Chapter 28 Sloane
SLOANE
My childhood home doesn't feel like home tonight.
It feels hollow—gutted by the image of Pops on his bedroom floor, by the sound of the ambulance, by the way time stretched and contracted in the ER until I couldn’t tell minutes from hours.
Every creak of the floorboards sounds like a warning.
Every shadow on the wall looks like something I’m about to lose.
The only real thing is Logan.
He’s stretched out behind me on top of the covers, careful to leave space between us, even though I asked him to stay. I can feel the warmth of him—solid, steady, alive—and it’s the only thing tethering me to now instead of spiraling into all the terrible tomorrows waiting in the dark.
His breathing is even. Controlled. Like he’s trying not to take up too much space in my room, in my grief, in my life.
I hate it.
I hate that he’s being careful when I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.
I shift beneath the blanket, curling tighter, knees to chest. My body won’t relax. It keeps replaying the moment I heard the thud down the hall, the way my stomach dropped before I even knew what happened, the sound of my own voice shouting his name.
Logan shifts behind me—slow, deliberate. His hand hovers near my shoulder for a second, then settles there. Just his palm. Warm through my T-shirt.
“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
I didn’t realize I was.
I swallow hard, throat tight. “I can’t stop seeing it.”
Logan’s thumb moves in a small circle against my shoulder blade. Grounding. “I know.”
“What if—” My voice cracks. I bite down on the rest of the sentence because saying it out loud feels like tempting fate.
Logan’s hand tightens slightly. “He’s okay. He’s stable. Cameron’s with him.”
I nod, even though the reassurance doesn’t reach the part of me that’s screaming.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, just heavy with everything we’re not saying.
Then Logan shifts closer—just an inch. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him along my spine, the way his chest rises and falls. He doesn’t touch me anywhere else, just that hand on my shoulder, but it’s enough to make my breath hitch.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper into the dark.
“Do what?”
“Lose him.” The words taste like ash. “I don’t know how to exist in a world where he doesn’t.”
Logan’s hand slides down my arm slowly, then back up. Not sexual. Soothing. “You won’t be alone in it.”
Something in my chest cracks.
I roll over to face him before I can stop myself.
The room is silvered with moonlight, shadows cutting across his face. His eyes are dark and careful, studying me like he’s afraid I might shatter if he looks too hard.
“I’m scared,” I admit, and the honesty of it burns on the way out.
Logan’s jaw tightens. “Me too.”
We’re close enough that I can feel his breath against my face. Close enough to see the way his throat works when he swallows, the way his fingers curl slightly against the mattress like he’s holding himself back.
I don’t want him to hold back.
Not tonight.
Not when everything else feels like it’s slipping away.
“Logan,” I whisper.
His eyes search mine. “Yeah?”
I don’t have words for what I need. I just know that I’m cold and he’s warm, that I’m breaking and he’s steady, that the space between us feels unbearable.
I reach up slowly and touch his face—fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the rough stubble, the place where his pulse jumps beneath my thumb.
He goes completely still.
“Sloane.” My name is a warning. A question. A plea.
“I need—” I stop, swallow. Try again. “I don’t want to be alone in my head right now.”
His expression shifts—pain and want and something that looks like fear all tangled together.
“I’m right here,” he says, voice rough. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I slide my hand to the back of his neck, fingers curling into his hair. “I need to feel something besides this. Please.”
Logan closes his eyes briefly, like he’s trying to summon restraint he doesn’t have.
When he opens them again, his voice is barely there. “If we do this…I need you to know it’s not just because you’re scared. I need you to want this. Want me.”
The vulnerability in those words nearly undoes me.
“I do,” I whisper. “I have for a long time. I’m just—I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”
Something in his face softens completely.
He leans in slowly—giving me every chance to pull away, to change my mind—and brushes his lips against mine.
I kiss him back, gentle at first, then deeper, my hand tightening in his hair. He makes a sound low in his throat and shifts closer, his hand finding my waist, thumb stroking over the strip of skin where my shirt has ridden up.
The touch is careful. Reverent.
Like I’m something precious he’s afraid to break.
I pull back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against his. “You don’t have to be so careful.”
Logan’s laugh is strained. “Yeah, I do. Because if I’m not careful, I’m going to—” He stops, jaw clenching.
“Going to what?” I prompt, voice soft.
His eyes meet mine, dark and honest. “I’m going to fall so far into this I won’t know how to climb back out.”
My chest aches.
“Maybe I don’t want you to climb back out,” I whisper.
Logan’s breath catches.
Then he’s kissing me again—deeper this time, his hand sliding up under my shirt, palm warm against my ribs, just below my breast. Not grabbing. Just holding. Like he needs to feel my heartbeat to know I’m real.
I arch into his touch, need flaring hot beneath my skin. But it’s not just desire. It’s something bigger. Something that feels like coming home after being lost for too long.
“Can I—” Logan pulls back, eyes searching mine. “Can I take this off?”
I nod, lifting my arms.
He peels my shirt up slowly, almost reverently, and tosses it aside. The cool air raises goosebumps on my skin, but Logan’s gaze is warm enough to burn.
He doesn’t lunge. Doesn’t grab.
He just looks at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and it makes my throat tight.
“You’re staring,” I whisper.
Logan’s mouth curves faintly. “Yeah.” His hand lifts, fingers ghosting along my collarbone, down the center of my chest. “I’ve thought about this so many times. I’m trying to memorize it.”
Something in my chest fractures.
I reach for the hem of his shirt and tug. “Off.”
He complies, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion.
And then we’re skin to skin—close and warm and achingly vulnerable.
I trace the lines of his chest, and he shivers under my touch, eyes falling closed.
“Sloane,” he breathes.
I lean up and kiss him again, slower this time, savoring the taste of him, the way he responds immediately, hands sliding into my hair, tilting my head so he can kiss me deeper.
His knee slides between mine, and I feel the hard length of him against my hip through his shorts. Heat floods through me, need sharpening.
But Logan doesn’t rush.
He kisses me like we have all the time in the world—mouth trailing from my lips to my jaw, down my throat, teeth scraping gently over my pulse point.
I gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders.
He cups my breast, thumb circling my nipple until it peaks under his touch. Then his mouth follows, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make me arch into him.
“Logan,” I breathe, and his name sounds like a prayer.
He looks up at me, eyes dark and questioning. “Tell me what you need.”
The tenderness in his voice nearly breaks me.
“You,” I whisper. “Just you. All of you.”
Logan’s eyes close briefly, like the words hit him somewhere deep.
Then he’s kissing down my stomach—slow, worshipful—hands hooking into the waistband of my sweats.
He pauses, eyes finding mine. “Yeah?”
I nod, lifting my hips.
He slides them down carefully, taking my underwear with them, and then I’m bare before him.
Logan kneels between my legs, hands smoothing up my thighs, and just…looks. His expression is reverent. Awed.
“God, Sloane.” His voice is wrecked. “You’re perfect.”
I reach for him, needing him closer. “Come here.”
He crawls up my body, settling his weight carefully, and kisses me deep and slow—like he’s pouring everything he can’t say into the press of his mouth against mine.
His hand slides between us, fingers finding me, stroking gently.
I gasp against his mouth, hips rolling into his touch.
“So wet,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “So perfect.”
He works me slowly, methodically, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me moan, what makes my nails dig into his back.
When I’m trembling, on the edge, he pulls back just enough to look at me.
“I want to taste you,” he says, voice rough. “Can I?”
I nod, breathless, and he kisses his way down my body—reverent and unhurried—until he’s settled between my thighs.
He looks up at me one more time, eyes asking permission.
“Please,” I whisper.
Then his mouth is on me, and I forget how to breathe.
He’s gentle at first—tongue soft, exploratory—learning me the same way his fingers did. Then he finds the rhythm that makes my hips lift off the bed, and he doesn’t stop.
His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, and the intimacy of it, the trust required, makes my chest ache even as pleasure builds.
I thread my fingers into his hair, not pulling, just holding on, and when he slides one finger inside me, curling it perfectly, I come apart.
The orgasm rolls through me in waves, stealing my breath, my voice, everything except the feeling of him working me through it with his mouth and hands.
When I finally come down, trembling and oversensitive, Logan crawls back up my body and kisses me softly.
I can taste myself on his lips.
“You okay?” he whispers against my mouth.
I nod, still catching my breath. “More than okay.”
Logan smiles—small and genuine—and I want to keep that smile forever.
I reach between us, palming him through his shorts. He’s hard, straining against the fabric, and when I stroke him, he groans into my neck.
“Sloane—”
“I want you,” I say, clear and certain. “All of you.”
Logan pulls back, eyes searching mine. “Are you sure? We don’t have to—”
I kiss him, cutting off the protest. “I’m sure. Please, Logan. I need this. I need you.”
He nods, throat working, as I help him get rid of the rest of his clothes. They hit the ground as he reaches for his wallet on the nightstand.
His hands shake slightly as he rolls the condom on, and the vulnerability of it, the nervousness—makes me admire him a little more.
He settles between my thighs, bracing himself on his forearms, and lines up.
Then he pauses, eyes holding mine.
“This changes things,” he says quietly. “For me, at least.”
My heart stutters.
“Good,” I whisper. “I want it to.”
Logan’s eyes soften. Then he pushes inside, slow, careful, giving me time to adjust.
The stretch is perfect. Overwhelming. Right in a way that makes my eyes sting.
When he’s fully seated, he drops his forehead to mine, breathing hard.
“Okay?” he rasps.
I nod, wrapping my legs around his hips. “Yes, I’m good. Now move.”
With a deep chuckle that I swear I can feel in my toes, he does—slow and deep, each thrust deliberate, like he’s savoring every second.
It’s not frantic. It’s not desperate.
It’s intimate in a way that steals my breath.
I arch into him, hands sliding up his back, feeling the flex of his muscles as he moves. He kisses me—soft and deep—and I feel the emotion in it, the weight of everything we’ve been holding back.
“Sloane,” he breathes against my mouth. “Fuck, Sloane—”
I tighten around him, pleasure building again, sharper this time.
“I’m close,” I whisper.
Logan’s hand slides between us, somehow knowing what I need, thumb finding my clit, circling gently.
And that’s all it takes.
I come undone again, crying out softly, body clenching around him.
Logan groans, hips stuttering, and follows me over the edge—face pressed to my neck, breath hot and broken against my skin.
We stay like that for a long moment, tangled together, hearts pounding in sync.
Eventually, Logan pulls out gently and disposes of the condom. Then he’s back, sliding under the covers beside me, pulling me into his arms.
I go willingly, resting my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
His fingers trace patterns on my back—soft, soothing.
“You okay?” he asks again, voice gentle.
I nod against his chest. “Yeah. You?”
“Yeah.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Better than okay.”
I close my eyes, letting myself relax into his warmth.
The fear is still there—the grief, the uncertainty, all the terrible tomorrows.
But right now, in this moment, I’m not alone.
And that’s enough.
Logan’s hand finds mine beneath the blanket, fingers tangling together.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers into the dark.
And for the first time in months, I feel myself drifting into a peaceful sleep.