Chapter 24
Logan
Itold Dani I was coming home early for the weekend.
What I didn’t tell her was that I barely slept the night before. I told myself I was coming back early for Harper, that I missed her, that she needed me—but even then, I knew that wasn’t the whole truth.
When I turned onto our street, the house looked the same as it always had; low white siding, salt-streaked windows, the porch worn in familiar places from years of use.
But something about it felt different, like the space itself had shifted in my absence.
A small potted fern sat by the door, green and alive against the faded paint, and I knew immediately it hadn’t been there before.
I noticed it before I even cut the engine. And before I could open the door, it flew wide.
“DADDY!”
Harper came off the porch at full speed, launching herself toward me like she’d been waiting all day for this exact moment.
I barely had time to step out before she collided with me, her arms wrapping tight around my waist. The impact knocked the breath from my chest, but my body adjusted instantly, hands lifting her, settling her weight like it had been waiting for it.
I buried my face in her hair and inhaled, letting the familiar scent ground me—sunscreen, strawberry shampoo, something faintly sweet that clung to her skin.
Home.
“Hey, bug,” I said, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. “Miss me?”
She nodded hard, curls bouncing. “A lot.”
Her arms tightened, and the guilt hit the way it always did—deathly still but heavy, settling deep in my ribs.
It came with every goodbye, every trip, every stretch of time I wasn’t there to tuck her in or walk her to school.
I’d told myself I was doing what I had to, building something stable for her, but it didn’t stop the way absence carved its own kind of space.
Especially after everything she’d already lost.
“I missed you, too,” I admitted.
She pulled back just enough to grin. “Ms. Dani let me stay up late one night, but only because we finished homework.”
I huffed a breath. “Sounds like her.”
And that’s when I saw her.
Dani stood just inside the doorway, one shoulder resting against the frame like she hadn’t meant to be caught watching.
Her fingers curled lightly around the wood, but there was tension in the way she held herself, like she was keeping from stepping forward too soon.
She wore soft denim shorts and a light blue tank, simple and unguarded, the late afternoon light catching in her hair and softening the edges of her in a way that made the moment feel more intimate than it should have been.
She didn’t interrupt.
Didn’t move in.
She just let me have my daughter.
And something about the patience, the instinct to step back instead of insert herself, spoke volumes about the person she was. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t performative. It was just… Dani.
“Hey,” she said, her voice easy, steady in a way that didn’t ask for anything.
“Hey.”
I became aware of myself all at once. The sweat dried into my collar from the drive, the weight of the past few days sitting behind my eyes, the way her gaze lingered just long enough to make me feel seen in a way I wasn’t used to.
She stepped forward then, closing the distance carefully, like she was still giving me room to decide if I wanted it.
The hug was brief, light.
But it also lingered.
Her hand hesitated for a fraction of a second before settling against me, her eyes flicking to mine first, searching, like she needed to know she was welcome.
I didn’t pull away, didn’t even think about it. I just let it happen.
“You made good time,” she said as she stepped back.
“Didn’t hit traffic.”
What I didn’t say was that I’d driven faster than I should have, that I’d spent most of the drive thinking about this house, about hearing her voice in my kitchen, about the way Harper had said she looked sad. About how none of it had sat right with me until I was back here.
Later, after Harper crashed hard from a mix of sugar and excitement, the house settled into something quieter, more familiar. Dani and I ended up on opposite ends of the couch, the space between us still there, although not as deliberate as it had been before. Not as necessary.
She handed me a beer, her fingers brushing mine just long enough to register. It wasn’t accidental. But it wasn’t something either of us acknowledged, either.
“You mentioned something,” she said after a moment, her tone casual in a way that told me she’d been thinking about it. “About Buck.”
I leaned back, taking a sip. “My horse.”
She nodded, tucking one leg beneath her. “You don’t say much. So when you do, I remember.”
Most people didn’t catch the small things. I didn’t make it easy for them to, but she did. Without effort. Without asking.
For a second, I thought about brushing it off. But instead, I held her gaze and let her see that I knew.
“You miss it?” she asked.
I shrugged, keeping it simple. “Sometimes.” Even that felt like more than I usually gave.
She didn’t push.
Didn’t ask for more than I offered.
Just let the silence settle, easy and unforced, like she understood that not everything needed to be explained.
“You said you used to ride all the time,” she added after a beat.
“Every chance I got.”
“You ever take Harper somewhere like that?”
“No.” The word came out sharper than I intended, cutting through the quiet, and I felt it immediately. But Dani didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat.
She just watched me, tentatively, like she wasn’t afraid of whatever edge I’d let slip.
“What if you did?” she asked, softer now.
There was no expectation in it. No pressure. Just the kind of suggestion that didn’t demand anything back.
“What are you planning, Counselor?” I asked, narrowing my eyes slightly.
The corner of her mouth lifted, mischief settling in her eyes like she was lining something up and enjoying every second of it.
“Nothing illegal,” she said, deadpan. “Relax.”
???
The next morning, she handed me coffee and my hat and told me to put on boots.
I should’ve said no. Probably I should’ve asked questions, yet I didn’t.
Instead, I let her and Harper drag me out the front door towards her Bronco that sat on display in the driveway. Blue-gray paint caught the sunlight like steel softened by fog, shifting shades depending on where the light hit it. Tires thick and grounded. Clean but not flashy.
It suited her, stronger than she let on, a little stubborn.
She hovered beside it for half a second longer than necessary, one hand resting on the door like she was checking in with it.
When she talked about it, her whole face lit up.
She said it was the first big thing she ever bought just for herself, no opinions asked, no expectations attached.
It mattered to her in a way most people might gloss over—she’d told me once how long it took to trust her own choices after years of listening to other voices, always doing for everyone else.
Owning the Bronco wasn’t just about having a car, and I caught the look of pride and affection on her face.
“I’m driving,” she said easily, waving the keys already in her hand.
She held out the keys, but I took them before she could think twice.
For a breath, she let me, no protest, no playful tug.
The exchange was quick—her hand barely lingered on mine.
She looked at me, brows lifting, that familiar spark of challenge lighting her eyes.
“You don’t even know where we’re going.”
“I’ll get us there,” I said, already opening her door. Old habits. The kind you don’t think about until you’re doing them.
She rolled her eyes, but she smiled as she slid into the passenger seat, sunglasses pushed up in her hair, sunlight catching on the curve of her cheek. I shut the door gently, then went around to the back, where Harper was bouncing on her toes, excitement written all over her face.
“Okay, bug,” I said, lifting her into the back seat. “Up you go.”
Dani had picked the booster seat to match the interior—soft gray with subtle stitching, practical but still somehow stylish. Of course, she had. Harper climbed in like it was a throne, chattering the whole time while I buckled her in, checking the straps twice out of instinct.
“Daddy, Ms. Dani picked this one,” Harper announced proudly.
“I can tell,” I said, giving the buckle one last tug. “Good choice.”
When I climbed into the driver’s seat, the cabin felt solid around me. I could tell her car was new since it still smelled faintly of leather and clean plastic.
“You look very serious for a man without a destination.”
Then she tapped the screen, pulling up navigation. “Lucky for you, I know how to get there.”
The map lit up, a route unfolding before us. I glanced over at her just as she looked back at me, something warm and knowing in her smile.
Control didn’t feel like control right then.
The drive stretched for two hours, although it was relatively uneventful.
Harper sang softly in the backseat, making up lyrics when she didn’t know the words. Now and then, she’d ask a question that had nothing to do with anything—like whether dolphins had friends, and if horses got lonely, and whether Dani’s Bronco could beat a race car.
Dani answered each one happily.
I found myself watching her in the passenger seat when she thought I wasn’t looking. Her oversized sunglasses covered most of her face, but not enough to hide the way her mouth softened when Harper laughed.
I caught myself watching her when she laughed. Her hands moved when she talked, and her voice shifted when she explained something to Harper. She never talked down to her or rushed through explanations, no matter how many questions Harper threw at her.
At one point, Harper fell asleep with her cheek pressed against the window, mouth slightly open.
Dani lowered the music. “She’s been good,” she said, her voice low, almost a whisper.
My throat tightened. “Yeah?”
“She misses you. But she’s good.”