Lila
Hampton, Virginia
I blink against the dim light, my eyes adjusting to the faint glow from the bathroom. Logan squats beside the bed, running a hand through his damp hair, his flight suit already zipped up. The sharp lines of the uniform fit him perfectly, but it makes my stomach twist because it means he’s leaving.
“Already?” I whisper, my throat tight. I push myself up on my elbows, the sheet pooling around my waist.
He nods. “It’s time.” His fingers trace a light path up my arm, careful like I might break.
I reach for him, and he leans in, meeting me halfway.
My fingers tangle in the front of his flight suit, and I pull him closer until our foreheads touch.
His skin is warm, and he smells like soap and the lingering traces of his shampoo.
He pulls back, studying me. I try not to cry, try not to let the fear show, but I know he sees it anyway. His thumb brushes my jaw.
I silently ask Logan to hold me, scooting over slightly so there’s room on the edge of the bed for him to climb in.
He does, then tilts my chin up, kissing me with aching tenderness.
It’s slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into the way his lips move against mine.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine again, his thumb still stroking my skin.
“I love you.” His voice is quiet but steady.
“I love you too.” My words come out shaky.
He lingers for a second, his hand slipping down my back like he can’t bring himself to let go. Finally, he pulls away, standing up and grabbing his bag. I sit there, my heart pounding, watching him walk to the door.
He pauses, looking back at me one last time, his eyes dark and unreadable. But I know him. I know the weight he carries, the promises he’s making to himself. A ghost of a smile and then he’s gone.
The front door clicks shut, the sound far too loud even though it probably wasn’t loud at all.
I stay curled beneath the duvet, listening to the quiet, the echo of his absence settling into every shadowed corner.
I glance at the clock on his dresser, 4:41, too early for anything but the pit in my stomach and the lingering warmth of where Logan had just been.
I sit up, wrapping a blanket around me as I slide off the bed. My legs feel unsteady as I walk to the oversized window and slide the natural linen shade up so I can see out. My fingers are trembling. There’s only my Telluride in his driveway. His truck is gone.
My throat tightens, and I press my hand to the glass, exhaling a shaky breath.
I try to memorize every detail of this moment—the smatter of stars across the nearly black expanse of sky, the faint glow of the streetlamp casting long shadows across the lawn.
The world keeps spinning, indifferent to the fact that Logan is flying into danger.
I turn away, feeling restless and hollow.
The house feels too big and too quiet without him.
We’ve spent every night together since Florida—a slow, careful unraveling of all the walls we’d both put up.
And somewhere along the way, things shifted.
The nights stopped feeling like stolen moments, like something fragile that might shatter if we weren’t careful.
They became a constant, a steady rhythm that neither of us questioned.
We’re not just circling each other anymore.
We’ve fallen into something solid and sure, the kind of connection I don’t think either of us believed we deserved.
And physically, we’ve finally let go of that last bit of hesitation.
There’s no more distance, no more lingering doubt holding us back.
Just the quiet, overwhelming need to be as close as possible.
Maybe that’s why it hurts so much when he leaves. Because for all his strength, for all the promises he whispers into my skin late at night, Logan isn’t invincible. And loving him like this, without reservation, without armor...it makes the thought of losing him unbearable.
I wander back to the bed and pick up his T-shirt from the floor, slipping it over my head. It smells like him, soap and sandalwood. It’s ridiculous how much comfort that brings me.
Climbing back into bed, I clutch his pillow to my chest, my heart pounding too hard against my ribs. I don’t cry. I just lie there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, waiting for the sun to rise, hoping it will carry some sliver of reassurance that he’ll come back to me.
Because I can survive the ache of missing him. But I don’t know if I could survive losing him entirely.