Logan's POV
Noah isn't in bed when I wake up.
I roll over and reach for him, instinctively, hand searching warm sheets that aren't there. My palm brushes the empty spot beside me, still faintly scented with his warmth, but already cooling.
I sit up, rubbing my eyes.
The house is quiet—soft and still. The kind of quiet that lives just after grief, when the mourning has settled into the cracks of life like dust. My body aches. My mind is tired. But something about the sunlight pouring in through the windows feels… peaceful.
Then I hear it.
Laughter.
Tiny, high-pitched, squealing laughter—Oliver's. Loud and unfiltered, bouncing up the stairs and followed by the clatter of cutlery.
Oh, they're just having breakfast.
I smile, despite myself before climbing out of bed with a languid stretch. My shoulder's stiff despite Noah's massage. My ribs are sore from sleeping like a stone. I drag myself into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face.
