Chapter 5 – Logan
The first thing I register is cold, unexpected emptiness where warmth should be.
My hand reaches across rumpled sheets, finding nothing but cooling fabric and the faint impression of a body no longer there.
I open my eyes to morning light filtering through the station's small window, illuminating a room that feels suddenly, inexplicably hollow.
Savannah is gone.
My stomach drops, a physical sensation like missing a step on a staircase. I sit up too quickly, scanning the small space as if she might be hiding in a corner. Her clothes are gone. No note. Nothing to indicate she was ever here except the lingering scent of vanilla on my pillow.
"Shit," I mutter, running a hand through my hair.
The clock reads 7 AM. Early, but not unreasonably so. She has a coffee shop to run. Of course she needed to leave.
I dress quickly, pulling on yesterday's clothes with clumsy fingers, half-expecting the door will open and she'll walk back in.
But the silence stretches, broken only by the distant sounds of the station waking up: water running through pipes, a locker clanging shut, someone's radio playing softly down the hall.
This shouldn't hit so hard. We've known each other properly for all of a day.
But as I pull on my boots, I can't shake the hollow feeling expanding behind my ribs.
Last night felt like... something real. Something that mattered.
The way she looked at me, touched me, held me—none of it felt like an act or a passing impulse.
But maybe for her, it was.
By the time I make it to the station kitchen, I've constructed an entire narrative in my head: Savannah regrets everything.
She realized in the harsh light of morning that I'm not what she wants.
She slipped away to avoid the awkward morning-after conversation.
She's already figuring out how to let me down gently the next time we inevitably run into each other in this too-small town.
"Well, look who's finally joining the land of the living," Austin calls from the table, mouth full of what looks like one of Savannah's blueberry muffins. "Rough night, Lieutenant?"
The kitchen smells like burned coffee and cinnamon, warm and familiar in a way that would usually be comforting.
Paul stands at the counter reviewing paperwork, Bradley tinkers with the coffee maker, and Nathan sits beside Austin with a newspaper spread open before him.
Normal morning routine, except everything feels slightly off-kilter.
"Something like that," I mutter, heading straight for the coffee.
"You look like you got hit by a truck," Bradley observes mildly. "Everything okay?"
I pour coffee into a chipped department mug, buying time before answering. "Fine. Just tired."
Austin grins, oblivious to my mood. "Tired from what exactly? Because Mr. Eddie at the hardware store said he saw you and Savannah looking pretty cozy last night before the call. And now you're showing up late, wearing yesterday's clothes, looking like—"
"Drop it, Austin," Nathan interrupts quietly, not looking up from his newspaper.
Something in Nathan's tone silences Austin immediately. Paul glances between us, frowning slightly, but returns to his paperwork without comment.
I take my coffee to the far end of the table, suddenly unable to handle the team's usual morning banter. The coffee tastes bitter, over-extracted as always when Nathan makes it, but I drink it anyway, letting the heat burn down my throat.
A few minutes later, I feel someone slide into the seat beside me. Nathan, his own mug steaming between his hands.
"You want to talk about it?" he asks, voice low enough that the others can't hear.
I stare into my coffee. Nathan isn't usually the one who pries. He's the quiet one, the steady presence who notices everything but says little. Which means my distress must be painfully obvious.
"It's nothing," I say automatically. Then, because it's Nathan asking: "I woke up alone."
He nods, unsurprised. "And you're spiraling."
It's not a question. I look at him sharply, but there's no judgment in his expression, just calm understanding.
"I'm not spiraling," I protest weakly. "I'm just—"
"Convinced she regrets everything and is probably planning to move to another state to avoid ever seeing you again?" There's the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.
I exhale slowly. "Something like that."
Nathan takes a deliberate sip of his coffee. "Go find her, Logan. Let Savannah speak for herself."
"What if she doesn't want to see me?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Nathan's expression softens slightly. "Then at least you'll know. But you won't know anything sitting here catastrophizing it."
He's right. Of course he's right. I drain my mug, set it down with more force than necessary, and stand.
"Thanks," I tell him, meaning it.
He nods, already turning back to his newspaper. "Don't overthink it."
Easier said than done.
The morning air hits cold and sharp as I step outside, a reminder that winter is settling in earnest over Whitetail Falls. The sky is clear, almost painfully blue, sunlight gleaming off fresh snow that fell overnight. Everything looks too bright, too pristine for how raw I feel inside.
I walk briskly toward Main Street, hands shoved deep in my pockets, breath clouding before me. With each step, the knot in my stomach tightens. What if she won't even talk to me? What if she pretends nothing happened? What if—
I force myself to stop that train of thought. Nathan's right. I need to let Savannah speak for herself.
The bell above the door jingles as I push it open, the sound almost offensively cheerful. The shop is busy but not crowded, a few tables occupied by morning regulars, the counter line only two people deep. The air smells of fresh bread, coffee, and cinnamon, warm and inviting despite my anxiety.
And then I see her.
Savannah stands behind the glass display case, arranging pastries with delicate fingers.
Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
There's a smudge of flour on her face, just like yesterday morning when all this began.
She looks up at the sound of the bell, and our eyes meet across the room.
For a fraction of a second, something flashes across her face—recognition, surprise, maybe even pleasure. Then just as quickly, she looks away, focusing intently on the pastry arrangement before her.
I wait my turn in line, watching her serve customers with professional efficiency. Her smile is warm but doesn't quite reach her eyes.
When I finally reach the counter, her eyes dart everywhere but mine.
"Good morning," she says, the greeting so removed it makes my chest ache. "What can I get you?"
As if we're strangers. As if last night never happened. As if I hadn't woken this morning still carrying the imprint of her body against mine.
"Can we talk?" I ask quietly, aware of the customers at nearby tables, the teenage barista watching us with poorly disguised interest.
Savannah's fingers twist the edge of her apron. "I'm working."
"I know. Just... five minutes? Please?"
She hesitates, then nods toward the swinging door behind the counter. "I need to check something in the kitchen anyway."
I follow her through the door into a warm, flour-dusted space filled with the scent of baking bread and vanilla. She keeps her back to me, moving to a workstation where dough sits rising under a cloth.
"I'm sorry I left without saying goodbye," she says quietly, not turning around. "The shop opens at seven, and I needed to prep the morning pastries."
"It's okay," I say, though it isn't, not really. "But that's not why I'm here."
Her hands pause in their work, but she still doesn't look at me. "Why are you here, then?"
"Because I woke up and you were gone, and I couldn't stop thinking that you regretted everything," I admit, taking a step closer. "And I needed to see you."
She finally turns to face me, eyes meeting mine briefly before dropping away again. "I don't regret anything," she says softly. "But I... I understand if you do."
"Why would I regret anything about last night?"
Savannah wraps her arms around herself, a protective gesture that makes her look suddenly vulnerable. "Because it was impulsive. Because it started as pretend and got complicated. Because I was... convenient."
The last word hits me like a slap. As if she was just a warm body, an easy option, someone to scratch an itch with.
"Is that what you think?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intended. "That you were convenient?"
She shrugs, the gesture small and uncertain. "We've known each other for what, a day? Everything happened so fast. The faking, the kiss, the fire, and then..." She trails off, cheeks flushing. "People do things in the heat of the moment they don't always mean."
I take another step closer, close enough that I could touch her if I reached out. "What if I did mean it? All of it?"
Her eyes lift to mine, wariness and something that might be hope battling in her expression. "Logan..."
"I didn't panic because I regretted anything," I tell her, my voice low but steady. "I panicked because waking up alone made me think you did. That you'd realized it was a mistake."
"It wasn't a mistake," she says quietly. "At least, not for me."
Relief washes through me, loosening the tight knot that's been sitting in my chest since I woke. "Not for me either."
We stand there for a moment, the admission hanging between us like something fragile and new. Savannah's posture has softened slightly, her arms no longer wrapped quite so tightly around herself.
"I want you," I say simply. "Not as a fake girlfriend. Not as a temporary anything. You, Savannah Bailey."
Her breath catches audibly. "But we barely know each other."