
When he texted back, Harper beamed, sitting with his praise.
Then, for the first time in a long time, she added, “I think Daddy’s happy now.”
I looked at her, heart squeezing. “Yeah, I hope so.”
