28. Logan
LOGAN
T he first rays of dawn creep through the window, painting strips of pale gold across Sloane's sleeping form.
Her chest rises and falls in steady rhythm, dark lashes fanning against her cheeks, lips slightly parted. Her hair spills across my pillow in waves of chestnut and shadow.
I've been awake for half an hour, just watching her. There's something almost surreal about having her here, in my bed, wrapped in my sheets. The woman who crashed into my life like a meteor, trailing fire and secrets. Now she looks so peaceful, all her sharp edges softened by sleep.
When was the last time I let anyone this close?
A strand of hair falls across her face, and before I can stop myself, I reach out to brush it away. My fingers linger, tracing the delicate curve of her cheek. She stirs at my touch, a small smile curving her lips before her eyes even open.
"Why are you smiling?" I ask, voice rough with disuse.
Her eyes flutter open, hazel irises catching the morning light. "Because you're the first thing I see."
Something warm and unfamiliar expands in my chest. I try to swallow it down, but it spreads like wildfire through my veins.
No one's ever looked at me the way she does—like I'm not just the soldier, the protector, the man with too many walls.
Like I might actually be worth waking up to.
Her hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing over my stubble. "You're blushing, Logan."
"I don't blush." The words come out gruffer than I intend, heat creeping up my neck.
"Oh really?" Her smile widens. "So this lovely shade of pink is what—tactical camouflage?"
I grab her wrist, intending to pull her hand away, but somehow end up drawing her closer instead. "You're impossible."
"And you're cute when you're flustered."
Cute.
Christ.
I've been called many things in my life—most of them involving various degrees of danger or violence—but never that. The fact that it makes my pulse skip is... concerning.
I roll away before she can notice any more tell-tale signs of my inexperience with this kind of intimacy. "We should get up."
"Mmm, should we?" She stretches like a cat, deliberately slow and sinuous. The sheet slides down, revealing the curve of her shoulder, the elegant line of her throat.
My mouth goes dry.
She catches me staring and arches an eyebrow. "See something you like, soldier?"
Instead of answering, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand.
Two can play at this game.
I stretch deliberately, knowing exactly how the morning light catches the muscles in my back. Her sharp intake of breath is deeply satisfying.
"Bathroom's this way," I say, heading for the door. "Unless you'd rather stay in bed all day?"
"Tease," she mutters, but I hear the rustle of sheets as she follows.
The bathroom is small but functional, like everything else in the cabin.
What I don't expect is how intimate it feels to share this space with her. The domesticity of it all hits me sideways—her toothbrush next to mine, her hair tie on the counter, the way she bumps her hip against mine as we jostle for position at the sink.
She catches my eye in the mirror as we brush our teeth, and something playful sparks in her gaze. Before I can react, she flicks water at me from the faucet.
I blink, droplets running down my face. "Really?"
She grins around her toothbrush, completely unrepentant.
I lean down to rinse, then straighten up with water cupped in my hands. Her eyes widen.
"Don't you dare?—"
The water hits her square in the face. She sputters, laughing, toothpaste foam running down her chin.
"Oh, it's on, " she declares, reaching for the tap.
What follows can only be described as warfare.
Water flies everywhere as we dodge and weave in the small space, slipping on the wet floor, trying to land hits while avoiding retaliation.
She's quick, but I have reach and tactical experience. When I finally corner her against the counter, we're both soaked and breathless with laughter.
"Surrender?" I ask, holding a handful of water threateningly above her head.
She looks up at me through wet lashes, chest heaving. "Never."
The playfulness in her voice hits me low in the gut. She's pressed between my body and the counter, skin flushed, hair dripping, wearing nothing but my t-shirt. My grip on the counter tightens as heat pools in my stomach.
Her eyes darken as she reads the shift in my expression. "Although... I might be persuaded to negotiate terms."
I let the water drop, forgotten, as my hands find her hips instead. "What did you have in mind?"
She rises on her toes, lips brushing my ear. "Shower first. Then we'll talk."
Before I can process that, she's ducking under my arm and heading for the shower, peeling off my shirt as she goes. The sight of her bare back, nearly shorts out my brain.
I follow her into the shower like I'm being pulled by gravity.
The space is tight, forcing us close as steam begins to rise around us. Water cascades over her shoulders, running in rivulets down her body. I trace one droplet with my finger, following its path from her collarbone to the curve of her breast.
She shivers. "If you keep that up, we're never getting clean."
"Maybe that's the point." I back her against the tile, bracketing her body with my arms. Water runs down my face as I lean in to kiss her neck, tasting the sweetness of her skin.
Her hands slide up my chest, nails scraping lightly. "Mmm... I thought you were all about efficiency, Mr. Bishop."
"Some things," I murmur against her pulse point, "are worth taking time with."
She gasps as I bite down gently, then soothe the spot with my tongue. Her fingers tangle in my wet hair, tugging me up for a proper kiss. The slide of her mouth against mine is intoxicating, steam and heat and need coiling between us.
I lose track of time, lost in the feel of her—wet skin against wet skin, hands exploring, breath mingling. When we finally break apart, the water's starting to run cold.
She laughs breathlessly. "Well, that was... thorough."
I reach past her to shut off the tap, trying to ignore how my body already misses her warmth. "Efficient enough for you?"
"Definitely." She steps out of the shower, grabbing a towel. "Although I think we might need to work on our water conservation skills."
I follow her out, wrapping a towel around my hips. "Practice makes perfect."
Her eyes rake over my chest appreciatively. "I like the way you think, soldier."
Getting dressed proves to be another exercise in distraction. Every brush of skin as we help each other with clothes sends electricity sparking between us.
I have to bat her hands away twice when she "accidentally" lets them wander while helping me with my shirt buttons.
Finally dressed, I grab my comm unit from the nightstand and shove it in my back pocket.
"We need to be always ready."
The words land like stones in still water, rippling outward with implications we've both been trying to ignore.
Reality crashes back in—Granger, the town, the danger lurking just beyond these walls.
But something in me rebels against letting it steal this moment. Just for today, I want to forget everything except the way she looks in morning light, the sound of her laugh, the warmth of her presence in my space.
"Come on," I say, heading for the kitchen. "Let's see about breakfast."
She follows, feet padding quietly on the hardwood. While I start the coffee maker, she opens the fridge, humming thoughtfully.
"What's for breakfast?" I ask, watching her survey the sparse contents.
She grins wickedly. "How do you feel about peanut butter and pickle sandwiches?"
I stare at her. "You're joking."
"Am I?" She pulls out the jar of pickles I honestly forgot I owned. "I'll have you know this was my specialty in college."
"That explains so much about journalists."
"Careful." She waves a pickle at me threateningly. "I might just make you try it."
"You wouldn't dare."
Her eyes narrow at the challenge. "Oh really?"
Before I can stop her, she's gathering ingredients: bread, peanut butter, those damn pickles.
I watch in horrified fascination as she actually constructs two sandwiches, slicing them diagonally with disturbing precision.
"Your move." she says, sliding a plate toward me.
I pick up half a sandwich gingerly, like it might explode. "If I die from this, I'm haunting you."
"Such drama." She takes a big bite of her own sandwich, maintaining eye contact the whole time.
I steel myself and bite down.
The taste is... indescribable. Sweet and sour and somehow wrong in ways I didn't know food could be wrong.
From Sloane's expression as she chews, I'm not alone in this assessment.
"This," I say after forcibly swallowing, "might actually be worse than my chili."
She takes another bite, clearly suffering through it out of pure stubbornness. "I think this could qualify for the Guinness Book of World Records. Worst breakfast ever."
That startles a laugh out of me. She joins in, and soon we're both giggling like idiots over our plates of culinary horror.
When the laughter dies down, I eye the remaining sandwich halves speculatively. "You know what would make this better?"
"What's that?"
"A little competition." I lean forward, dropping my voice conspiratorially. "Whoever finishes last has to do whatever the winner wants."
Her eyes light up with that dangerous spark I'm learning to both love and fear. "Deal."
"Three... two... one..."
We attack the sandwiches like they're mission objectives.
I force myself to take huge bites, barely chewing before swallowing. Sloane's technique is different—smaller bites but rapid-fire, like she's trying to minimize actual contact with her taste buds.
She gags once but recovers admirably. I hit a particularly thick chunk of pickle and actually whimper, which makes her snort-laugh through her mouthful.
The race comes down to literally milliseconds. But in the end, Sloane swallows her last bite a fraction of a second before I do.
"Victory!" she declares, throwing her arms up.
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to shudder. "I admit defeat." I drop into an exaggerated bow. "What can I do for you, Your Highness?"
She taps her chin thoughtfully, clearly savoring her moment of triumph. Then her expression shifts, becoming more serious.
"Answer a question," she says quietly. "What's in the wooden box?"
The playful atmosphere evaporates. I straighten slowly, studying her face. "How did you know about that?"
"Remember that first night?" She doesn't quite meet my eyes. "I searched for my phone everywhere. Didn't find it because you took it. But I saw a wooden chest under the bed. I didn't touch it or anything, I just... noticed."
My jaw tightens reflexively. That box holds pieces of my past I've never shown anyone—not even my team. Things I couldn't bring myself to throw away but couldn't bear to look at either.
"It's okay," she says quickly. "You don't have to?—"
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intend. I soften my tone. "No, it's... give me a minute."
I walk to the bedroom on legs that feel heavier with each step. The box sits exactly where it always has, gathering dust under the bed frame. My hands shake slightly as I pull it out.
I haul it out.
The wooden chest weighs heavy in my grip as I carry it to the kitchen, each step bringing back echoes I'd rather forget.
The box lands on the table with a dull thud. My key finds the lock—muscle memory taking over where courage fails.
Even now, my hand trembles against the lid.
Sloane waits patiently, her presence steady and undemanding. That's what gets me—how she knows when to push and when to just... be there.
"These aren't just mementos," I say finally, lifting the lid. "They're ghosts."
Inside, a collection of items lies nestled in worn velvet—each one carrying the weight of lives I couldn't save, choices I can't undo.
I lift out the first photograph. It's creased at the corners, edges soft from handling. Sixteen men stand before a desert backdrop, arms around shoulders, faces bright with the kind of laughter that only comes before the world breaks you.
"Echo-13," I explain, voice rougher than I'd like. "Before Blackout. Before half of them gone."
Sloane leans closer, studying the faces. Her finger hovers over one figure— younger, lighter, still wearing hope like armor.
"That's you."
"Was me." I set the photo aside. "The man in that picture died in the sand."
Next come the dog tags—three sets, their metal dulled with age and grief. I let them pool in my palm, the chains tangling like the memories they represent.
"Martinez. Chen. Rodriguez." The names catch in my throat. "They trusted me to bring them home."
Sloane's hand covers mine, warm against the cold metal. She doesn't offer empty comfort or hollow reassurance.
Just touch. Just presence.
"I kept these to remember why we fought," I explain. "Why we really fought. Not for orders or command, but for people."
Finally, I reach the notebook. Small, leather-bound, pages warped from desert sweat and midnight confessions. My mission log—the real one, not the sanitized version submitted to command.
"Everything that happened is in here," I say quietly. "Everything they tried to bury. Everything they'll kill to keep quiet."
Sloane's breath catches, but she doesn't reach for it. Instead, she asks, "Why keep it?"
"Because someone needs to remember the truth." I trace the worn cover. "Even if we can't tell it."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with understanding.
This isn't just about objects in a box. It's about the weight of survival, the cost of carrying on when others don't.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For showing me."
I look at her—really look at her. The woman who crashed through my defenses with her own ghosts, her own battles. Who understands the price of truth because she's paid it too.
"I've never..." I start, then swallow hard. "No one else has seen these."
Her eyes soften. "I know."
And she does. That's what terrifies me. That's what saves me.
Before I can say more, my comm unit crackles to life.
"Contact. East ridge." Knox's voice cuts through the moment. "Not a target. Object dump. Coordinates sent. We're moving out."
We're on our feet instantly, muscle memory taking over.
I secure the box, lock it, slide it back under the bed. The past goes back in its cage.
We move fast through the trees, breath clouding in the cold air. The team's already assembled when we arrive—Caleb scanning the treeline, Eli checking equipment, Ryker and Knox securing the perimeter.
Then I see it.
Half-buried in fresh snow, a splash of red that doesn't belong.
Sloane drops to her knees beside it, brushing away snow with trembling fingers. My heart stops as she lifts the small jacket—damp, still carrying body heat.
The tag confirms my worst fear:
Property of: Lucia Calderón
Fuck.