Logan

Logan
Logan
"Where is she right now?" I ask, urgency tightening my voice.
"She’s in one of the wards, receiving treatment," the doctor replies calmly.
"Take me to her," I demand, my hands already moving to rip out the IV connected to me.
"You’re not strong enough to walk yet," he protests, his face tightening in alarm. "You’re still recovering."
"Who?" I snap, pushing myself up. My legs wobble slightly, but I refuse to let weakness keep me down.
I glance around and spot my neatly folded clothes on a chair in the corner. I stride over, yanking on my jeans and pulling my T-shirt over my head. The slight dizziness from the sudden movement doesn’t stop me.
"What’s her room number?" I ask again, slipping on my shoes.
The doctor hesitates.
"What. Room. Number?" My voice sharpens with an edge of warning.
Still, he remains silent.
"God help me," I say through clenched teeth, "if you don’t tell me her room number, I swear I’ll start opening every damn door in this hospital until I find her."
The doctor exhales, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Room 203," he finally says.
That’s all I need.
I don’t wait for directions—I know every inch of this hospital. Without another word, I head straight for the elevator, feeling the doctor's gaze burning into my back.
But I don’t care.
Nadine needs me.
And I’ll be damned if I let anything stop me from being by her side.
I lost my chance with her once. But now, when it matters the most, she’s here. Even after everything, she stayed.
The elevator doors open with a quiet ding, and I step in, pressing the button for the second floor. My heart pounds as the doors slide shut, the weight of everything crashing down on me.
As soon as the doors open again, I step out, scanning the hallway. Room 203. I spot it instantly and make my way toward it, my pulse hammering.
My hand hovers over the doorknob.
Is this a good idea?
Will she even want to see me after everything we’ve been through?
Swallowing hard, I finally turn the knob and step inside.
And then—I freeze.
A sharp breath catches in my throat as I see her lying there, eyes closed, looking so peaceful.
God, she looks exhausted.
But she’s here.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself hope.
I need to be sure she’s okay.
With slow, careful steps, I move toward her, not wanting to disturb the peaceful expression on her face. I spot a chair nearby and quietly drag it closer to her bedside, making sure not to make a sound.
Sitting down, I take her hand in mine. It’s cold. Too cold.
I lift it gently to my lips and press a soft kiss against her skin. A sense of relief washes over me just feeling her warmth, knowing she’s here, breathing, resting.
I let my fingers trace the delicate features of her face, memorizing every curve, every detail. The dark circles under her eyes don’t go unnoticed—she’s exhausted. She’s been through so much. And I know, deep in my gut, that I’m the reason for most of it.
My chest tightens with guilt.
Then, a soft knock echoes through the room.
I turn my head toward the door as it slowly opens.
My brows furrow as I try to place the face stepping inside. There’s something familiar about him… and then it clicks. Hardin.
What is he doing here?
I school my features, keeping my expression unreadable. Whatever his reason, I won’t make a scene. Not now.
He moves closer, offering me his hand for a handshake. I hesitate for a moment before slowly taking it. His grip is firm but not challenging, and when he smiles at me, I surprise myself by mirroring it.
Growth. Maybe I’m getting better at this.
"I thought she said you were the one in the hospital bed," he says with an easy smile.
I nod, forcing another small smile.
"I came as soon as I heard," he continued. "She’s been blaming herself non-stop since last night."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
He was with her all night.
My fingers tighten around the bedsheet, my jaw clenching as I look down, trying to keep my emotions in check.
Damn it.
She had someone with her. She wasn’t alone.
And that someone wasn’t me.
A sharp, searing pain grips my chest as the realization sinks deeper.
She’s moved on.
I have no place here.
I exhale slowly, willing myself to stay composed. Then, forcing my hands to relax, I glance back up at Hardin.
"I’ll leave now," I say quietly, my voice hollow. "You should come closer."
It’s a bitter surrender, but I can’t bear this. I thought… I thought her worrying about me meant something. That maybe—just maybe—there was still a chance.
But I was wrong.
And walking away might be the hardest thing I’ll ever do.
Hardin looks shocked by my words, but he quickly recovers.
I don’t wait for his response. I rise from my chair, forcing my feet toward the door. Each step feels heavier than the last.
As my fingers curl around the doorknob, I hear it—her voice.
"Wait…"
I freeze.
Then she speaks again, her voice soft but laced with familiarity.
"Oh, sugar plum, you're awake."
My breath catches in my throat.
I want to turn around. I want to see her face, confirm with my own eyes that she’s awake, that she’s okay.
But I don’t.
Hardin is here. Her boyfriend. The man who was with her all night, who held her through her fears, who gets to be the one she leans on now. Not me.
"You looked fine last night, except that you were so worried about Mr. West," Hardin says casually. Then, as if remembering something, he adds, "Oh, wait—let me get you some water."
I clench my jaw.
I don’t turn around. I won’t.
I can’t watch him take care of her the way I used to. Can’t watch him be the one she smiles at, the one she reaches for.
She’s happy with him.
And maybe it’s time I finally let her go.
She’s been through enough—through hell—because of me. Because of our past, our mistakes, our pain. I thought I could make things right, but maybe the kindest thing I can do for her now… is to walk away.
I inhale sharply, tightening my grip on the door handle.
Then, just as I begin to step through, her voice cuts through the air like a lifeline, raw and pleading.
"Logan… please stay."
I stop.
The words hit me harder than I expected, sinking deep into my chest.
For a moment, I can’t move. Can’t breathe.
She still wants me here?
Slowly, hesitantly, I turn around.