Chapter Six
Kiera
I shouldn’t be this nervous.
And yet, as I stand in the middle of my room with my overnight bag sitting open on the bed and my fingers hovering over the last few things I need to pack, my chest feels tight. My thoughts are louder than they should be, circling the same question I’ve been trying not to ask myself for days now.
What is this to him?
Because I know what it is to me. Or at least, I know what it’s becoming.
I swallow hard, forcing my hands to move again, folding the last piece of clothing and placing it carefully into the bag before zipping it shut. The sound is louder than it should be in the quiet space, making this real in a way I can’t undo.
Two weeks ago, none of this existed. Now, it feels like everything. And that terrifies me.
I sit down on the edge of the bed for a moment, my hand resting in my lap as I stare ahead without really seeing anything. Because the truth is sitting right there, unavoidable, no matter how much I try to push it away.
I am falling for Logan. Fast. Too fast. And I have no idea if he’s anywhere near where I am. He wants me. That much is obvious.
But want and love are not the same. And Logan…Logan is leaving.
London is still waiting for him. His life is still there.
This—whatever this is between us—exists in a space that feels temporary.
He uses the word himself, constantly. Interim.
The chair, the apartment, the flight he keeps not booking.
He says it like it’s a fact about the arrangement and not a fact about me.
Even if it does not feel that way when I am with him.
The thought of watching him walk away hits hard.
I inhale slowly, pushing the feeling down before it can take over. I can’t afford to fall apart over something that hasn’t even been defined. Something that could end just as quickly as it started.
Holding it in hurts. But saying it out loud could hurt more.
I stand quickly, grabbing my bag before I can sit there and think about it any longer. I force myself to move, to act, to focus on something else as I head toward the door and step out into the hallway.
By the time I reach the living room, I feel steadier.
And then the front door opens.
I freeze. Because no one just walks in. My grip tightens around the strap of my bag before I set it on the couch.
My chest goes tight as Ivy steps inside like she never left. Like this is still her house, and she has every right to be here after everything she did.
She looks exactly the same. Dark hair cut into a sleek bob, a face that looks just like mine—only older, with more makeup. Perfectly put together. Immaculate as she likes to be.
The only difference is her eyes. Hers are amber, and mine are green.
I have spent my whole life being quietly grateful for the one feature of mine that didn’t come from her.
I have no idea where it came from. I’ve never known who my father was and she has never once offered.
I stopped asking when I was eleven because of how much she enjoyed being asked.
Then she sees me.
“Kiera,” she breathes, her expression shifting instantly, her eyes filling with tears so quickly it would be convincing if I did not know her.
Shock gives way to something colder. “What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice sharp.
She moves toward me without hesitation, like my tone doesn’t faze her at all. “I just heard about Garth,” she says, her voice breaking as the tears spill over. “I came as soon as I could.”
I don’t move. I don’t step forward. I don’t reach for her. Because I have seen this before. Too many times.
“You heard,” I repeat, my tone flat.
“Yes,” she nods quickly, stepping closer. “He’s sick, Kiera. Really sick. He needs someone. He needs his wife.”
The word lands wrong inside of me. My stomach drops. “You left him.”
Her expression flickers, but only for a second before it smooths over again. “I made a mistake,” she says quickly. “I was overwhelmed. I didn’t know how to handle everything, and I—” She lets out a shaky breath. “But I’m here now. I want to fix it.”
I stare at her. Really look at her. And all I see is calculation beneath the tears.
“You want me to convince him to take you back.”
It isn’t a question. Her silence confirms it.
“Kiera,” she starts, her voice softening. “You know how much he loves you. He’ll listen to—.”
“No,” I cut in, my voice steady now. “He won’t. And even if he did, I wouldn’t ask him to do that.”
Her expression tightens. “You don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly.” My hands close at my sides. “You left when things got difficult. You stayed gone. And now that he’s sick, now that he’s vulnerable, you suddenly want to come back.”
“That’s not fair,” she snaps, the tears drying a little too quickly.
“It’s accurate,” I reply.
Her eyes narrow slightly, the softness slipping just enough to reveal what’s underneath. “I am still his wife,” she says, her tone sharpening. “You don’t get to put me out of my own house. Legally, you can’t.”
The words land, but they don’t shake me.
“Maybe not,” I admit calmly. “But I can call the police and explain that you’re trespassing in a home you abandoned nine years ago.”
We stare at each other. Then her expression shifts. Not guilt. Not regret.
Irritation.
“You’ve changed,” she says, cooler now.
“I had to,” I reply with a raised brow.
She exhales sharply, grabbing her bag. “This isn’t over,” she mutters, moving toward the door.
“It is for today.”
She doesn’t respond. She just leaves. The door shuts behind her.
And just like that, the room feels heavier. Quieter.
I stand there for a moment, my chest tight, my thoughts pulling me backward to a version of myself I hate remembering. The girl who waited for her mother to choose her. Who believed every excuse, every promise, every soft word that never meant anything.
I thought I was past that. But seeing her again cracks something open.
I take my phone out.
I get as far as his name.
And then I stand there in the middle of the living room with my thumb over the screen, and I don’t do it.
Because if I tell him my mother walked into this house tonight, then my mother is in the room with us.
She’ll be in the car, in his apartment. She’ll be there in the morning, and I have—I don’t know what I have.
Six weeks. A month. Some number he hasn’t told me, and I’m too much of a coward to ask for it.
I’m not giving her any of it.
She has taken enough.
I put the phone in my bag.
I press my lips together and pick up my packed bag. I force the feeling down as I grab my keys and head for the door. I can’t stay here, not with that lingering in the air, not with the weight of it pressing down.
I need Logan.
I don’t need to think much. Because I already know where I’m going.
???
By the time I reach Logan’s apartment, the tightness in my chest hasn’t eased. If anything, it has settled deeper.
I knock once. The door opens almost immediately. And the moment I see him, everything shifts.
Relief hits first. Strong and immediate.
Before I can stop myself, I step forward, dropping my bag as I walk straight into him, my arms wrapping around his waist tightly. I press myself against him like I need the contact. Like I need him to ground me in a way nothing else can right now.
He stiffens for half a second, caught off guard. Then his arms come around me just as quickly.
“What happened?” he asks, his voice low and concerned, his hand sliding up my back in a slow, steady motion.
“I just…” I start, my voice catching slightly before I press my face against his chest. “I missed you.”
It’s not the full truth. But it’s enough.
He doesn’t answer right away.
His hand stops moving on my back, and I feel him look down at the top of my head. There’s a pause that goes on a fraction too long.
“Kiera.”
“Don’t.” I don’t lift my face. “Please. Not tonight.”
Another pause. Then his grip tightens.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
I nod. “I needed you,” I hold his gaze, “I need you,” I add, softer.
That does it. Something in him shifts instantly. His hand moves to my chin, lifting my face up just enough for him to see me. Then, his gaze scans mine quickly, searching, assessing.
He knows there’s something. I can see him decide not to make me hand it over.
Then he kisses me. Deep and certain.
I melt into it just as fast, my hands gripping his neck as everything else fades. The tension from earlier dissolves into something else entirely. Heat builds quickly, intensely, pulling me further into him with every second.
He moves us inside without breaking the kiss. My bag hits the ground just as the door shuts behind me. His hands tighten around my waist, his control slipping just enough to match mine, to meet me where I am instead of holding back.
“You don’t just show up like this,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice rougher now. “Tell me you missed me and expect me to stay calm.”
“I don’t want you calm,” I whisper.
That’s all it takes.
His hands are under my thighs, lifting me, and I wrap my legs around his hips automatically, my dress riding up, my heels digging into his back.
He carries me like I weigh nothing. Like I’m something precious and necessary all at once, and the thought makes my chest ache with how much I need this. Need him.
“Bedroom,” he growls against my mouth, but he’s already pressing me against the nearest wall, his body hard and demanding between my legs.
“Can’t wait,” I breathe, my fingers fumbling at his belt, desperate, frantic. “Please. Now.”
“Look at me.”
I do. His eyes are dark, and there’s something underneath the want—something watchful, like he’s still reading me.
“You want me to take it out of your head,” he says. It isn’t a question. “Whatever it is.”
My throat closes.
“Yes.”
“Then say it properly.”
“Take it out of my head,” I whisper. “Please. Make me not think about anything.”
Something in his face changes—settles, sharpens.
“Alright,” he says. “Hands off me.”
“What?”