Chapter 12
Dani
Iwoke up the next morning disoriented.
Not in the where am I way—more like the my body doesn’t remember how it got here. The bed was firm but comfortable, the sheets cool against my legs, the faint sound of seagulls drifting in through a cracked window. For a split second, my brain reached for muscle memory that wasn’t mine.
And then my alarm went off again, angry and insistent. Not a gentle nudge. Not a soft chime. Just full-blown, you’re already late energy, buzzing from my phone on the nightstand.
I groaned and rolled onto my back, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling while my brain caught up and I slapped the alarm off.
Once I was finally ready to wake, I glanced at my phone, before groaning silently and sinking my face into the pillow. I hadn’t slept deeply. Too many thoughts. Too many what-ifs.
Unable to avoid waking up any longer, I pushed myself up, ran a hand through my hair, and twisted it into a messy bun at the crown of my head. Then I slipped out of bed, bare feet padding softly across the floor.
As I walked out of the room and into the dim hallway, I instinctively followed the smell of coffee, rounding the corner without looking. One second, I was sleepily walking through a still house, the next, I was yelping, hands flying up, before colliding with Logan’s chest.
“Whoa—” he said at the same time. His hands came up fast, catching my arms before I could bounce backward. I hit him fully, momentum carrying me until my back brushed the counter behind me, and his body followed, close enough that my breath stuttered.
Close enough that I noticed everything: the warmth of him, the solid muscle of his chest, the smell of coffee and soap and something unmistakably Logan. And the way his face hovered just above mine.
For half a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
Then there was the faintest twitch in his thumb, a small tremor that somehow felt amplified in the stillness. My pulse thudded loudly in my ears, a relentless rhythm that filled the pause, heightening the moment before either of us could react.
His palms stayed on my arms—not gripping, not pulling away.
“Oh,” I breathed, heart stuttering. “Hi.”
“Morning,” he said. “You okay?” he asked quietly.
His voice was lower than last night. Rougher. Like he’d been awake for a while already.
“I—yeah,” I said, though my pulse was doing absolutely unhinged things. “Sorry. I didn’t expect company.”
“It is my kitchen,” he said dryly.
I huffed out a small laugh, more breath than sound. “Right.”
Still, neither of us moved.
Eventually, his hands settled lightly on the cool marble counter on either side of me, not touching, but close enough that I felt pinned in a way I didn’t at all mind. It was like he was bracing himself as much as I was.
The air between us thickened, causing my brain, traitorous thing that it was, to take inventory of the loose T-shirt on him that tightened around his biceps, and me in an oversized sleep shirt I definitely hadn’t planned for him to see.
He glanced away briefly, his eyes catching the early light of dawn streaming in through the window.
The layered green in his gaze seemed to shift under the sun’s glare.
Dark circles shadowed beneath them, like sleep had been optional at best. His jaw was rough with stubble, his hair mussed in a way that felt unfairly intimate for six in the morning.
He looked worn, but not in a way that made him less attractive.
“I made coffee,” he said after a moment, like he was tossing out a lifeline. “Didn’t know how you take it.”
“I’m not picky,” I replied.
A corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Then he took a step back, giving me space in a way that felt careful and intentional, yet the absence of his body felt louder than his presence.
I turned toward the counter, grateful for something to do, and spotted two mugs already poured. Steam curling up in lazy spirals.
“You didn’t have to,” I said.
“I was up,” he replied simply.
Of course he was.
I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the warmth ground me. Took a sip. Strong. No sugar.
“This is good,” I said.
“Yeah,” he agreed, though he was watching me, not the coffee.
“How long have you been up?” I asked.
“Long enough.”
I studied him more closely now, gentler. The tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw stayed tight even at rest.
“You didn’t sleep,” I said softly, and he didn’t deny it.
“Hey,” I said gently. “I can take Harper to school if you want. You’ve got a long drive—”
“No.” The word came fast, almost reflexive.
I blinked.
“I mean…” He exhaled and ran a hand over his face. “I’ve got it. That’s the deal. I’ll handle mornings.”
“Oh,” I said, my heart doing an odd dip. “Okay.”
He straightened, his shoulders squaring as his gaze fixed on the cupboard across the room. The openness from seconds ago vanished, replaced with a polite distance.
“You’re free to head out whenever,” he added. “I appreciate you staying, but I don’t need you rearranging your whole life around us.”
“It’s really okay,” I said brightly. “I’m happy to help. I just thought—options.”
“I don’t need options,” he replied, not unkindly. “I need consistency. For her.”
There it was.
The line in the sand.
I nodded, swallowing the sting. “Right. Of course.” I smiled, because that’s what I do. Because smoothing things over feels safer than sitting in the discomfort.
He looked at me then, like he was taking me in. His gaze traced my face, lingering just long enough to feel intentional before he pulled away.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “For helping.”
“You don’t have to keep thanking me.”
He nodded before taking a step back, then another, creating space as if it were necessary for survival. And maybe, for him, it was.
And then, I watched him retreat down the hall, shoulders squared, composure snapping back into place like muscle memory.
I didn’t know how to read him. One moment, close enough to feel his breath. The next, pushing me gently but firmly back to the edges.
I told myself not to take it personally.
I told myself this was just who he was.
I got it. I truly did. His protectiveness. His need to control the variables. The way he shut things down the moment they started to feel… complicated.
Was his distance about boundaries?
About fear?
Or about me?
I’d spent most of my life learning how to be easy to be around. Pleasant. Helpful. The girl who didn’t take up too much space. The one who kept things light so no one felt burdened by her presence.
Still, as I gathered my things and stepped out into the morning light, one thought refused to leave me alone:
For someone so determined to keep his distance, Logan had looked at me like staying away was costing him something.
And that made the stakes suddenly feel dangerously real.