Chapter 46
LOGAN
Waking up in Sloane’s bed feels like stepping into a life I wasn’t sure I was allowed to want.
Not because it’s wrong—God, nothing about this feels wrong in my body—but because it’s soft.
It’s warm sheets and a ceiling fan clicking on the lowest setting and her hair spilled across my forearm like it belongs there.
It’s her breathing, slow and even, the kind of sleep you only get when your nervous system finally gives up fighting.
The Rhodes’ house has been home for most of my life.
But this—
This is new territory.
I lie still for a second, watching her. Watching the way her lashes rest against her cheeks, the way the corner of her mouth tilts like she’s mid-dream, and the dream is decent for once.
There’s a faint crease between her brows that never fully goes away anymore, like grief made a permanent home there.
I hate that.
And I love her anyway. Maybe more because of it.
I don’t move because I don’t want to be the thing that wakes her. I don’t want to be another jolt. Another harsh sound. Another reminder that the world is still cruel even when you’re trying to breathe.
But my jaw aches when I swallow, and the soreness radiates along my cheekbone like a warning.
Right.
Cameron.
The memory flashes through me in a sharp little replay: his eyes wild and red, his voice too loud, his fist connecting with my face like he needed something physical to keep from shattering. The sound of it wasn’t even the worst part.
The worst part was understanding him.
He didn’t punch me because he hates me.
He punched me because he’s terrified.
Because he’s still someone’s son who just lost his dad.
Because he’s someone’s brother who doesn’t know how to protect his sister from anything that matters.
Because he’s my best friend, and he’s trying to keep his world from changing any more than it already has.
I can’t blame him.
I wouldn’t even if I wanted to.
Sloane shifts beside me, a soft sound leaving her throat. Her hand slides over the sheet and finds my chest like it’s instinct—like even asleep, she’s searching for something solid.
I hold my breath.
Her fingers curl.
Then her eyes blink open slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening when they land on me.
For a beat, she just stares.
Like she’s checking to make sure I’m real.
Then she exhales, and her whole body slackens into the mattress, relief hitting her so quietly it almost breaks me.
“Hi,” she says, voice rough with sleep.
My chest warms. “Hi.”
Her gaze drifts down my face…and stops.
Her brows lift.
Then she makes this tiny noise that is not sympathy and not panic.
It’s closer to a laugh.
“Wow,” she whispers.
I close my eyes for half a second. “Don’t.”
“Oh, I’m gonna,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Is this what you meant when you said the talk went well?”
I open one eye. “Sloane.”
She bites her lip like she’s trying not to grin, but she fails immediately. It spreads across her face—small, sleepy, real.
The first time I’ve seen her look light in days.
Maybe longer.
She reaches up—slow, gentle—and touches the sore spot near my jaw like she’s testing a bruise on a peach at the grocery store.
“How bad is it?” she asks, still amused.
“It’s fine,” I lie.
She hums. “You say that with a lot of confidence for a man who looks like he tried to fight a wall.”
“I didn’t fight a wall,” I mutter.
“Oh. Right.” Her eyes sparkle. “You fought my brother.”
I groan into the pillow. “That is not what happened.”
She rolls slightly closer, propping her head on her hand. “Mm. So Cameron just…aggressively loved your face?”
I bark out a laugh before I can stop it. The sound surprises me—raw, real, like my body forgot it could do that.
Sloane’s smile softens immediately at the sound, like it’s a victory.
Like she’s glad I’m still here.
“Did it hurt?” she asks, quieter now.
I meet her eyes. The teasing is still there, but underneath it is something careful. Something that knows this is bigger than a bruise.
I shrug one shoulder. “I’ve had worse.”
“Logan.”
The way she says my name drags me into honesty whether I want to go there or not.
“It stung,” I admit. “Mostly my pride.”
“That’s fair.” Her mouth twitches. “He’s kind of terrifying when he’s emotional.”
“Terrifying isn’t the right word,” I murmur.
She studies me for a second, then reaches out again—this time sliding her palm over my cheek, the unbruised side, like she’s balancing out the damage.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly.
I shake my head. “Don’t be.”
Her eyes narrow. “I can be sorry if I want.”
“Yeah?” I challenge, keeping my voice light. “You gonna apologize on his behalf too?”
Sloane’s mouth tilts. “Absolutely not.”
I snort.
She shifts closer again, warm and sleepy and stubborn, and then she presses her forehead to my shoulder like she’s done arguing.
For a few seconds, the room is quiet.
Not heavy-quiet.
Just…morning-quiet.
I can hear the house. The soft hum of the fridge down the hall. A faint creak in the floorboards, like the Rhodes’ home is stretching awake. Somewhere outside, a car passes. A dog barks once and then stops.
Normal.
I almost forgot what normal sounded like.
Sloane inhales, then exhales against my chest. “So,” she mumbles.
“So,” I echo.
Her voice is muffled. “If Cameron let you walk away last night, does that mean he likes you again?”
I laugh. “That’s how Rhodes men show affection, apparently.”
She lifts her head. “He didn’t kick you out.”
“Nah.” I shake my head, watching her face carefully. “He’s your brother, and you both just went through a lot. I can see his side, even if he didn’t have the extra stress going on.”
Her throat works. “Yeah.”
I reach up and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, slow and careful. “But he also…he didn’t tell me I couldn’t be with you. Not that I’d listen to him anyway.”
Sloane goes still, then she swallows and looks away, blinking too fast like she’s trying to keep her emotions from getting the best of her.
“I told him,” she whispers.
“I think he already knew,” I say, honestly.
She finally looks back at me, eyes shining but steady. “And he still didn’t completely kick your ass.”
I chuckle at that. “No.”
Sloane’s lips part like she’s about to say something huge.
Then she shakes her head once, like she’s not ready to let it out into the air.
Instead, she pokes my bruised cheek lightly, just to be a menace.
“You’re going to look like a very tragic book boyfriend for at least three days.”
I wiggle my brows at her. “You think this is sexy?”
She pretends to consider it. “It’s giving…”
“I got punched by my best friend for falling for his sister,” I correct.
She smiles wider. “That tracks.”
I roll my eyes, but my chest is warm.
Because she’s laughing.
Because she’s teasing.
Because for a few seconds, grief isn’t driving the car.
“Do you feel okay?” I ask quietly, letting the humor settle into something softer.
Sloane’s smile fades into something more honest. She nods once, slowly.
“I’m…functioning,” she says. “Which is new.”
I watch her. “Is it real functioning, or is it the kind where you’re pretending and your body’s just…on autopilot?”
Her eyes flicker, then soften. “Both.”
I nod like I expected that answer.
Sloane shifts, then looks at me like she’s making a decision. “I didn’t cry all day yesterday.”
My heart stutters.
“And then I cried in the shower,” she adds quickly, like she doesn’t want me to make it a big thing. “But it wasn’t—” Her throat tightens. “It wasn’t like before.”
I reach for her hand under the sheet and squeeze once. “That’s progress.”
Sloane’s lips press together. “It feels wrong.”
“I know.”
She searches my face. “Like if I’m not falling apart constantly, it means I’m forgetting him.”
The words hit me in the center of my chest.
I sit up a little, careful with the space, but I keep hold of her hand.
“Sloane,” I say, low and steady. “Your dad’s not in your tears. He’s in you.”
Her eyes go glassy immediately.
I keep going before she can shove it down.
“He’s in the way you check on Cameron without making it obvious. He’s in the way you keep the house running even when you feel like you’re barely breathing. He’s in every stubborn, impossible, beautiful thing about you.”
Sloane blinks hard. “Logan—”
I squeeze her hand again. “He would want you to laugh. He would want you to eat. He would want you to keep living, not only for yourself but for him too.”
Her mouth trembles.
And then—because she’s Sloane—she huffs out a shaky laugh and wipes her eyes aggressively.
“You’re being weirdly wise,” she accuses. “And sweet.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”
I grin. “Too late.”
She rolls her eyes, but she scoots closer anyway—until her knee bumps mine, until her hand stays in mine like it belongs there.
A quiet beat passes.
Then she clears her throat and says, “What are we doing today?”
The question is normal. Domestic, even.
It shouldn’t make my chest ache, but it does.
Because it feels like she’s stepping back into life with both feet.
Even if they’re shaking.
I exhale. “Well. I was thinking we could do something wildly thrilling.”
Sloane lifts a brow. “Oh?”
“Grocery store.”
She stares at me. “Logan Brooks.”
“Listen,” I say, defensive. “We’re out of food, and Cameron keeps pretending he’s going to cook and then ordering takeout.”
Sloane’s mouth twitches. “That’s because Cameron doesn’t know how to boil water.”
“Exactly. So. Grocery run. Then we cook something that won’t make you want to throw a pan at me.”
She considers, then nods slowly. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” she repeats. “But you’re not allowed to pick anything that is basically takeout that you make at home.”
I put a hand to my chest. “Rude.”
“It’s accurate.”
I grin. “Fine. You pick. I’ll just carry the heavy stuff and look sexy as fuck doing it.”
Sloane snorts. “With your bruise?”
“Especially with my bruise.”
She laughs again—quiet, but real—and the sound makes something inside me unclench.
Then she shifts, eyes narrowing like she just remembered something.
“Wait.”
I blink. “What?”
She points at my face. “Does Cameron…feel better? About us?”
I pause.
Sloane’s eyes widen in anticipation.
I sigh. “He said ‘a little.’”
Sloane bursts out laughing, rolling onto her back and dragging the sheet up like she’s hiding from the world.
“Oh my God,” she wheezes. “That is so on brand.”
I stare down at her, smiling despite myself. “You’re enjoying this.”
She peeks over the sheet. “I haven’t enjoyed anything in weeks. Let me have this.”
I shake my head, laughing quietly. “Fine.”
She lowers the sheet and looks at me with softened eyes. “Thank you.”
Two words.
But they land like a weight.
“For what?”
“For…staying,” she says, voice small. “For still being here when everything’s—” She gestures vaguely. “This.”
My throat tightens.
I don’t say something dramatic. I don’t make it a big speech.
I just lean down and press a soft kiss to her forehead.
Then another, slower one, like I’m sealing the promise into her skin.
“I’m here,” I murmur.
Sloane’s eyes close for a second, like she’s absorbing it.
When she opens them again, her voice is quieter. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I echo.
She stretches, then scrunches her nose. “I need another shower.”
I lift a brow. “You sure you want to leave me alone in your bed?”
Sloane smirks. “You’re welcome to come with me.”
My brain short-circuits for half a second.
Then I cough. “I’ll…make coffee.”
Her smile turns wicked. “Probably the safer option after last night but a lot less fun.”
I point at her. “Go.”
She laughs and slides out of bed, grabbing one of my shirts off the chair like it’s been hers forever.
She pauses at the door and looks back at me.
Not teasing now.
Just…looking.
Then she says, softer, “Don’t leave.”
It’s not dramatic. It’s not begging. It’s a simple truth.
I nod once, steady. “I won’t.”
Sloane disappears down to the bathroom, and a minute later the shower clicks on, water rushing like a curtain.
I sit there for a second, staring at the spot where she was.
Then I finally climb out of bed, roll my jaw, and wince.
“Worth it,” I mutter to myself.
I pull on sweats, run a hand through my hair, and head for the kitchen.
The house is quiet, but not dead quiet.
There’s a faint sound from Cameron’s room—movement, maybe. The shuffle of someone who slept but didn’t rest.
I start the coffeemaker and lean on the counter, staring at nothing.
My cheek aches.
My chest aches more.
Because I meant it.
I’m here.
And for the first time in my life, being here isn’t just a place I ended up.
It’s a choice.
The coffee drips steadily into the pot, and I breathe with it.
In. Out. Slow.
Because that’s what this is now.
Not sprinting. Not running away.
Just…showing up.
When Sloane pads into the kitchen a half hour later, hair damp, face clean, I look up, and something in my chest goes soft and fierce all at once.
She stops when she sees the coffee already made.
Her eyes flick to me, and the corner of her mouth lifts.
“What a gentleman,” she says.
I smirk. “Don’t get used to it.”
Sloane walks closer, reaches up, my shirt rising up her thigh, sadly only to show me a pair of shorts underneath, and runs her thumb gently along the edge of my bruise.
She leans in and kisses me, and I’m the one melting into her as her arms wrap around my neck. If Cameron wasn’t in the house, I’d pick her up and set her on the counter, then I’d—
She pulls back, eyes bright and swarming with heat, telling me I wasn’t the only one with their mind going straight toward the gutter.
Not entirely, anyway.
“Okay,” she says, straightening. “Grocery store.”
I nod, grabbing two mugs. “Grocery store.”
And when she takes one from my hand, her fingers brush mine on purpose.
Not hiding.
Not pretending.
Just…us.
For today, that’s enough.