“Tell me about him,” he said. “Everything you want to tell me. First word. Favorite book. What scares him. What makes him laugh.”

“You really want to know?”

“I hate that I don’t already.”

So she told him.

She told him Aiden’s first word had been “kitty,” inspired by Mrs. Waverly’s orange tabby. She told him Aiden loved trucks with an intensity that bordered on spiritual. She told him he hated peas, adored blueberries, slept with a stuffed elephant named Waffles, and sang himself to sleep with a melody Sienna had never been able to identify.

Logan listened like a starving man.

When Aiden dropped his sippy cup, Logan picked it up before Sienna could move.

When Aiden reached for Logan’s water glass, Logan shifted it out of reach.

When Aiden began fussing, Logan hummed the little tune Sienna had mentioned.

Aiden quieted.

Sienna stared at him.

“You remembered.”

“I’m trying.”

Those two words should not have affected her.

They did.

Over the next week, trying became Logan’s language.

He learned that Aiden woke cranky from naps and needed his blanket before conversation. He learned that the dinosaur-shaped macaroni tasted better to Aiden than normal macaroni for reasons no adult could understand. He learned that bedtime required exactly three books, the truck song twice, and one final drink of water that was mostly a delay tactic.

He learned because Mrs. Waverly fell.

At 8:13 on a Thursday night, Sienna got the call from Austin General Hospital. Mrs. Waverly, her elderly neighbor and emergency backup for everything, had broken her hip.

Sienna arrived at the hospital with Aiden sleeping against her shoulder, panic clawing at her throat.

She had no backup now.

No evening babysitter.

No emergency contact.

No grandmotherly neighbor who could step in when life became impossible.

Then Logan appeared in the waiting room.

Still in a suit, tie loosened, face full of concern.

“You texted me,” he said.

“I did?”

He showed her the message.

Emergency. Hospital. Don’t know what to do about Aiden.

Sienna covered her mouth.

“I don’t even remember sending that.”

“You needed help.”

“I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”

“Sienna,” he said softly, sitting beside her. “I want to be dragged into this.”

The doctor came out an hour later. Mrs. Waverly’s surgery would be needed, recovery would take weeks, and Sienna felt her carefully balanced life begin to collapse.

“I can take time off,” she said, more to herself than anyone. “Maybe Jade can cover my site visits. Maybe daycare can take him extra hours if I—”

“I can stay,” Logan interrupted.

She stared at him.

“In Austin,” he said. “For a few weeks. I can help with Aiden while you work. Visit Mrs. Waverly. Learn his routine. Be useful instead of just making promises.”

“You have a company.”

“I have a management team.”

“You have meetings.”

“They can happen online.”

“You have a life in New York.”

Logan looked at Aiden, sleeping trustingly against her.

“I’m starting to think I had the wrong life.”

Sienna wanted to believe him so badly it frightened her.

“This is not a romantic gesture,” she said. “This is diapers and tantrums and daycare pickup and laundry. This is him crying because you cut the waffle wrong. This is waking up before sunrise because a tiny human decided sleep was over.”

Logan nodded like she was outlining a business acquisition.

“What time does he nap?”

Against all good judgment, Sienna almost smiled.

“Usually twelve-thirty to two-thirty.”

“Usually?”

“He’s a toddler, Logan. Nothing is guaranteed.”

“Fair.”

“And he needs three books.”

“Three books.”

“And the truck song.”

“There’s a song?”

“There is always a truck song.”

“Teach me.”

That simple request did more damage to Sienna’s walls than any apology could have.

So Logan stayed.

At first, he stayed in a hotel nearby, then on Sienna’s couch when hospital visits ran late and Aiden cried whenever he left. Sienna told herself it was temporary. Practical. A way to survive Mrs. Waverly’s recovery.

But life has a way of becoming real through repetition.

On Monday morning, Logan burned toast and learned that Aiden preferred bananas sliced into circles, never spears.

On Tuesday, he took Aiden to Riverside Park and sent Sienna a photo of their son on the red slide, hair wild, mouth open in joy.

On Wednesday, Aiden called him “Dada.”

Sienna was in the living room when Logan returned from the park, Aiden perched proudly on his hip.

“How did it go?” she asked, trying to sound casual and failing.

Logan’s voice was quiet.

“He called me Dada.”

Sienna froze.

Aiden reached toward her. “Mama!”

She took him automatically, pressing her face into his hair.

“He says it sometimes,” she said. “At books. At other kids’ fathers. But not… not to someone.”

Logan stepped closer.

“I didn’t know if I should tell you right away.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Are you okay?”

Sienna looked down at their son, then up at Logan. Her eyes burned.

“I always wondered what it would feel like,” she whispered. “When he finally had someone to call that.”

“And?”

Her laugh came out broken.

“Terrifying. And perfect.”

That night, after Aiden fell asleep, they sat on opposite ends of the couch with a bowl of popcorn neither of them ate.

Sienna should have gone to bed.

Instead, she said, “Tell me about Marcus.”

Logan’s face shifted.

For a moment, she thought he would shut down.

Then he leaned forward, elbows on knees.

“He was everything I wasn’t,” Logan said. “Warm. Funny. The kind of person who remembered the janitor’s kid had a piano recital. He could walk into a room of strangers and make them feel like they belonged.”

“You loved him.”

“He raised me more than my father did.”

Sienna stayed quiet.

“My father built Everett International like a war machine. Marcus wanted to make it human. He used to say money only mattered if it built something that outlasted ego.”

“That sounds like something you’d agree with now.”

Logan looked at the hallway where Aiden slept.

“I’m learning.”

“What happened?”

The silence stretched.

“Rainy Thursday,” Logan said finally. “Marcus was driving to meet me for dinner. I canceled at the last minute because of a merger. He took a different route home. A truck hydroplaned. He died before the ambulance arrived.”

Sienna’s throat tightened.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I told myself if I could make the company strong enough, big enough, successful enough, then his death wouldn’t be meaningless.”

“And did it work?”

Logan’s smile was hollow.

“No.”

She moved closer before she could overthink it.

“You didn’t kill your brother.”

“I chose work.”

“You made a human decision on an ordinary day. The tragedy came after. That doesn’t make it your fault.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and she saw the same broken man from the hotel bar two years ago. The one who had held onto her like a lifeline.

“I don’t know how to stop being afraid,” he admitted.

“Neither do I.”

That was the first night they kissed again.

It wasn’t like the forgotten night. It wasn’t grief and alcohol and two lonely people reaching in the dark.

It was slow.

Awake.

Terrifyingly honest.

Logan touched her face like he was asking permission with every breath. Sienna kissed him like she was angry at herself for wanting him and grateful he was there at the same time.

When they pulled apart, she pressed her forehead against his.

“This doesn’t fix everything.”

“I know.”

“If you hurt him, Logan—”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he said. “But I know I’d rather spend the rest of my life trying not to than spend it pretending I don’t love him.”

She closed her eyes.

“And me?”

His breath caught.

“Sienna.”

“Don’t answer if you’re not sure.”

He was quiet so long she almost pulled away.

Then he said, “I think I loved you before I remembered your name.”

Her heart broke open.

For a few days, it felt possible.

They visited Mrs. Waverly together. Logan brought flowers and listened patiently as she interrogated him like an FBI agent over hospital pudding.

They cooked dinners in Sienna’s tiny kitchen. Logan learned where the mixing bowls went. Sienna learned he was terrible at folding fitted sheets. Aiden learned that if he said “Dada, up,” Logan would lift him high enough to touch the ceiling fan chain, which Sienna immediately banned.