Chapter 20 Logan
Logan
The helicopter hasn’t fully powered down before I’m on my feet.
I don’t remember deciding to move.
I just… do.
Scout shifts like she’s going to stand on her own, and something in my chest tightens at the effort it costs her.
“I’ve got you,” I say quietly.
She looks up at me—searching, measuring.
Not resisting.
Not pretending.
Just deciding.
Then she nods once.
“Okay.”
That word shouldn’t matter as much as it does.
But it does.
I step in, slower this time—not like the facility, not urgency, not extraction—just careful. My hand settles at her waist, the other at her arm, steadying her as she stands.
She sways.
Just slightly.
Enough.
I don’t hesitate.
I lift her again.
This time she doesn’t grip my sleeve like before.
Her hand slides up, resting against my shoulder—closer, more certain.
Progress.
The rotors wind down behind us, the noise fading into something distant. My team is already moving—voices, motion, containment—but it all feels… far away.
It’s just her.
“You always do that?” she murmurs.
“Do what?”
“Take over.”
I glance down at her.
Her eyes aren’t accusing.
They’re curious.
“Only when someone needs it,” I answer.
“And if they don’t?”
“Then I don’t touch them.”
That earns me something.
A real reaction.
Her fingers curl slightly into my shoulder, testing that answer, like she’s deciding if she believes me.
“You asked,” she says softly.
“I did.”
“You didn’t wait long for the answer.”
“No,” I admit.
A small breath leaves her—not quite a laugh, but close.
“I noticed.”
We step into the medical bay, lights brighter here, people already turning toward us.
I stop.
Not because I have to.
Because I want to.
“Scout,” I say, quieter now.
She looks at me again, fully this time.
Present.
“I’m going to set you down,” I tell her. “They’re going to want to check you over.”
Her expression shifts—just a fraction.
There’s no fear.
But there is reluctance.
“I know,” she says.
But her hand doesn’t move.
Not yet.
I don’t force it.
I wait.
That seems to matter more than anything else I’ve done.
After a second, her fingers loosen, sliding from my shoulder.
But before I can lower her, she says—
“Stay.”
One word.
Soft.
But it lands like an order I’ll never ignore.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her.
That’s when I set her down.
Carefully.
Like she’s something breakable.
Even though I know she’s anything but.
The medic steps in immediately, voice calm, practiced.
“Scout, I’m going to check your vitals—”
“I’m fine,” she says automatically.
I don’t interfere.
I just stay where I am.
Close enough.
Visible.
She notices.
Of course she does.
Her eyes flick to me as the medic works, grounding herself between questions, between touches, between the reality of being handled again.
“You’re not fine,” I say quietly.
The medic pauses.
Scout looks at me.
Not defensive.
Not offended.
Just… honest.
“No,” she admits. “I’m not.”
That’s the first crack.
And it’s not weakness.
It’s trust.
I step a little closer—not touching, just there.
“You don’t have to be,” I tell her.
Her breath catches.
Not from pain.
From the permission.
For a second, everything else falls away—the room, the noise, the aftermath—and it’s just the two of us standing in the space between what happened…
…and what comes next.
“They’re going to ask questions,” she says.
“I know.”
“They’re going to want details.”
“I know.”
Her gaze sharpens slightly. “And you?”
I hold it.
“I want you to rest.”
That stills her.
Completely.
“You’re not going to push?”
“Not tonight.”
A pause.
Then—
“That’s new for you, isn’t it?” she asks softly.
“Yeah,” I admit.
“Why?”
Because of you.
I don’t say it.
Not yet.
Instead—
“Because you’ve already done enough.”
She studies me like she’s trying to decide if that’s the truth.
Or something else.
Then her shoulders ease—just a little.
“Okay,” she says again.
That word.
Again.
Different this time.
Stronger.
The medic finishes, stepping back. “We’ll want observation for a few hours. No isolation.”
“No isolation,” I repeat before Scout can answer.
She glances at me.
Something warm flickers in her eyes.
“Good,” she says quietly.
A nurse gestures toward a nearby room.
I move with Scout, not leading, not pulling—just matching her pace.
At the doorway, she pauses.
Looks at me.
“You meant what you said,” she murmurs.
“About?”
“Not going anywhere.”
“I did.”
Another beat.
Then she says, softer than anything yet—
“Logan… thank you for hearing me.”
Not rescuing.
Not saving.
Hearing.
That hits deeper than anything else tonight.
“I always will,” I tell her.
And this time—
I know it’s true.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes.”
“How were you able to send messages to us?”
“I have a chip inside my shoulder. I put it there in case I was ever kidnapped.”
I nod my head. Not surprised at all, she is, after all, a genius.