Chapter Text
The wind hums against the porch railing as the sun sinks behind the horizon of rocks, painting the desert in soft gold. Logan sits in silence, rocking gently in his chair, cradling a mug that’s long since gone cold.
The baby monitor crackles faintly beside him. Inside, the boy sleeps—somehow. Peaceful. Oblivious.
Unlike Logan.
Time feels like it’s stopped. Days bleed into each other. Nights are longer than they should be. Every shadow in the house looks like Lucy if he stares long enough.
The door creaks open behind him. “There you are! I thought I’d find you brooding out here again.”
Logan doesn’t turn, but his shoulders relax the smallest bit.
Nia steps out, blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail, her skirt fluttering in the breeze. She’s carrying a dish wrapped in a kitchen towel—probably another one of her "comfort casseroles." She's always bringing food, even if he barely eats it.
“You didn’t show up at dinner, so I figured you were sulking,” she says, grinning. “I made mac and cheese. With the fancy kind of cheese this time, not just the packet.”
He stares at the plate Nia’s set down on the weathered barista table between them. It’s warm, still steaming in the dry evening air, and too full of care for someone who hasn’t eaten all day.
“I ain’t hungry,” he mutters, leaning back in the chair, arms crossed like a shield.
“I don’t care,” she says, sliding the plate a little closer to him. “And neither would Lucy.”
That name lands between them like a stone dropped in still water. He doesn’t flinch, just looks off toward skyline. The sun’s starting to dip, long shadows stretching across the dusty road. People pass now and then, but no one stops. Most have learned to give Logan space these days.
Nia doesn’t budge. She sits across from him, apron dusted with pollen and soil, hair pinned back in the way Lucy used to help her with. There’s a smudge of dirt on her cheek she hasn’t noticed.
“She’d want you to eat,” Nia says, quieter now. “Even if it’s just a little.”
She’s right. Logan sighs through his nose, jaw working as he glances down at the plate. Just one bite, he tells himself. Just to shut her up. The fork scrapes softly against the dish as he picks it up and pokes at the food.
Then Nia says, “He smiled today, you know. Big gummy grin. Just for me.”
Logan pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. The tension in his shoulders softens—just a little.
“He smiled for me, too,” he says after a beat. Voice low. “This morning. Right when I picked him up. Like… like he knew me.”
Nia smiles, and it’s tired but real. “Course he knew you. You’re his dad.”
Logan takes a bite, chewing slowly. The food is warm, seasoned, made by someone who gives a damn. It sits heavy in his stomach, but not in a bad way.
“He’s starting to notice things. Faces. Voices.” She pauses, her voice softening. “He’s going to be okay, Logan.”
Logan doesn’t answer. He’s not sure he will be.
“She talked about you all the time, you know?” Nia continues, her voice quieter now. “How you made her feel safe, made her brave. She loved you with her whole heart.”
“I couldn’t save her.”
“You did. You gave her love. You gave her him.” Nia glances at the baby monitor, where soft breathing fills the speaker. “And now you just have to keep giving him love. That’s how we keep her with us.”
She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t need to. Her words are warm and steady, like everything about her. So much like Lucy, but so unlike her.
The fork trembles in his hand. “I don’t know how to do this. Not without her.”
“You’re not doing it without her. You’re doing it with me, Haru and Andy. And with every person who loved her.”
He looks at her then—really looks—and the ice around his chest cracks just a little. “Why are you here every day?” he asks, not accusing. Just tired.
“Because I loved her. And because I love him.” She shrugs, soft and sincere. “And because I don’t want you to disappear after she tried so hard to help you find yourself again.”
He turns his gaze away. For a moment, the silence is companionable.
By the time he clears half the plate, Nia doesn’t say another word. She just sits with him, hands folded, eyes kind.
And Logan keeps eating. Because the baby smiled. Because Lucy would’ve wanted him to.
Satisfied, Nia stands up. “I’ll be back in the morning,” she says. “With muffins. And baby wipes. And probably more unsolicited advice.”
He almost—almost—smiles. “You don’t have to do all this.”
Nia flashes him a bright, unwavering smile. “I know. But I want to.”
She waves and trots off, her golden hair catching the last of the sunlight.
And just like that, she’s gone again. Back to her flower shop and her sunshine world that is just as haunted as his.
But she’ll return tomorrow. And the day after. With her cheer, her casseroles, and her belief that things can still grow in broken places.
Logan isn’t looking for anything when he moves the bedside table.
Just dusting, maybe. Maybe clearing space for something Nia said she’d bring tomorrow. Doesn’t matter. He barely remembers setting his hand on the corner, dragging it out a few inches from the wall.
That’s when he sees it.
A folded envelope wedged between the wood and the floorboards. Slightly yellowed. His name written across the front in Lucy’s hand—firm, elegant, unmistakable.
He stares at it for a long time.
The room holds its breath.
Slowly, he picks it up, brushing dust from the paper like it’s glass. He sits on the edge of the bed, heart hammering, and carefully breaks the seal.
Her handwriting greets him like an old song. The scent of lavender rises faintly from the paper. It hits like a punch to the gut.
Logan,
If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t come back. And I’m so sorry, love.
Please don’t be angry. Not at yourself. Not at me. Not at the world. I knew the risks. Fang was very clear about that. And I accepted it. Because I wanted this. We wanted this.Our baby. Your baby. A piece of you I could carry inside me.
I’ve spent every day loving you with a depth I never knew I had. You changed my life, Logan. Not with flowers or fancy words, but with steady hands, with that rough voice, with how fiercely you care even about us. You gave me joy. You gave me our baby.
No matter what happens, I have no regrets. We had a helluva time partner
Tell Andy I love him. He was the first person who made me believe I could be a mother. Tell Haru that I’m grateful for being your anchor when I couldn’t be. Tell Nia...well you won’t have to tell her anything. She’ll just know.
And tell our baby… tell them I wanted them. So badly. That they were born from love, not fear.
And you—Logan, my love—live.
Laugh again. Let people love you, even when it hurts.
Forever yours,
Lucy
Logan reads it through blurry eyes, chest hollow and full all at once. He presses the letter to his face, breathing in her words like oxygen.
And then, without warning, he breaks.
Not with the silent tears he’s used to.
But with raw, aching sobs that shake the whole bed, like something old and buried has finally cracked loose inside him.
He cries for everything he lost, and everything she left him with.
The letter lies open in his lap. Her voice, her love, still here.
Still holding him together. Still tearing him apart.
He doesn’t mean to vanish.
At least, that’s what Logan tells himself when he’s halfway through a bottle of Sandrock whiskey at the Blue Moon, hunched over the bar with his hat pulled low and his grief sharp as ever.
He tells himself he just needed a little air, a break, a walk to clear his head. Told Haru he’d be back before sundown. Just grabbing something from Hugo. Just needed space to breathe.
But now the saloon’s mostly empty, and the lanterns are burning low. The shadows stretch long across the floorboards, and Owen’s stopped asking if he wants another. He only gives him that quiet look now. The one that says he’s seen this before. That he knows better than to try dragging a man out of his mourning.
“Last one,” Owen says gently, setting a watered-down pour on the counter.
Logan doesn’t answer. Just wraps his fingers around the glass and stares into it like it might explain something. Like maybe it holds the reason Lucy’s gone and he’s still here. Why she died gasping in his arms while he whispered it would be okay, knowing it wasn’t.
There’s nothing in the whiskey. Just heat and quiet and the wrong kind of memory.
And still, he drinks it.
Bootsteps. Measured. Familiar.
A sigh.
Justice.
“Logan.”
The voice is calm. Familiar. Unamused.
Logan doesn’t look up. “Don’t.”
Justice walks over slowly, not in a rush, boots scuffing the floor with each step. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t say you’re a mess, or get it together. He just looks at Logan for a long while. “You were supposed to be home hours ago.”
Logan lets out a rough breath. “I just... needed space.”
“Partner, you needed to forget. Problem is, you ain’t the only one who remembers.”
Logan finally turns, slowly, to look at him. Justice isn’t judging him—not like before, not like in the old days when they were enemies across a badge and a revolver. These days, the lawman’s face carries something else. Something like understanding. Like he’s seen this kind of broken before.
Justice exhales. “Let’s get you home.”
“I can walk,” Logan mutters, sliding off the stool. His legs wobble under him.
Justice catches him without hesitation. “Nope. You can’t.”
Logan scowls. “Ain’t asking for your help.”
“Well, you’ve got it anyway.”
Justice slings Logan’s arm over his shoulder, steady as a mountain. Logan wants to shove him off. Wants to snap something cruel just to feel like he’s still sharp. But he doesn’t.
Because deep down, part of him is grateful.
The desert air outside hits cold and bitter. The world spins a little. Logan grits his teeth and leans heavier than he wants to.
The stars above stretch endlessly. The kind of sky that should feel comforting but only reminds Logan how small he is. How empty it’s been since the day Lucy slipped away, leaving nothing but silence and the baby she barely had time to hold.
When they reach the house, Logan hesitates at the steps. The porch light glows softly, left on like always. The same way Lucy used to leave it when he came home late from a job or a storm.
the front door creaks open. Haru steps out into the light.
He’s barefoot, wearing a loose shirt, and his eyes are tired—but alert. He doesn’t look surprised to see them. Just relieved.
“I figured it was you,” Haru murmurs, voice low. “Thanks, Justice.”
Justice nods. “Wasn’t far. He just needed help gettin’ back.”
Haru glances at Logan without judgment, only quiet concern. “The baby’s sleeping. In your room. Andy fell asleep with Nia. She was reading to him, but I think they both passed out on his bed.”
Logan exhales, shame and gratitude twisting in his chest. He can picture it exactly—Andy's cheek smushed against a pillow, Nia curled gently beside him, still clutching a storybook.
Justice helps him to the door, then steps back, letting Haru take over. His grip is firm but gentle, steady as ever.
“Thanks again.”
“Naw, don’t mention it partner.”
Haru clicks the door shut softly with his heel, then helps Logan to the nearest armchair. The warmth of home swells around him again. The faint baby monitor buzzes in the background. The armchair still holds Nia’s folded blanket.
Logan sinks down, head in his hands, hat tossed to the side. He tries to remember how to breathe, but all he can remember is how to despair. "Sorry," he mutters.
Haru sits down on the opposite chair. “I know it’s hard.”
“I feel like I’m walkin’ around with half my heart missin’,” Logan mutters, his voice dry and cracked. “Every day. Feels like it’s gone missin’, and I’m just supposed to pretend I can go on without it.”
“But you’re not alone, Logan. You’ve got me and Andy. You’ve got Nia. You’ve got your son.
Logan flinches. He knows it’s true, but it doesn’t feel true—not when the weight of everything presses on his chest like stone.
“I don’t know how to be what he needs,” he confesses. “What if I mess him up? Lucy ain’t here. My Pa ain’t here. I don’t have a damn clue what I’m doing.”
Haru exhales, leaning back in the chair, looking at him like he’s trying to pour steadiness into Logan by sheer force of presence. “There isn’t a manual for parenting Logan. Your Pa learned on the job.”
Logan presses a hand over his eyes, digging his palm into the bone.
She was supposed to be here,” he says, his voice shaking now. “We were supposed to raise him together. She wanted it so bad. She wanted – “
He breaks off.
“I still hear her sometimes,” Logan admits, breath catching. “When the house is real quiet. I swear I hear her laugh. Just for a second. Just enough to believe it.”
Haru doesn’t interrupt. Just sits with him in the silence.
“I talk to her when it’s late,” Logan continues, voice low and hoarse. “When the kid’s asleep and I’m doin’ the dishes. I tell her how the day went. I tell her what he did, what Andy said. I ask her if she’s proud of me. But I never hear the answer.”
The hurt rises like a tide, drowning him in memories. Her eyes. Her hands. The way she said his name when she was tired but trying to be strong. The warmth of her body, the smell of her hair, the sound of her breath fading in that hospital room—
A soft cry breaks the silence.
Upstairs.
Small. Needy.
Logan freezes.
His son.
Their son.
The boy she never got to hold.
“You want me to get him?” Haru offers, already half-standing.
But Logan shakes his head. Slowly. His throat works once, twice, before he can speak. “No. I got him.”
He pushes himself to his feet. He’s unsteady—not from drink now, but from the weight of the moment. The grief doesn’t lift, but it lets him move.
He climbs the stairs slowly. Every step echoes. Every step feels like walking toward something he’s not sure he deserves.
The baby’s room is dim. The little nightlight glows against the soft blue walls. Howlett lies in his crib, face red, fists balled up, little body shaking with frustration and fear.
Logan steps in.
“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, voice soft as wind over sand. “I’m here, partner.”
The moment his arms scoop the boy up, the crying slows and Howlett curls against his warmth. He holds his son tight and sways gently in the darkness. “I miss her too,” he whispers, breath catching. “But I’m here. I’m here for ya.”
Behind him, he hears soft footsteps on the stairs. Haru doesn’t come all the way in, just waits in the hall. Watching. Keeping watch.
Because this isn’t the last time Logan will fall apart.
He frames the letter and sets it by the bed.
Sometimes he reads it.
Sometimes he just needs to know it’s there.