Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mac
This is my fight song
Take back my life song
Prove I'm alright song
My power's turned on
And I don't really care if nobody else believes
'Cause I've still got a lot of fight left in me
‘Fight Song’ - Rachel Platten
Some nights, I wake up choking on air that isn’t there.
Tonight’s one of them.
The first thing I notice is the pounding in my chest, a rhythm too fast, too loud, like it’s trying to escape my ribcage.
My skin is damp with sweat, and my throat feels tight, like invisible hands are still there, pressing, squeezing.
The darkness around me is thick, pressing in, and for a split second, I can’t tell if I’m in my bedroom or back in that hotel room.
My brain scrambles, flickering between memory and reality.
Logan’s arm is still around me solid, warm, steady, and safe. The weight of it is the only anchor I have right now. He shifts slightly behind me, and his voice comes low and gruff from sleep.
“You with me, baby?”
I nod even though I know he can’t see it. My voice comes out small. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t ask if I had a nightmare. He knows. He just pulls me in tighter, his chest to my back, his arm curling across me like a shield no one could ever break through. The kind of hold that makes the room feel smaller, safer, like there’s no place for the dark to slip in. And maybe there isn’t.
I focus on his breathing slow and even. A rhythm I can match mine to. I wait for the panic to pass, willing the claws in my chest to loosen.
I count the sounds of the night, his heartbeat against my spine, the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen down the hall, the faint creak of the house settling, the wind whispering against the trees outside the bedroom window. All so ordinary. All so far from the chaos in my head.
This is my life now.
Stillness.
Safety.
And yet, my body still braces for the next strike. My muscles hold the memory of the fight, and sometimes they forget to let go.
“It’s getting better,” I whisper, mostly to myself, unsure if I even want him to answer.
Logan’s lips brush my shoulder. A light kiss. A reminder. “I know.”
Some days, I believe it. I can almost feel the weight lifting, the shadows thinning. Other days… it feels like I’m learning to walk again, blindfolded, barefoot, over shards of glass. Every step forward risks a cut.
Healing isn’t a straight road. It’s loops and circles and dead ends, sharp turns you never see coming. It’s relapses in the dark and tiny, quiet victories no one else notices.
Like tonight.
Like the fact that I didn’t bolt upright and run.
Like the fact that I’m still here, in this bed, in his arms. Not hiding. Not pushing him away.
I turn over to face him. Even in the dark, I see it…the worry in his eyes. He keeps it buried when we’re around others, but with me, it’s there. Unapologetic.
“I hate that this still controls me,” I admit, my voice rough.
He reaches up, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his fingers so gentle that the contrast to the violence I’ve known almost undoes me. “It doesn’t control you, Mac,” he says. “You’re just carrying it. Doesn’t mean it owns you.”
The words hit something deep inside me. I press my forehead to his, closing my eyes, breathing in the scent of him soap, leather, the faint trace of smoke from the fire earlier. “You make it easier.”
“You do the hard part, baby. I just hold the line.”
A small smile tugs at my lips despite everything. He always finds the words. Not the kind that pretend to erase what happened, but the kind that stand with me in the wreckage while I rebuild piece by piece.
We lie there like that for a while, our breaths syncing, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. My fingers trace the lines of his chest under the thin fabric of his shirt. I can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, each inhale grounding me a little more.
Then I shift closer, my palm pressing to his chest, not because I feel obligated, not because I’m trying to fill the space in me with something physical. But because I want to. Because this is Logan. Because trust doesn’t come back all at once but tonight, I feel strong enough to take another step.
He notices. I feel the shift in him, the way his eyes search mine in the dark, looking for permission. He doesn’t move until I give it.
“I want this,” I whisper. “With you. Slow. Just…hold me.”
He nods once. “Always.”
And that’s exactly what he does.
There’s no rush. No pressure. Just the quiet exchange of warmth and safety.
Skin against skin, his hands never wandering, only holding.
The blanket pulled high, the room wrapped in shadows and the faint glow of the clock on the nightstand.
The intimacy here isn’t about taking anything, it’s about giving it back.
His lips find mine. Soft. Sure. Patient.
It’s not about sex.
It’s about coming back to life.
It’s about reclaiming something that was stolen and returning it to myself on my own terms, with the only man I trust to hold it with care.
When we finally fall asleep again, my head resting over his heartbeat, I don’t dream.
And in the stillness before morning, I let myself believe that I’m going to be okay.
Not because I’ve forgotten what happened.
But because I survived it.
And I’m still here.
Still loving.
Still living.
***
The coffee shop is quiet for once, caught in that rare mid-morning lull where the rush has died down but the lunch crowd hasn’t arrived yet.
There’s only the low hum of espresso machines in the background, the soft hiss of steam wands, and the occasional clink of ceramic mugs being set gently on saucers.
The air smells faintly of roasted beans and warm milk, threaded through with a hint of cinnamon from the pastry case.
The sunlight streaming in through the wide front window pools across the wooden floor in golden rectangles, dust motes drifting lazily in the light.
I stir my drink for the third time without taking a sip, watching the cream spiral into the dark liquid until it becomes a cloudy swirl.
My spoon makes a soft, rhythmic tap against the side of the mug, the sound steady enough to almost mimic a heartbeat.
It’s easier to focus on that motion than on the conversation I know is coming.
My eyes stay locked on the cup, as if the answer to everything could be hiding in those tiny eddies of coffee.
Part of me hopes if I just keep staring, I can stall, maybe push back the inevitable moment when the words leave my mouth and change the air between us.
Across from me, Shaina raises an eyebrow over the rim of her latte. “You’re either gonna drink that or hypnotize yourself.”
I huff out a laugh that’s small, but real, and it feels strange in my throat, like it hasn’t been used in a while.
“Trying to work up to it.” My voice sounds thinner than I intend, but it still earns the tiniest smirk from her, and I cling to it like proof that I can still find levity, even in the middle of this.
She leans back in the booth, leather jacket still zipped halfway like she might decide to get up and walk out at a moment’s notice.
Her dark curls are pulled into a loose bun, a few strands escaping to frame her sharp cheekbones.
Classic Shaina tough as nails, loyal to the bone, and always watching like she can read every thought before I form it.
Her presence is grounding, like sitting across from a wall I know won’t crumble even if I lean all my weight against it.
“Logan told me pieces,” she says, her tone careful, measured in that way she uses when she knows the wrong push could make me shut down. “Not the details. Just that… something bad happened. That you’re healing. And that you might need me when you’re ready.”
My throat tightens around a knot I didn’t know was there.
This is the part I’ve been avoiding. Not the trauma itself, I lived it.
I’ve already replayed it enough times in my head to know every sound, every shadow.
But telling it out loud to someone who knew me before?
That feels like pressing a bruise I’ve been hiding under my sleeve.
The bruise that never really faded, just shifted colors, from angry red to deep purple to something faint but always there when pressed.
I look up at her. “It was Anthony. My old boss.”
Her expression changes in an instant, all softness gone from her eyes. Her jaw sets hard, but she doesn’t speak. She lets me keep the floor.
“He set up a fake interview. Lured me in. Locked the door.” My fingers tighten around the warm mug, the ceramic edge biting into my palms. “He tried to finish what he started months ago.” The words scrape out of me, ragged, like they’ve been rusting in my chest this whole time.
Shaina’s jaw ticks once, her lips parting, but she stops herself. “Did he…?”
“No.” I shake my head quickly, almost too quickly, as if saying it firmly enough will keep the nightmare from clinging. “Logan found me. Just in time. But… it was close.”
The silence that follows feels thick, heavy enough to press into my shoulders.
But it isn’t awkward. Shaina doesn’t look away, doesn’t fill the gap with words that would make it easier for her instead of me.
She just holds steady, her eyes anchored to mine like she’s keeping me from drifting off in the middle of a storm.
“I keep thinking I should be fine now,” I say quietly, my voice almost lost in the hum of the shop.
“Like, I walked out. I fought back. He didn’t win.
So why do I still wake up shaking? Why does going to the grocery store feel like walking into a war zone some days?
” My voice cracks on the last word, and I grip the mug harder, as though I can tether myself to something solid.
Shaina nods slowly, her gaze never wavering. She sets her cup down with deliberate care, both hands wrapping around it. “You ever been in a car crash?”
I blink at her. “Once. Years ago.”
“Yeah. You walked away from it, right? But your body still shook for a week. You flinched every time a car stopped too fast. You didn’t blame yourself for that.”
I swallow, the truth in her words working its way under my skin. “No…”
“This wasn’t a fender bender, Mac. This was a collision. With fear. With power. With trauma. You survived it. That’s the headline. But your body and mind are still catching up. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you alive.”
Her voice is calm, even, but it carries weight. I feel it in my chest, in the space between my ribs where I’ve been storing all the fear I haven’t wanted to look at. It presses against my lungs, both suffocating and freeing, like a truth I needed but didn’t know how to ask for.
“I want to feel normal again,” I whisper. “Not this version of myself that’s always scanning exits or jumping at shadows.” My chest tightens admitting it, but also loosens just a fraction, as if naming the ache makes it more bearable.
Shaina reaches across the table, her hand warm as it wraps around mine. Her grip is firm but not demanding, a quiet reminder that she’s not letting go unless I ask her to. “Then stop chasing old normal. You’re never going to be who you were before him. And you don’t need to be.”
The sting in my eyes sharpens, but I let the tears sit there. I don’t blink them away. Not this time. The world blurs a little, the outlines of the café softening, but Shaina’s face stays sharp, unwavering.
“You’ve got battle scars now,” she says, her voice lowering. “But battle scars aren’t shameful. They’re proof you fought like hell. So…build a new normal. One where you call the shots. Where you’re still soft and sharp. Where you take your damn time.”
I nod slowly, my voice catching when I say, “You really should charge for this kind of advice.” The attempt at humor cracks something inside me, but in a good way, letting in a little air where before it felt suffocating.
Shaina smirks, a small curve of her lips that feels like the first sliver of sunlight after days of rain. “Please. I only do this for a very select few people.”
I laugh, and this time it feels lighter. Less like something breaking. The sound actually reaches my eyes, loosens something that has been locked too tight.
“Logan’s lucky to have you,” I tell her.
She shrugs, but her eyes soften. “He’s not bad. But you? You’re the reason he keeps his shit together.”
Something loosens in my chest at that, not peace exactly, but a shift toward it. A small step away from the edge.
“I think I want to do something,” I say after a moment. “Speak about it. Help someone else. Maybe not now, but eventually.”
Shaina’s grin is slow, deliberate. “That’s how you really win, babe. You take the pain and turn it into power.”
And for the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe I can.