Chapter 20
Logan
Dani was going to be the death of me.
Not just because I couldn’t keep my thoughts off the way that being close to her felt like something I shouldn’t want as much as I did, or the way she slipped into my life without forcing it, but because my body still hadn’t come down from earlier.
The tension hadn’t eased. It sat there, wired tight under my skin, as if it was waiting for something else to go wrong, the anticipation keeping me on edge long after the danger had passed.
I lay back, staring at the ceiling, one arm behind my head, the other braced over my chest, as if pressure could hold it together.
It didn’t work, never did.
My phone sat within reach, screen dark, yet I kept glancing at it anyway. Not because I expected something, but because I didn’t trust the stillness.
That kind of silence had never meant nothing.
Not after the military. Not after losing Elena.
Silence meant waiting.
Silence meant something hadn’t hit yet.
I dragged a hand down my face, exhaling slowly, trying to calm myself, but my body didn’t follow. Instead, my chest stayed tight, breath shallow, as if I couldn’t pull in enough air. My shoulders stayed locked, muscles coiled, bracing for impact, even as my mind told me it was over.
It didn’t matter that I was in my own bed or that everything was technically fine.
My body didn’t care about logic. I was stuck in fight-or-flight, remembering the unanswered calls, the way her phone cut straight to dead air, and the gap when I didn’t know where she was or if she was okay. That was all it took.
And it didn’t matter that Cami had Harper. Didn’t matter that Dani had handled everything exactly how she should have. I just knew what it felt like to lose someone in a moment you didn’t see coming. One missed call. One second too late. Everything changes.
My jaw clenched, something jagged scraping up in my lungs.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed before I could think about it too much, moving on self-preservation more than anything else.
I didn’t slow down, didn’t let myself dwell on it.
I just turned the shower on all the way cold.
The water hit fast, stealing my breath and forcing everything else out. My chest tightened hard before it finally let go, dragging in a full inhale whether I was ready or not.
I braced my hands on the tile, head dropping forward as water ran over my neck and spine, shocking my system out of the spiral it had locked into.
In the military, you learn quickly that when your body flips that switch, you don’t sit in it.
You override it. Cold water. Breath control. Focus on what’s real, what’s right in front of you: not the memory, not the what-ifs. The here and now.
I stayed in the shower longer than necessary, letting the cold strip away tension and forcing my breathing to slow and even out.
In.
Hold.
Out.
Again.
By the time I shut off the water, the edge had dulled. It wasn’t gone, it never really went away, but it wasn’t driving anymore.
I grabbed a towel, ran it over my face, and forced myself back into something like control instead of reaction.
She was okay, that was all that mattered.
I stepped back into the bedroom, the air warmer now, quieter in a way that didn’t feel as sharp. My phone buzzed against the nightstand the second I reached for it.
Dani: We’re home. Harper’s asleep.
Dani: I’m sorry for today.
I stared at the message, feeling something shift. For a moment, the tension eased—but this time, it wasn’t tightness I felt.
It was denser. Heftier.
Because she had no idea.
She had no idea what that had been like on my end.
No idea, I wasn’t the kind of man who stayed on the line, who held space, who let someone fall apart without trying to fix them.
I was built for action, for stepping in.
Not for just sitting with someone else’s pain.
Maybe it was the way I grew up, or the training drilled deeper with each year in the service.
See a problem, find the solution, don’t let it linger.
Letting emotions linger felt like leaving a door unlocked. It let in everything I couldn’t control. Moving was simpler than absorbing someone else’s pain. Maybe that’s why holding space seemed impossible, like standing in a storm, hoping not to be shattered.
So I didn’t do it, didn’t know how to. At least not without it costing something.
But with her—
I wanted to.
That was the problem.
My thumb hovered over the screen, my jaw tightening slightly as I typed.
Me: You can’t do that again.
I paused, exhaling through my nose, then added—
Me: Next time, call me. I’m here.
This wasn’t just about Harper anymore.
That line had already been crossed.
And I knew exactly why that made something in me push back.
Because caring like this, caring without distance, without restraint, meant stepping into something that could be lost as quickly as it was found.
I exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through my hair.
Didn’t matter.
Not tonight.
Tonight, she was okay.
And for the first time since everything in me had gone on high alert—
That was enough to finally let my body settle from high alert, the lingering fear dulling into something manageable.
Not fully.
Not completely.
But enough.
And as I lay back down, the memory of her voice still sitting somewhere steady in my chest, I let myself hold onto that one thing.
She didn’t have to do it alone.
Not anymore.
Not if I had anything to say about it.