He wouldn’t admit it, but I knew even a twisted ankle would slow him down more than he wanted, even if only a little. And whether he needed me or not, I was here because Iwantedto be.
That was the thing about us, we were stuck together. Over and over, we’d shown up for each other, and more times than I could count, he’d carried me through when I couldn’t find my way. Logan didn’t talk much about what bothered him—he held it all in, buried it deep. Meanwhile, I wore my heart on my sleeve and often found myself neck-deep in situations I had no business being in.
So, as trivial as it was, I’d be here to change his ice packs and keep him company on his semi-bum ankle.
“Did you eat?” I asked, standing over him as he leaned his head back against the couch. His eyes drifted lazily over me, and mine did the same to him—arms crossed, head tilted.
Shirtless.
He wore that lazy grin, the one that often made my stomach do somersaults.
His blond hair was a mess of soft curls, tousled like he’d come home, ditched the day, and immediately thrown on pajamas.
“Did you even shower?” I asked next, eyeing the faint smudges of dirt still on his jawline and neck.
“No and no,” Logan admitted, unapologetic. “I came home, changed, and collapsed here. Haven’t had the energy to stand in the shower.”
I wrinkled my nose and took a dramatic sniff of the air. “Ew.”
He laughed, rolling his eyes. “You’re a brat.”
“And you smell.” I smirked. “But seriously, you need to shower. It’ll help the ankle. The cold helped bring the swelling down and now we need some heat.”
Years of being Boone’s sister and my dad’s daughter had taught me a thing or two about patching up stubborn men who refused to rest.
I held out my hands to help him up, but Logan didn’t move. He stayed sprawled on the couch, head tilted back, eyes on me.
Warmth spread through me, my heart even kicked up a few notches, which was new given where I was.
His pajama pants hung low on his hips, and the thin trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband made my throat go dry.
I looked away and cleared my throat.
“El, I really just want to rest.”
“If you want me to stay, you need to shower. I’m not sitting here next to you while you smell like that,” I said, fanning my nose like I was wafting away his stench.
With an exaggerated groan, Logan grabbed my hands and pulled himself up like it required too much effort. “You areverypersuasive.”
As we walked toward the bathroom, I slowed our pace, watching him limp gently on the injured ankle.
“I’m always right too,” I said with a wink, flicking on the bathroom light. “Sit. I’ll get the shower running.”
Logan leaned against the counter, arms crossed, bad ankle loosely resting over the other as he watched me reach in to test the water.
“I can do this myself, you know.”
I shot him a look over my shoulder. “Will you quit it and just let me help?”
Accepting help wasn’t exactly Logan’s strength. He’d always been his own protector. Forced to grow up fast, to rely on himself. That kind of survival made asking for help feel like weakness.
But it wasn’t. Sometimes we all need a helping hand.
“Fine, fine.” He sighed. “Thank you for coming to help me.”
I nodded, hand still under the stream as I waited for the temperature to even out. “It’s not black-and-blue, so it doesn’t look broken.”
“Nah. Just twisted it when my foot got caught in the stirrup.”