Chapter 154

Emily

The hospital room is quiet, except for the low hum of machines and the faint rustle of linens as Logan shifts in the chair beside my bed. Peter was taken away a little while ago to get his shots and vaccines, and for the first time since giving birth, the room feels almost empty. My arms ache to hold him again, to feel the steady warmth of his little body pressed against mine, but for now, I have only the faint scent of baby shampoo lingering in the air and the steady presence of Logan beside me.

He’s fidgeting in the chair, leaning back and forth, hands moving in nervous gestures as he mutters something under his breath. I can hear him clearly enough.

“I just don’t see the point in even trying to write a speech. What if I don’t win? What if all of this effort…” Logan’s voice trails off, and he lets out a long, frustrated sigh. I reach out, gently taking his hand in mine.

“Logan,” I say softly, “you’re going to do a great job. You were doing well in the polls not too long ago. Don’t let your worries steal your confidence.”

He glances at me, eyes slightly tired but still sharp, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint, ironic smile.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “I just…sometimes it feels like no matter what I do, it won’t be enough.”

“You’re already enough,” I whisper. “You’ve always been enough. And you’re going to give the best speech you can, and that’s all anyone can ask. You don’t need to imagine the end result yet. Just focus on what you’re saying, not whether it wins.”

His gaze softens slightly, and I can see the tension easing in his shoulders, just a fraction. He’s always been so determined, so unyielding, but I know the weight of responsibility is heavy on him. I’ve watched him shoulder it quietly, internalizing the stress in ways he rarely shares, and even though I can’t fix it for him, I want him to know he isn’t carrying it alone.

I shift slightly in the bed, adjusting the pillow behind my head, and our hands remain intertwined. It’s a simple comfort, grounding us both in a moment that might otherwise feel uncertain and fragile. The rhythm of our connection steadies me, keeps me tethered to the here and now.

My mind drifts, as it so often does when I’m quiet and reflective. I feel something…a magnetic pull to Logan’s hand. Instinctively, my fingers graze the silver ring he always wears. I close my eyes for a heartbeat, and the world around me seems to dissolve.

Suddenly, I’m somewhere else.

I’m holding the ring in my hand — familiar and heavy, cold against my skin. I can feel its weight as though it’s anchoring me to something real, something tangible, but the rest of my surroundings shimmer and blur. When I lift my gaze, I see Logan, but not the Logan I know now.

He’s younger, barely older than a teenager, standing stiffly beside two other figures. His father and mother, both younger than I remember, their faces tight with tension. I watch him fidget, a hand brushing nervously over the front of his shirt as his parents speak.

The words are muffled, indistinct, but the energy in the room is thick with expectation, pressure, something I can almost taste. Logan’s eyes are sharp, scanning the room, taking in every detail, trying to measure up to some invisible standard. I can feel his fear, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him even now, decades before it became mine to witness.

I want to move closer, to say something, to understand, but the scene feels distant, just out of reach. My fingers clutch the ring tighter and I can feel a strange resonance, as though the bond between us stretches through time and circumstance. The younger Logan shifts, glancing toward the doorway, tension coiling in the lines of his shoulders.

Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the vision vanishes. The younger Logan, his parents, the room filled with quiet expectation all fade into nothingness, leaving only the hospital ceiling above me, harsh and white. My eyes snap open, and for a heartbeat, I can still feel the pull of that other place, the weight of it pressing against my chest.

“Emily?” Logan’s voice is sharp, concerned, dragging me fully back into the present. His eyes search mine, worry etched across his features. “Are you okay?”

I blink rapidly, shaking my head slightly, trying to clear the lingering haze.

“Yeah,” I whisper, forcing a small smile. “I’m okay. I just…saw a weird vision of you, that’s all.”

He raises an eyebrow, frowning, but doesn’t push. I think he knows better than to prod when my mind drifts like this. He squeezes my hand gently instead, grounding me again, anchoring me to the room, to the present, to the life we’ve just begun with Peter.

I lean back slightly, exhaling a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “It was…strange,” I admit, my voice quieter now, thoughtful. “I don’t know why I saw it or why it felt so real. I was…touching your ring, and suddenly, it was like I could feel a part of you from years ago. A part of you I’ve never seen before.”

Logan shifts closer, resting his hand on my shoulder, his touch warm, reassuring.

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “It’s probably just your mind trying to process everything. Everything we’ve been through, everything coming next…your brain’s playing with the images of me, of us, of our future. That’s all.”

I consider that, letting his words settle. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s just the residue of everything that’s happened. The chaos of the past days, the intensity of the birth, the fragility of new life. But the vision felt different, charged, like a pulse running directly through me, a thread connecting me to him in a way I can’t fully explain.

I close my eyes again briefly, taking a slow, deliberate breath. I can still feel the warmth of his hand in mine, the steady beat of his pulse against my fingers. I feel the weight of Peter in my lap, his presence grounding me in reality, even as the memory of the vision lingers like a shadow at the edge of my mind.

“You were tense,” Logan says quietly, as though reading my thoughts. “Your fingers were gripping my hand so tight I thought you were afraid of letting go.”

“Maybe I was,” I admit. I laugh softly, the sound small, tinged with both amusement and fatigue. “Maybe I was scared. But…not of you. Of losing sight of you. Of losing the thread that keeps us together.”

“You won’t lose me,” he whispers and gently squeezes my hand. “No matter what comes next. I’m here, Emily. I’m not going anywhere.”

The words are simple, yet they carry a weight far beyond the surface. I feel my chest loosen, the tightness ebbing as the knowledge settles in. Logan is here. Always. And for the first time since Peter was born, I allow myself to let go of a little of the fear I’ve been carrying.

I look down at Peter again, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. His tiny hand twitches in my lap, and I can’t help the swell of love that fills me. We’ve survived so much already, and yet, in this quiet hospital room, I feel hope. Real, steady hope.

Logan’s eyes meet mine, warm and steady, and I squeeze his hand once more.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “For being here. For…everything.”

He smiles faintly, that half-smile that always makes my heart tighten.

“Always,” he says, his eyes kind and gentle, “I’ll always be here.”

The machines hum softly, the world outside the hospital room fades into a blur, and for a few precious moments, nothing exists except us, Peter, and the fragile, unspoken bond that ties our hearts together.