Chapter 14
Dani
I hadn’t planned on staying longer than necessary.
That had become my unspoken rule over the last few days. I arrive just before dinner, stay present, be helpful, and leave before the evening settles into something that feels too intimate to misinterpret. It was easier that way. Safer. For him, and for me.
Still, the text caught me off guard.
Logan: Can you come by a
few minutes earlier today?
No explanation. Just a simple ask that somehow carried weight.
I reread it once, then twice, my chest growing heavy in that familiar way, the one that came from caring just a little more than I should. I told myself it was about Harper. It always was. That was the point of me being here.
But I grabbed my bag faster than usual anyway.
The drive over felt shorter, my thoughts louder. I tried to talk myself down as I parked by reminding myself that Logan wasn’t expressive by nature. That his version of urgency was probably just logistics, schedules, and work.
Still, when I stepped out of the car, I had that strange sense of stepping into something already in motion.
As I stepped onto the porch, the door swung open before I knocked.
“Darlin,” Logan said, smiling faintly. He was dressed down in jeans and a distressed T-shirt, one hand raking through his hair like he’d been doing a mental checklist for hours. Though he tried to school his features, it was clear that something was weighing on him.
Although it was subtle, it was unmistakable.
His shoulders were tense, and his jaw set tighter than usual.
The faint scruff along his jawline had darkened, like he’d skipped shaving more than once.
And those dark circles under his eyes, the ones I’d noticed in passing before, were deeper now, shadowing the green of his gaze.
“You okay?” I asked automatically.
“Yeah,” he said. Then corrected himself. “I mean… yeah.”
That pause told me more than his words ever could.
Harper’s voice drifted from down the hall, humming to herself, blissfully unaware of the shift in the air. Logan stepped aside to let me in, and I followed him into the kitchen — that same space that already held more moments than it should after such a short time.
He leaned back against the counter, arms crossing like a shield. It was a posture I’d come to recognize — defensive, contained, controlled.
“I got an update from work today,” he said.
“Okay.”
“The next assignment’s longer.”
Something inside me stilled. “How much longer?”
“Two to three weeks,” he replied. “But it’s in Florida.”
I watched him closely as he spoke, noticing the way his fingers flexed at his sides, how his gaze flicked toward the hallway like he could already feel the distance pulling.
“And you leave…?”
“Sunday night.”
The silence that followed felt heavy, pressing in on my ribs.
“And Harper?” I asked gently.
That did it.
His breath hitched, and I caught it. He pushed off the counter and took a step, then another, pacing once like he needed movement to keep from unraveling.
As he did, I wrapped my fingers tightly around the strap of my bag, feeling the leather bite into my palm.
It was a grounding force amid the turmoil, the pinch of awareness sharpened by the tension of the room.
“That’s why I asked you to come early,” he said. The thick and palpable hint of guilt lacing every word.
“I know this is more than what we talked about,” he continued. “I know you didn’t sign up for this. If it’s too much, say no. I’ll figure something else out.”
I nodded, watching him closely, the words he spoke contrasting with the vulnerability in his eyes.
He said it with a certainty that almost fooled me, yet I heard the unspoken truth—the hesitation, the anxiety that he wouldn’t actually find another solution.
It was a plea disguised as an offer, and I felt the pull to reassure him, to take on the weight he was trying not to show.
But this felt like more than that.
“Logan,” I said softly. “I don’t have a problem staying.”
His head snapped up. “You don’t?”
“No.” I shrugged lightly, though my heart was pounding. “My schedule’s flexible right now. And Harper’s doing really well.”
He searched my face, like he was waiting for the catch.
“I like being here,” I added before I could stop myself.
The words landed between us, fragile and exposed.
Something in his expression shifted. Not relief exactly, but surprise tinged with something deeper. Gratitude, maybe. Or fear.
“You shouldn’t have to complicate your life because of me,” he said quietly.
“I’m not,” I replied, attempting to offer reassurance.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging just a fraction. “I hate asking for help.”
“I know,” I said, smiling faintly. “You’re terrible at it.”
A breath of a laugh escaped him — short, surprised. It loosened the room just enough.
We stood there, the hum of the refrigerator filling the space between us. I could feel the tension. It wasn’t sharp, more like a humming. Like something waiting to be acknowledged.
“I’ve been trying to give you space,” I admitted, the truth slipping out. “I wasn’t sure if… if you wanted it.”
His jaw tightened again.
“That wasn’t personal,” he said quickly. Then paused. “Okay. Maybe it was. But not in the way you think.”
I held his gaze. “Then help me understand.”
He hesitated, the wall flickering uncertainly.
“You make things easier,” he said finally. “And that worries me,” he added.
My breath caught as my brain struggled to understand what he was trying to say.
“I’m not used to that,” he continued. “Not anymore. I’ve built my life so tight. Schedules, routines, rules… because that’s the only way I knew how to keep things going.”
He looked at me then, really looked, his eyes somehow darker now. “And then you walked in with your chaos.”
I swallowed.
“Harper relaxes when you’re here,” he said. “So do I. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
The honesty in his voice was discreet but devastating.
“I can’t afford to let Harper get attached to people who won’t stick around,” he went on.
I nodded slowly. “You’re trying to protect her.”
“And myself,” he admitted.
“I’m not here to hurt you or to disappear. I’ll always be there for you and Harper,” I said gently.
That was enough.
The silence lingered between us.
Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just dense, like the air had thickened around us in a way that almost felt tangible. It felt as though something substantial had been placed in the space between us, a presence neither of us quite knew how to hold or let go.
Logan shifted his weight, hands bracing on the counter behind him. His posture suddenly less defensive, exposed. Like he’d opened a door and immediately realized he didn’t know how to close it again.
“I should—” He stopped, jaw tightening, before he tried again. “I’ve got to go.”
The words landed softly, but the finality of them wasn’t lost on me.
“Oh,” I said, because my brain needed a second to catch up with my heart. “Right. Of course.”
He nodded once, already retreating a half step, as if distance were something he could reassert simply by moving away from me. “I’ll talk to Harper this weekend. Make sure she knows the plan hasn’t changed.”
I swallowed. “She’ll appreciate that.”
“She always does.” His mouth twitched, the smallest hint of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Then, softer, “Thank you. Again.”
I shook my head gently. “You really don’t have to keep thanking me.”
He looked at me, and something unreadable flickered across his face. Gratitude, maybe. Or regret. Or the dangerous edge of something he wasn’t ready to name.
“Thanks, Counselor.”
“Anytime,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
He hesitated for half a second longer, like he might say more.
Then he turned.
The sound of the door closing behind him echoed through the kitchen, final and deliberate.
I stood there long after he was gone, staring at the place where he’d been leaning, my reflection faintly visible in the stainless steel of the fridge. My pulse was still racing, my emotions a tangled mess of nerves and warmth and something dangerously close to hope.
He liked me being here. He’d said it plainly.
No qualifiers. No jokes. Just the truth.
Somehow, that truth thudded in an unsettling rhythm, like a distant drumbeat growing louder, more insistent.
My pulse felt heavy, drumming a chaotic tune in my ears, a reminder of the risk in his simple admission.
And somehow, that felt more unsettling than if he’d said nothing at all.
Because liking led to wanting, and wanting led to risk.
I wrapped my arms around myself, exhaling slowly, trying to ground the buzzing in my chest. I wasn’t upset, not exactly. But I wasn’t calm either. I felt caught off guard, off balance, like I’d stepped forward expecting solid ground and found myself hovering instead.
Part of me wanted to replay every word he’d said, analyze the pauses, search for meaning between the lines.
Another part of me, the part that had learned early how to keep people comfortable, how to be easy to love and easier to leave, wanted to tuck it all away and pretend it hadn’t shaken me at all.
He was guarded. He was scared. He was doing the best he could.
I could understand that.
What I couldn’t quite shake was the way his admission lingered, not loud or dramatic, but persistent.
You make things easier.
That scared the hell out of him.
And somehow, knowing that I mattered enough to frighten him?
That unsettled me in ways I wasn’t prepared for.
I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and turned back to the counter.
Whatever this was, whatever it was becoming, I had a feeling we were only at the beginning of it.
???
On Monday, I met with Logan before Harper got home.
When I walked into the house, he motioned toward the table, where a neatly organized folder sat beside a spiral notebook. Logan cleared his throat, his words spilling out in a rush.