27. Sloane
SLOANE
T he truck's engine rumbles beneath us as Logan navigates the snow-dusted roads back to his cabin.
My thigh throbs where the bullet grazed me, a constant reminder of how close death lurked in that town square.
The rest of the team headed back to The Forge in the other truck, leaving us alone with the weight of everything that just happened.
My mind replays it all like a film reel stuck on loop: the sharp crack of the sniper's bullet. The way Logan's face went black when he saw my blood, just for a fraction of a second, before his training kicked in. Dana's revelations, that damning photograph of Granger with Logan's old CO,
I steal glances at him as he drives.
To anyone else, he might look perfectly composed—jaw set, eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel at ten and two.
But I've learned to read his unique micro-expressions that betray his inner turmoil.
The slight muscle jumping in his cheek. The way his thumb occasionally taps against the steering wheel, not in rhythm, just restless energy seeking release.
The tightness around his eyes that speaks of calculations running behind that stoic mask.
He's scared. Not of Granger, not of whatever conspiracy we've stumbled into. He's scared of losing control. Of watching another situation spiral beyond his ability to contain it.
Of losing someone else he's sworn to protect.
The thought makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with my injury.
Logan takes a turn sharper than necessary, and I bite back a hiss as the movement jars my leg. His eyes flick to me immediately—checking, assessing, probably cataloging every grimace for future reference.
"I'm fine," I say before he can ask.
He doesn't respond, but his grip on the wheel tightens incrementally.
The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but charged with everything we're not saying.
The trees blur past the windows, their shadows growing longer as afternoon bleeds toward evening. My head feels heavy, thoughts swimming through the haze of adrenaline crash and the mild painkillers Eli gave me.
When we finally pull up to the cabin, Logan kills the engine but doesn't move immediately. He just sits there, staring through the windshield like he's mapping exit strategies or calculating threat vectors.
"Logan," I say softly.
He blinks, coming back to himself. Without a word, he's out of the truck and around to my side before I can even reach for the handle.
The door opens and cold air rushes in, carrying the crisp scent of pine and approaching snow. I start to swing my legs out, gritting my teeth against the stab of pain.
"I can walk," I insist, even as my good leg trembles. "Just need something to lean on."
Logan gives me a look that could strip paint.
Then, without warning, he turns and crouches slightly in front of me. "Put your arms around my neck."
"What? No, I don't need?—"
"Sloane." Just my name, but weighted with everything he won't say out loud.
Let me do this. Let me help. Let me feel like I can protect you from something.
I swallow my pride and wrap my arms around his neck. He hooks his hands under my thighs—carefully avoiding the bandaged area—and lifts me against his back in one fluid motion.
The sudden closeness steals my breath. His body is solid warmth against mine, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he adjusts his grip. I can feel his heartbeat through my palms where they rest against his chest. It's faster than his calm exterior would suggest.
He carries me to the cabin door with the same precise efficiency he brings to everything, but there's something else in his movements now.
Something almost... tender. Like he's hyperaware of every point where our bodies connect.
The key turns in the lock, and he shoulders the door open. But instead of setting me down immediately, he pauses. His breath catches, just slightly. His boot nudges the door shut.
Then he lowers me to my feet with excruciating gentleness. Before I can find my balance, he turns—and suddenly I'm pressed between his body and the closed door.
His hands plant on either side of my head. His face hovers inches from mine, close enough that I can feel his breath fan across my forehead. The last rays of sunlight streaming through the window paint shadows across his features, highlighting the raw emotion he usually keeps locked away.
"I couldn't—" His voice breaks. He swallows hard and tries again. "When I saw you go down..."
The confession hangs unfinished between us. I remain still, giving him space to find the words. His chest rises and falls rapidly, like he's been running instead of standing perfectly still.
"I was terrified," he finally whispers, the admission rough and raw. "If that bullet had been two inches to the left..."
Understanding floods through me. I reach up slowly and take his hands in mine, drawing them down to cup my face. His palms are calloused but warm against my skin.
"What do you feel?" I ask quietly.
His fingers tremble slightly. "Warmth."
"That's right." I press his hands more firmly against my cheeks. "Warmth. Because I'm alive. I'm right here."
Something in him breaks. His arms wrap around me suddenly, crushing me against his chest. I smell gunpowder and pine and that indefinable scent that's purely Logan. My hands fist in his shirt, holding on just as tight.
"Yes, you are," he murmurs into my hair. "Warmth is all I've felt since I met you."
The words sink into my bones, spreading heat through my chest that has nothing to do with physical temperature. I tilt my face up to meet his gaze, finding my own vulnerability reflected in his storm-gray eyes.
When he kisses me, it's achingly gentle. None of the desperate heat from before. Just soft exploration, like he's memorizing the feel of my lips against his. Like he's convincing himself I'm real.
I lose track of time, lost in the tender press of his mouth and the solid weight of his body pinning me to the door. Eventually, he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine.
"Let me carry you to bed," he says softly. "You need rest."
Before I can protest, he scoops me up in his arms like I weigh nothing. One arm supports my back while the other curves under my knees. I loop my arms around his neck, marveling at how natural this feels. How right.
He navigates the cabin with practiced ease, shouldering through the bedroom door and laying me on his bed with impossible care. The mattress dips as he sits beside me, hands already moving to the bandage on my thigh.
"I need to check it," he explains, eyes meeting mine for permission.
I nod, throat suddenly dry as his fingers brush the bandage. He unrolls the bandage with clinical precision, but there's nothing clinical about the way my skin prickles in the wake of his touch.
The bandage comes away slowly, the tear on my pants coming into view. Logan's movements are measured, gentle in a way I never expected from hands that know how to break bones and field-strip weapons.
He examines the graze with laser focus, barely breathing as he assesses the damage.
"Eli did good work," he murmurs, more to himself than me. "Clean edges. No sign of infection."
He reaches for the first aid kit he keeps in the bedside drawer—of course he does—and begins cleaning the wound with antiseptic. Every touch is deliberate, like he's handling something precious instead of just changing a bandage.
I watch his face as he works. The furrow between his brows that speaks of concentration. The slight downturn of his mouth that betrays how much he hates seeing me hurt. The way his jaw clenches when his fingers brush too close to the injury and I can't quite suppress a flinch.
When the wound is clean, he pauses. Then, so softly I almost think I imagined it, he presses his lips to the unmarred skin just above the graze.
The kiss feels like a blessing. Like an apology. Like a promise.
Heat pools low in my belly at the intimate gesture. The wound is high on my thigh, close enough to my core that his breath sends shivers of awareness racing through me. His stubble scrapes lightly against my sensitive skin as he pulls away.
If he notices my reaction, he doesn't show it. He simply applies the fresh bandage with the same careful attention, smoothing the edges with gentle fingers. When he's done, he pulls the blanket up over my legs.
"Get some sleep," he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "You need it."
He starts to stand, but my hand shoots out before my brain can catch up. My fingers catch the hem of his black t-shirt, holding him in place.
I don't say anything. I don't need to. He reads the plea in my eyes as clearly as if I'd spoken it aloud.
Stay.
A small smile tugs at his mouth—one of his rare, genuine ones that transform his whole face. Without a word, he toes off his boots and slides under the blanket beside me.
I curl into him immediately, fitting myself against the solid plane of his chest. His arms come around me, one hand splayed protectively over my lower back while the other strokes through my hair.
His heartbeat is steady under my ear. His breath stirs the hair at my temple. His body radiates warmth that seeps into my bones, chasing away the lingering chill of fear and adrenaline.
As sleep pulls at the edges of my consciousness, one thought crystallizes with perfect clarity:
This is what home feels like.
Not a place.
A person.
Him.