November 26, 2020—Tel-Aviv, Israel—The Next Day #13
Logan’s throat tightened as he wrapped his arms around her. The weight of her gratitude pressed against him, heavy, overwhelming. He didn’t know what to say—I didn’t save him, I just came back—but the words wouldn’t come. So instead, he held her.
His return had saved Adrian all the same.
Logan was the only force fierce enough to break through the ramparts Adrian had built around his heart; the only light bright enough to pierce the starless night where Adrian’s spirit had caged itself during the barren years of Logan’s absence.
Logan was the sea crashing against a fortress, insistent and unstoppable, until even stone had to yield.
His presence flooded Adrian’s darkness, sweeping away the silt of hopelessness, revealing something painfully human beneath.
It made Logan’s heart convulse with a sharp, almost unbearable ache, made his lungs twist with a suffocating anguish: if he had arrived a moment later, the consequences would have been catastrophic.
Before Logan could fully collect himself, Aaron stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.
It caught him off guard. Aaron didn’t seem like the kind of man who reached for closeness so easily, but in that moment, he wasn’t guarded or distant, he was simply a father.
A man who had nearly lost his son and had been given the smallest flicker of hope in return.
“Thank you,” Aaron said, the words rough around the edges, thick with emotion. “I…” He paused, his brow furrowing as he searched for the right English, translating each word carefully. “I never no… could to thank you. Thank you. You… to save my son. I forever thank you.”
There was nothing polished about it, but Logan had never heard anything more sincere.
“When you leave?” Tammi asked, wiping at her tear-streaked face as Logan took his seat next to Adrian again.
“Our flight’s at four,” Logan answered gently. “So we’ll have to leave in a few hours.”
As the words left his mouth, Adrian reached for his hand. Logan didn’t hesitate—he took it instantly, lacing their fingers together. The touch grounded him. It reminded him that even in the middle of all this uncertainty, this was real. This was theirs.
He felt Adrian’s thumb move slightly across his skin, just once, and that simple motion settled something inside him.
But not everyone in the room felt the same peace.
Logan caught the way Alon’s expression shifted the moment he noticed their joined hands.
His eyes darkened, his mouth tightened, and something in his face twisted—not just anger, but something tangled deeper: pain, maybe, or grief, or the confusion of a boy watching a brother he couldn’t reach.
Tammi turned to Alon and said something in Hebrew, her voice gentle but firm.
Whatever it was, it was the final crack in the dam.
Alon stood so suddenly that his chair scraped loudly against the floor. His body was rigid, his fists clenched at his sides.
“LO!” NO.
He shouted in Hebrew, the word tearing through the space as he continued, his voice tumbling over itself in a torrent of syllables, each one cracking open the brittle silence of the room.
And then he was gone—pushing past the front door, slamming it open, and vanishing into the night.
Adrian’s face fell, his head dropping as if a weight had settled on his shoulders.
“What happened?” Logan asked, his heart pounding. “What did he say?”
Adrian let out a slow, uneven breath before answering.
“She told him to get up and hug me,” he said quietly. “‘Hug your brother,’ she said.” A pause. Then his voice dropped even lower. “And he screamed back, no, and that he’s not my brother. That he’s my half-brother.”
Logan clenched his jaw.
“Then he said she’s not even my mom,” Adrian carried on, his voice raw. “Told her to cut the act.”
Logan’s heart ached. Not just for Adrian, but also for Tammi.
She had been his mother. The only one who had stepped into that role, who had fought to love him, to make him hers. And now, in front of everyone, Alon had torn that down, had thrown it back at her as if it was nothing.
Logan gave Adrian’s hand a gentle squeeze, a small gesture, but one that tried to convey comfort, as if steadiness could be transferred through skin. Across the table, Aaron and Tammi shared a quiet, brief glance, the kind that said more than words ever could.
“I’ll go to him,” Aaron suggested, already starting to rise.
But Adrian raised a hand, stopping him before he could stand. “No.” His voice was quiet but firm. “I’ll go. This is long overdue.”
Aaron hesitated, but after a moment, he gave a small nod.
Logan met Adrian’s gaze, searching for something, for reassurance, hesitation, anything.
Adrian gave him a small, tired smile. “Be right back.”
Adrian jogged down the stairs; the stairwell felt longer than it used to, but even that small effort left him winded.
His breath hitched, his ribs straining against the weight of his own body.
He hated how the disease crept in during moments like this; the smallest reminders that he wasn’t who he used to be, that time and illness were stripping him down piece by piece.
It was the ordinary moments that spoke the loudest.
But he pushed forward.
Alon was sitting at the foot of the stairs, back turned, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. His gaze was locked onto the Maserati, as if it held all the answers to the rage simmering inside him. The smoke rose in thin spirals, catching the yellow porch light and twisting toward the dark.
Adrian lingered at the final step, torn between speaking up or retreating, feeling that it would be easier to declare defeat, endure the dinner, and move on.
But no, Alon was his brother. Adrian understood that beneath the harsh words and cruelty, there was something more profound.
Then, sharper than he intended, the words came out, in Hebrew, rough and raw. “What’s your problem?”
Alon didn’t move, didn’t flinch. The harsh tone rolled away from him. He took a long pull from the cigarette and exhaled through his nose, the sound edged with something between a laugh and a scoff.
“So now you smoke?” Adrian said, quieter now, stepping onto the pavement and standing directly in front of his young brother. “Since when?”
Alon’s shoulders shifted slightly, but his eyes stayed fixed ahead. “Up until a few days ago, you didn’t even have a car,” he muttered. “Now you show up in a Maserati?”
“It’s a rental.” Adrian crossed his arms. “Logan got it because he wanted the experience for a few days. That’s all.”
“Oh, so your rich boyfriend just happened to get you a Maserati? Just your rich boyfriend doing rich boyfriend shit,” Alon let out another humorless chuckle. “Man, you really don’t even hear yourself, do you?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Adrian stepped closer, frustration sharpening his voice. “I was taking the bus two days ago.”
Alon’s mouth twisted into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Oh, yeah, right.” Alon took another drag, exhaled through his nose as he stood.
“Always the perfect excuse. It’s never you, huh?
It’s always something else—a coincidence, bad timing, someone else’s decision.
Nothing’s ever really your fault, is it? ”
Alon looked at him then, really looked, and for a second, just long enough to be real, the anger cracked. There was something else behind it. Something quieter. But it passed quickly, and the wall went up again.
“You don’t even know how easy it’s been for you,” he muttered, barely audible. “You’ve always had everything.”
Then, without breaking eye contact, Alon flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his boot. His movements were intentional, almost theatrical, as if daring Adrian to react.
The muscle in Adrian’s jaw twitched. Patience slipped through him like seawater through rope, slow at first, then all at once. “What the hell is going on with you?”
Alon didn’t answer. He pulled another cigarette from the pack, lit it with a snap of his lighter, the brief flare casting shadows across his face.
Adrian stepped forward, voice rising. “Are you out of your mind? You just got into an elite unit, and you’re out here chain-smoking like nothing matters? Do you have any idea what kind of training is ahead of you? Cut that shit!”
Something in Alon’s expression shifted—a flash of something darker, deeper—and then it snapped.
“I’M NOT ONE OF YOUR SOLDIERS!” he exploded, the words ripping into the quiet night like a shot. He dropped the second cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. “So stop talking to me like I am! Stop giving me orders like you’ve always fucking done!”
Before Adrian could respond, Alon shoved him—hard. Adrian stumbled back a step, caught off guard, but his feet held. Instinct moved faster than thought, and a second later, he shoved back, his palms slamming against Alon’s torso.
“I’m so fucking done with this,” Adrian snapped.
“I’ve put up with your crap for years, because you were a kid and I thought you’d grow out of it, but guess what?
You didn’t. So go ahead, yell at me, punch me, whatever the hell you need to do.
Just say it already. Stop skulking around with this silent, bitter bullshit.
Get it out of your system!” Adrian’s voice tore through the stairwell, bouncing off the cracked walls.
Alon stood rigid, breath loud in the space between them, his hands balled into fists, his chest rising and falling like he was holding something in; something too heavy to carry anymore.
His eyes were wild, but not just with rage.
Beneath the blaze of fury, something else sparked in his eyes, a confusion steeped in pain, raw and mute, still searching for a name it had never been given.
It was as if it had been quietly dormant within him all those years, concealed in silence, never having been able to take the form of language.
And then it all broke open.