Chapter 40
Logan
Ishould be asleep.
That’s the thought circling my mind, the practical part of me still tuned to routine and responsibility.
But sleep feels impossible tonight, not with Dani curled against me, warm and soft under my arm, her relaxed breathing filling the space between us.
Even asleep, she has a presence that’s hard to ignore—something grounded and steady that settles deeper the longer I stay still.
Her apartment is dim, lit only by the faint glow of streetlights slipping through a gap in the curtains, casting a pale ribbon of light across the bed.
It’s just enough to make out the shape of her beside me, enough to make this feel real instead of something imagined after too many beers and too many thoughts.
Her hair is a soft mess against the pillow, strands catching the light, honey-gold and tangled. My T-shirt hangs loose on her shoulders, the collar slipping just enough to expose the curve where her neck meets her shoulder.
I shouldn’t be staring.
But I am.
Because something about this moment feels fragile. Important. The kind of thing you don’t want to disturb because you’re not sure it’ll ever happen the same way again. I find myself holding still, my breath shallow, like even the smallest movement might break whatever has settled between us.
My thumb moves absently along her arm, tracing slow, warm lines across her skin. She shifts in her sleep, pressing closer into my chest, fitting there perfectly, like she’s found the place she was meant to settle.
That small movement hits harder than it should.
Because somewhere along the line, something changed.
And I didn’t see it happening until it was already too late to stop.
For weeks, I told myself the same thing—that Dani helping with Harper was temporary.
That everything about her being there had a clear beginning and an end.
After losing Elena and barely holding things together for Harper, I had learned how dangerous it is to let anything stay too long.
No matter how good it feels, it only makes it harder when it’s gone.
My life needed boundaries, not more chaos.
Temporary is manageable; it means you don’t rearrange your life. You don’t notice the way someone changes the air in a room.
But nothing about Dani ever felt temporary.
Not the way Harper took to her immediately, like kids do when they sense something real.
Not the way the house started to sound different after she arrived—laughter where there used to be silence, music where there used to be emptiness, the muffled hum of someone moving through the kitchen in the morning.
It didn’t happen all at once. It happened slowly, like sunlight creeping across the floor, so gradual you don’t notice until the whole room is warm.
It kept finding its way in, even when I told myself it wouldn’t last, growing a little stronger each day until one morning I realized I couldn’t remember when the darkness faded.
The first time I let myself acknowledge it was a Tuesday.
Harper had been stuck on a math problem, stubborn and frustrated, insisting it didn’t make sense.
I stood in the doorway, watching Dani lean over the table, her hair falling forward as she tried to explain fractions using crayons and cookie metaphors.
Harper was laughing so hard she nearly slid off her chair, and Dani was right there with her, laughing just as freely. It was loud, messy, completely ridiculous—and it filled the entire house.
That was the first crack.
The second came a week later, when I realized that Dani was sitting at my kitchen table late at night, case files spread out like controlled chaos, felt…
right. Like something I could get used to.
And when I walked in and saw it all packed away, her presence gone from the space, I felt the absence before I even let myself acknowledge it.
Now, lying here with her curled against me, I feel it again—stronger, harder to ignore.
Her hand drifts across my chest, settling there without intention, like instinct. Like she’s already used to being close to me.
And that’s what makes this dangerous.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Because this is how attachment forms—not in grand moments, but in the small, quiet ones.
The brush of her shoulder against mine in the kitchen, the way she refolded my shirt because she noticed it out of place, the way she fits into the rhythm of my life without asking permission.
It builds before you realize it’s happening, weaving itself in until it’s impossible to separate.
And attachment is something I swore I’d be careful with.
Not just for me.
For Harper.
If this were just about Dani and me, it would be easier. But it’s not. Harper is always part of the equation.
My gaze drops to Dani again. Her lashes rest softly against her cheeks, her breathing even and unguarded. There’s a faint crease between her brows, like her mind is still working even in sleep.
Lawyer brain, she called it once.
Always thinking. Always analyzing.
Except tonight.
Tonight, she trusted me enough to fall asleep in my arms like she didn’t have to think at all.
And me?
I stopped fighting the idea of her.
The realization doesn’t hit all at once. It settles in, constant and inevitable.
Not like lightning.
More like gravity.
I’m falling in love with her.
The girl I told myself was too young, too bright, too much of everything I didn’t have room for… is now everything I don’t know how to live without.
The truth lands hard, physical. My chest tightens, my heartbeat kicking against my ribs, my breath catching as everything narrows to this moment—her beside me, her hand over my heart, a sense of certainty I couldn’t ignore anymore.
Because I’ve known it longer than I wanted to admit.
It’s in the way my body reacts when she walks into a room—not just attraction, but recognition. It’s in the way I listen when she talks, the way I notice when she’s tired, the way my chest shifts when she laughs with Harper.
I glance down at her again.
She’s beautiful.
Not in the loud way that demands attention, but in the kind that stays with you. The softness in her expression when she smiles, the way her mouth curves when she’s amused, the way she challenges me without hesitation.
That part still surprises me.
Most people take one look at me and pull back. They see the control, the distance, and they respect it.
But not Dani.
The first night we met, she looked me straight in the eye after helping Harper with her hair and called me Sergeant Grump—then walked away like she hadn’t just knocked the air out of my lungs.
I should’ve been annoyed.
Instead, I watched her the rest of the night.
That should’ve been my first clue.
Because the way she moved—free, confident, completely unbothered—stuck with me longer than it should have. That kind of energy draws you in. Makes you want to see what happens when it turns toward you.
But loving Dani doesn’t just change how I feel.
It changes what I risk.
Because loving someone means giving them the power to hurt you—or worse, the power to leave.
That’s the part no one talks about, the vulnerability.
The choice to care, knowing there’s no guarantee it lasts.
For years, I built my life around control. Routine. Predictability. After a loss, you learn to manage the world by limiting what matters. Keep your circle small. Keep your heart protected.
Build something safe.
But Dani doesn’t fit inside my ideas of safe.
She walks into a room with warmth, curiosity, and the belief that life should be lived fully, not carefully. She argues with me about coffee, dances with Harper in the living room, and laughs like she’s not afraid of being heard.
And somehow, she makes me want to step closer instead of pulling away.
There’s always a split second where instinct tells me to retreat, to protect what’s still exposed, but I don’t. I stay. I move closer.
Because the truth is, the moment Dani walked into my life, she didn’t just change it.
She changed what I wanted from it.
For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like something to survive.
It feels like something I want.
A messy kitchen filled with sunlight where Dani laughed as she flipped pancakes and Harper tried to steal a bite before they were ready. Something simple. Real.
Alive.
The realization settles deep.
I’m in love with her.
And that changes everything.
My gaze drifts back to her, to the way her hand rests over my heart like it found its place there without asking.
My fingers close gently around it.
“I love you,” I whisper.
She doesn’t stir. Doesn’t hear it.
But lying here, with her breathing soft against my chest, I realize something that should probably scare me more than it does.
I don’t want a life that doesn’t include her.