aurel:)

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“My parents told me to give you this.”

You turn around to where the voice came from and look down to see one of your kindergarten kids, Carlos, extending his arm towards you with a folded note in his hand. After taking the piece of paper, you unfold to check it; it’s from his mother, saying that her brother, Carlos’ uncle, would be picking him up today.

“Thank you, go ahead,” you say, and the kid takes off to go play with his friends. 

You grab the notebook from the drawer in your desk and write down the name from the note by Carlos’ listed guardians. After putting it away again, you face your class and clap a couple of times to get their attention to start the day. 

The hours go by relatively quickly, and luckily it’s pretty uneventful, except for one little accident where a girl spilled some watercolours all over herself. When the day ends, you bring your class to the entrance of the building, notebook tucked under your arm, as you hand the kids back to their guardians one by one, making sure everyone is accounted for. 

However, nobody is here for Carlos yet, so he waits by the entrance on a little bench, colouring in his book. You’re putting away some toys when someone appears at the door, and when Carlos looks up, a huge smile spreads on his chubby face.

“Tío Joaquín!” he exclaims as he leaves his things on the bench to go greet his uncle.

“Hey, little man!” the man says as he crouches down and opens his arms, letting the kid tackle him into a hug as he laughs.

You approach the two, a polite smile on your lips, opening your book and checking the name again.

“Hello, Mister…?”

“Joaquín Torres,” he says as he stands back up, taking your extended hand to give a shake. Now that you’re looking at him properly, you notice two things: one, he seems strangely familiar, but you can’t place where you’ve seen him before. And two, he’s very attractive: dark hair and eyes, strong build, tan skin, a smile that knocks the breath out of your lungs. There’s a slight prickle of heat on your cheeks, but you will it away, this really not being the moment to start crushing on one of your kids’ guardians. Luckily, your brain remembers to tell him your name as well as you shake his hand.

“Go get your stuff,” Joaquín says to Carlos, who runs back to the bench to pack his bag, and the man looks back up at you with a smile, and you inwardly curse at the beat your heart skips. 

“Mister Torres–”

“Oh please, Joaquín is fine,” he interrupts with raised hands.

You hesitate for a second, waging whether to be friendly or maintain some professional distance, but his name rolls over your lips far too easily.

“Joaquín,” you repeat his name, and he hums in acknowledgement, waiting for you to continue. “I know Carlos recognised you and you introduced yourself, but I still have to ask to see some ID.”

“Oh, of course,” he says, fishing out his wallet from a back pocket of his jeans, and grabs his ID to present it to you. 

“It’s just a formality, really,” you say sheepishly and take the card, comparing his name to the one you wrote in your notebook. Before you can stop yourself, you take a glimpse of his date of birth, corroborating your assumption of him being close in age. Not that it matters, you remind yourself. 

“Thank you,” you say as you hand him back the ID, and your eyes move on their own as you check for a wedding ring; there’s none. Good grief, will you calm down?, you reprimand yourself inwardly. 

“Not at all,” he replies, putting his ID and wallet back into his pocket. “If anything, thank you for taking this seriously and protecting the kids.”

He gives you a genuine smile, which you mirror. You both turn at the sound Carlos makes in frustration as he’s trying to sling his backpack over his jacket, but the side of it got stuck underneath.

“Oh, let me help you with that,” you say and walk the few steps back, crouching down at his side and straightening out the jacket to close the zipper at the front. “There you go.”

Carlos takes off again, but Joaquín holds onto his backpack as he tries to run past him, stopping him in his tracks. 

“What do we say?” he scolds the kid, who turns around to you with a slightly annoyed look, but he quickly corrects it when he sees Joaquín’s warning glare. 

“Thank you for helping me,” Carlos mutters. Then he looks up at his uncle, who lets go of the backpack to take the kid’s little hand in his. “Can we go home now?” 

Joaquín sighs with a slight shake of his head, but a smile spreads on his lips. You follow the exchange in silence, biting back a smile of your own. 

“This kid, I swear,” Joaquín says in your direction with a chuckle. “I know he can be a little rowdy sometimes, but I hope he’s not been too difficult?”

“Not at all,” you assure him. “He’s a good kid.” 

“I’m only rowdy because I come after you,” Carlos interjects with an offended huff. 

Both you and Joaquín look down at the kid with brows raised in surprise.

“That’s what mom said,” Carlos is quick to add when he feels both your looks on him. 

“The audacity of this kid,” Joaquín scoffs playfully. “Ya voy a contarle a tu madre lo que dijiste, así que pórtate bien.” (I’ll tell your mother what you said, so you better behave.)

“Noooo, no le digas! Prometo portarme bien,” Carlos cries out. “Can we go now?” (No, don’t tell her! I promise I’ll be good.)

“Yeah, let’s go,” Joaquín says, about to turn to leave, but he stops to face you one more time. “Sorry about that. And that I was late. Thanks for waiting, I’ll be on time next time, I promise.” 

“No worries,” you say, giving Carlos a little wave, which he mirrors. “Get home safe!” 

“It was nice meeting you,” Joaquín calls over his shoulder as they leave, but you’re not quick enough to say it back before they’re gone.

You stand by the entrance door for a moment longer, your brain still reeling to try and remember where you know him from. 

“Next time, huh,” your coworker, one of the other teachers, appears out of nowhere and playfully pokes her elbow into your side. 

You startle a bit at her sudden appearance, but shove her right back with a chuckle. 

“Don’t even start,” you say with a slight roll of your eyes.

“I didn’t say anything,” she retorts, raising her hands in defeat, but the mischievous glint in her eyes betrays her. 

The next time Joaquín comes to pick up his nephew, he does arrive on time. You two engage in pleasant small talk as Carlos plays with his friend, whose parents haven’t arrived yet. Your coworker keeps sending you knowing looks from the other side of the hall, and it takes a lot of willpower to ignore her and keep listening to what Joaquín is saying. 

By the time all kids are gone, you’re still replaying the conversation in your mind, remembering every little gesture and quirk Joaquín has when talking about something that interests him. Turns out, you actually have a lot in common. 

It takes a little more encouragement from your coworker, but the third time Joaquín comes for pick-up, you ask for his number. There’s no denying now that you’ve developed a bit of a crush on the man. You fumbled the delivery a bit, stuttering as you assured him that you usually don’t ask for any parent’s number. To your pleasant surprise, Joaquín gently interrupted your rambling to reassure you that he’s been wanting to do the same but wasn’t sure if he was crossing a line. So with slightly flushed faces, you ended up exchanging contact information.

Over the next couple of days, you text back and forth, and finally he asks you out for dinner. You’re over the moon, and giddily accept. He’s told you he’s in the Army, so your schedules are very different, but you finally settle on meeting on the weekend for dinner.

On the Friday before the date, Joaquín comes to pick up his nephew once more. You’re both a bit flustered since you haven’t seen each other in person since exchanging numbers.

As Carlos is packing up some things he forgot in the classroom, Joaquín walks closer to you.

“So, how’s your day been?” he asks.

“It’s been good,” you say, taking a quick look around to make sure no other parent or guardian can overhear you as you give him a knowing look. “But it’s certainly better now.” 

Joaquín looks away with a silly smile on his face, the slightest shade of pink on his cheeks.

“Yeah, well, same,” he says. He’s about to add something when Carlos comes back, a drawing in his hand.

“Tío, look, look!” he says as he holds up his masterpiece. Joaquín takes the paper in his hands to inspect it, recognising the two figures to be Captain America midair with his shield held high, and the Falcon, wings splayed out on each side. 

“You drew this? This looks great, kiddo!” Joaquín compliments his nephew with a loving ruffle to his hair. The kid soaks it in and you see him stand a little straighter, chest puffed out. 

“Isn’t my uncle cool!” Carlos exclaims, huge grin on his face. 

You tilt your head ever so slightly, confused. 

“I mean, he is,” you start, looking up at Joaquín, who looks slightly mortified, and then back at the kid. “But I thought we were talking about the drawing?” 

“Yeah, I drew him! That’s my uncle!,” Carlos leans over the drawing to point at the figure coloured in green. 

It takes a second for the information to click in your brain, but when it does, your head whips to Joaquín’s, who averts his gaze like he’s a boy who just got caught getting into the cookie jar in the middle of the night. 

“So that’s why you looked so familiar,” you finally say with a chuckle. Seeing that your reaction isn’t negative like he thought it’d be, Joaquín breathes in relief. Carlos takes his drawing and rushes back to finish packing up upon his uncle’s instruction.

“I can’t believe I’m going on a date with the Falcon,” you say in a low voice, more to yourself than anything else. Joaquín looks around to see if anyone else caught that, but all other parents are focused on their own conversations. 

“It’s not like I was trying to keep it a secret,” he says, and when his gaze finally finds yours again, your heart does a leap in your chest. “This isn’t how I meant for you to find out, though. I hope this doesn’t change anything…?” 

“Of course not,” you reassure him. “I hope you’re ready for a lot of questions, though. The moment the other kids get wind that I’m friends with the Falcon, they’ll want to interview you for sure.” 

“That’s fine by me,” he says with a chuckle. His phone pings and he takes it out of his pocket, looking at the message. “Well, time to go. My sister wants us to pick up some groceries on the way home.” 

“Right, Carlos should be done packing,” you say, turning around to check on the kid, but he’s out of sight from where you stand. When you turn your head back to Joaquín, you let out a low gasp as he’s suddenly standing very close to you, and he very quickly places a kiss on your cheek. 

“See you tomorrow, then?” he asks in a low voice, a slight fear in his eyes that you’ll say no after his bold move. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you reply just as softly, and your hands come up to fix the collar of his shirt, brushing your fingers over his jaw. 

“Are you two about to kiss?” a voice startles you both, and you quickly take a step back to put some distance between yourself and the man. Looking down to the side, you find Carlos looking up at you with slight disgust. 

“Okay, let’s go,” Joaquín is quick to say with a nervous chuckle to drown out Carlos’ onslaught of questions, among which you think you hear ‘Are you going to marry my teacher?’ and ‘Does that mean I don’t have to come to school anymore?’. 

A wave of heat erupts on your cheeks as they leave, and when you turn around to go back to the classroom, you find your coworker standing there, giving you an ‘I told you so’ look, a smug grin plastered on her face.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

The rain drummed relentlessly against the earth, turning the ground into a mire of mud and misery. Each drop carried the weight of the night’s tension, masking the subtle sounds of the forest except for the rhythmic splashes of boots slicing through puddles.

A beam of light cut through the thick darkness, jagged and searching, until it settled on Logan’s dirt-streaked face. His jaw was set, his glare sharp even through the grime and exhaustion. The pit around him was shallow yet suffocating, and he leaned heavily against its slick walls, his breath ragged. His defiance was palpable, but it was clear his strength was ebbing, a flickering candle in the storm.

“Well, look at what we’ve got here.” The voice dripped with mockery, laced with a soldier’s cruel amusement. The man holding the flashlight stepped closer, his silhouette a dark smear against the rain. “The infamous Ghost. Not so scary now, are you?”

Logan gritted his teeth, his muscles coiling for a lunge, but the ropes around his wrists dug deep into his skin, sapping his momentum. His effort was feeble, almost pitiful, and it only seemed to entertain his captor further. The soldier laughed, harsh and hollow, before tossing a coarse rope down into the pit.

“Let’s haul him out,” another voice growled, muffled by the storm.

Rough hands gripped the rope and began to pull. Logan staggered as he emerged, the cold rain slapping against his face, mixing with the mud and blood that clung to his skin. His legs buckled, but he refused to fall, drawing from a well of defiance he couldn’t afford to lose.

The soldiers didn’t wait for him to recover. They yanked his arms behind him, tightening the restraints with a sharp jerk, their movements mechanical and unfeeling. One of them shoved him forward, the hard barrel of a rifle pressing against his back, urging him onward into the darkness.

The rain continued to fall, relentless, its cadence a cruel backdrop to the quiet desperation in Logan’s eyes.

The jungle swallowed them in shadows, its dense canopy offering little shelter from the storm. Rain poured through the leaves in relentless sheets, mixing with the mud that sucked at Logan’s boots with every step. The air was thick, damp, and oppressive, clinging to his skin as thunder growled like a restless beast overhead. The storm seemed alive, its ferocity mirroring the storm raging within Logan—an unrelenting fury fighting to keep hope alive.

Each step was an act of rebellion, a battle against his weakening body and the hands that sought to break him. Logan’s wrists burned against the tight cords that bound them, his mind racing through fragments of plans, each more desperate than the last. Escape wasn’t just a possibility—it was his only option. He stumbled, his foot catching on a root hidden beneath the mud, but he caught himself before he could fall. His eyes burned with determination as he pushed forward.

A soldier’s voice cut through the rain, sharp and biting. “Keep up, Ghost. We’re not stopping for you.”

Logan ignored him, his silence speaking louder than any retort could. But his defiance didn’t go unnoticed. The nearest soldier, a towering figure with a sneer etched across his face, stepped closer. Without warning, he drove the butt of his rifle into Logan’s ribs. The impact was brutal, a crack of pain that stole the breath from Logan’s lungs. He staggered, his body screaming in protest, but he refused to cry out.

“Keep moving,” the soldier growled, leaning in close. “Or I’ll drag you the rest of the way.”

Logan straightened, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. His silence hung in the air like a challenge, his piercing gaze locked onto the soldier’s face. The rain dripped from his hair and into his eyes, but he didn’t blink. For a moment, the storm seemed to quiet, as if bowing to the weight of his unyielding defiance.

The soldier snorted and shoved him forward again. Logan stumbled but pressed on, each step a victory, each breath a reminder that he wasn’t broken—not yet. The jungle loomed around them, dark and foreboding, its secrets whispering of opportunities yet to come.

The convoy trudged into a clearing, where the jungle opened up just enough to reveal the harsh glare of floodlights piercing the relentless rain. The lights illuminated a small Federation outpost, its structures crude and temporary, yet fortified enough to suggest they weren’t leaving anytime soon. The hum of generators mixed with the hiss of rainfall, creating an uneasy symphony that set Logan’s nerves on edge.

He was dragged to the center of the encampment, the soldiers shoving him forward with little regard for his stumbling steps. The mud clung to his boots, each step heavier than the last. His drenched clothes clung to his body, but the chill of the rain was nothing compared to the cold knot forming in his stomach.

Under a makeshift canopy, a figure stood waiting, his posture relaxed yet commanding. As Logan was thrust into the light, the man stepped forward, his face emerging from the shadows—and Logan’s heart sank. He knew that face. He would never forget it.

Rorke.

The man who had destroyed everything. The man who had killed their father.

A wicked grin spread across Rorke’s face as he looked Logan over, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “Well, well. Look what the storm brought me,” he drawled, his voice as sharp as the knife at his belt. “The son of Elias Walker. I was hoping I’d get the chance to meet you up close.”

Logan’s breath hitched as fury coursed through him, hotter than the lightning crackling in the distance. His fists clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his palms, and his body trembled—not with fear, but with unrelenting rage.

“You killed him,” he spat, his voice low and hoarse, breaking his long silence. The words carried more venom than volume, cutting through the rain like a blade.

Rorke’s grin widened, his head tilting as if savoring the moment. “And now, I’m going to finish what I started,” he said, his tone almost mocking. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a sinister whisper. “But not before I have a little fun with you, first.”

The air between them felt electric, charged with years of pain and hatred. Logan’s blood boiled, his mind racing as he burned the image of Rorke into his memory. If he ever got the chance—when he got the chance—he’d make sure Rorke paid for everything.

Logan was forced to his knees, the cold mud swallowing him as if it meant to bury him alive. Rain streamed down his face, tracing paths through the blood and grime that caked his skin. He kept his head high despite the ache in his neck and the sharp sting of his wounds. Around him, soldiers watched, their rifles poised, but Logan only had eyes for the man circling him like a predator sizing up its prey.

Rorke.

The man’s boots squelched in the mud as he moved, his presence looming like a storm within the storm. He tilted his head, a smug smile curling his lips, as if savoring the power he held over the son of Elias Walker. “You’re just like your father,” Rorke said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Stubborn, predictable… weak.” He stopped, crouching slightly to meet Logan’s glare. “But don’t worry,” he continued, his tone almost mockingly kind. “I’m going to make you stronger. Just like me.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his eyes blazing. Without hesitation, he spat at Rorke’s feet, defiance etched into every line of his face. “I’ll never be like you,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady, cutting through the rain.

Rorke’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment, but then he grabbed Logan by the collar, yanking him upward with surprising strength. Logan’s knees scraped against the mud, but he didn’t flinch. Rorke’s face was inches from his own now, and Logan could see the fire in his eyes—part fury, part amusement.

“Oh, you will,” Rorke snarled, his grip tightening. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll beg to be on my side.”

Rorke let him go with a shove, and Logan hit the mud with a muted thud. The soldiers barely had time to react before Logan moved, launching himself upward with a sudden burst of energy. His bound hands came up fast and hard, connecting with Rorke’s face in a swift, brutal punch. The force of it sent the man reeling, blood trailing from his split lip.

Rorke staggered back, his hand brushing his mouth as he stared at the crimson streak on his fingers. For a moment, there was silence—save for the rain and the ragged breaths of everyone present. Then, Rorke chuckled, low and dangerous, a smirk spreading across his face despite the pain.

“The hell…” he muttered, shaking his head as five soldiers swarmed Logan, struggling to pin him down. Logan fought like a cornered wolf, his strength fueled by sheer rage and adrenaline. It took all five of them to wrestle him into submission, their grunts and curses mingling with the storm.

Rorke wiped the blood from his lip, his grin never fading as he stepped closer, towering over Logan once more. “You’re something else, kid. Five men can barely stop you.” His voice was laced with dark amusement, but his eyes betrayed something more—an acknowledgment of the fire burning within Logan. One that wouldn’t be extinguished so easily.

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The dimly lit room buzzed with quiet tension, the hum of equipment and the faint sound of rain outside the only noise. A large map stretched across the table, dotted with red markers and lines tracing Federation movements. The Ghosts were hunched over it, their faces grim and focused as they pieced together fragments of intel. The faint glow of screens illuminated their expressions, sharp and determined.

You stood by Merrick, your finger tracing potential routes on the map as you spoke in a low, deliberate tone. “Hell if the Federation is back after we checkmated them,” you said, the sharp edge in your voice breaking the silence. Merrick didn’t respond verbally, his eyes glued to the screen, but his furrowed brow suggested he shared your unease.

The door swung open with a force that drew everyone’s attention. Hesh stormed in, his bandaged arm a reminder of the last mission, his eyes burning with urgency and anger. “Every second we waste, they’re breaking him,” he snapped, his voice thick with frustration. He slammed his hands onto the table, making the markers tremble. “We can’t wait around for perfect intel.”

Before anyone could respond, Keegan stepped forward, his calm yet commanding presence cutting through the tension like a knife. “Rushing in blind will only get us killed—and then Logan too,” he said, his voice steady but firm. His gaze locked onto Hesh, daring him to argue.

Hesh clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as he struggled to hold back a retort. The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of their dilemma pressing down on all of them. Every second felt like an eternity, the unspoken fear of what Logan might be enduring hanging thick in the air.

The room crackled with tension as Hesh’s voice rose, trembling with emotion. “You don’t get it!” he shouted, his frustration spilling over like a dam breaking. “He’s not just another Ghost to me—he’s my brother!” His words echoed through the room, raw and unfiltered, his tone almost childlike in its desperation, like a nine-year-old trying to explain something no one else could understand.

Keegan remained silent, his face unreadable as he turned back to the map. He wasn’t one for indulging emotional outbursts, and to him, Hesh’s reaction wasn’t helping anyone. Instead, it was Merrick who shifted, drawing everyone’s attention as he let out a long sigh, his eyes closing for a moment.

For a brief second, it seemed like Merrick might snap—his patience with Hesh’s outbursts wearing thin. But when he opened his eyes, his expression wasn’t one of anger. It was something softer, something restrained. Since Elias’ death, something in Merrick had changed. The hardened edge that defined him had dulled slightly when it came to the Walker brothers. He still led with strength and precision, but there was an underlying care that hadn’t been there before—a quiet, unspoken understanding of the weight they carried.

Merrick stepped forward, his voice calm yet firm, cutting through the storm brewing in the room. “Hesh, we all get it,” he said, his tone steady, not harsh. “Logan’s not just a Ghost to any of us. But your brother needs us to be smarter than this. Losing our heads won’t save him—it’ll bury him.”

Hesh’s chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing, his emotions still simmering just below the surface. Merrick didn’t break eye contact, his voice softening slightly. “I know you’re scared. I know you’re angry. But right now, Logan needs us to keep it together. Can you do that?”

Hesh looked away, his jaw clenching. He didn’t answer, but the tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction. Merrick placed a hand on his shoulder briefly before stepping back to the table, his eyes scanning the map once more.

Keegan finally spoke, his tone dry but not unkind. “If we’re done with the yelling, maybe we can get back to finding him.”

Merrick gave a slight nod, his focus returning to the task at hand. The room settled into a strained silence, but the spark of unity was there. For Logan’s sake, it had to be.

-------------------------------------------

The night was eerily quiet, save for the faint rustle of leaves and the distant hum of generators from the camp below. The rain had finally eased, leaving behind a damp chill that clung to everything. Hesh sat on the rooftop, hunched over a map of Federation territories, the dim light of his flashlight casting long shadows across his weary face. His eyes were bloodshot, the bags beneath them betraying how long it had been since he’d truly rested. He stared at the map as if sheer willpower could reveal something he’d missed, something that would lead him to Logan.

You climbed up quietly, your boots crunching softly against the wet surface. He didn’t acknowledge you, his focus locked on the map, his brows furrowed so deeply they might never unfurl. You stood beside him, gazing out at the faint glow of the other camp in the distance. For a while, neither of you said anything, the silence settling comfortably between you.

Then, without warning, you chuckled softly. It wasn’t loud, just a short, unexpected sound that broke the quiet. Hesh’s eyes flicked to you from the side, his expression sharp, though curiosity glimmered beneath the frustration.

“Sorry,” you said, shaking your head with a faint smile. “It’s just… earlier, when you were angry about Logan, you were like a—” You paused, searching for the right words. “Like a cute kid who just wants his family back.”

You smiled at him, your tone teasing but not unkind. The warmth in your voice carried no mockery, only understanding. Hesh’s jaw tightened, and he turned his gaze back to the map, his fingers gripping its edges. His anger was still simmering, but there was something else now—a flicker of vulnerability he couldn’t quite hide.

“It’s not funny,” he muttered, though his voice lacked the venom it had carried earlier.

“No,” you agreed, your voice softening. “It’s not. But it’s also not a bad thing. You care, Hesh. That’s what keeps you going—and that’s what’s going to get Logan back.”

Hesh didn’t respond right away, his eyes fixed on the map, though you could see the tension in his shoulders ease ever so slightly. After a long moment, he sighed and leaned back, his gaze shifting to the horizon.

“I just... I can’t lose him too,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, the words carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

You nodded, your smile fading into something more solemn. “You won’t.”

The silence stretched between you both, the stillness broken only by the soft drip of water from the rooftop. The air was thick with the humidity, the remnants of the storm clinging to everything, and for a while, neither of you spoke. Hesh remained staring out at the camp, his face still shadowed by the flickering light of distant fires. His hands were pressed flat against the cool rooftop, but his mind was clearly elsewhere, somewhere deeper.

Then, almost too softly to hear, Hesh muttered, “He was always... special...” His voice was quiet, almost lost in the air around you, but there was something raw in the way the words slipped out.

You turned your gaze to him, focusing on his profile in the dim light, sensing the weight behind the words. You didn’t rush to respond, simply letting the silence hang for a moment, giving him space to continue if he chose to. When he did, it was almost like he was talking to himself, wrestling with thoughts that had been buried for far too long.

“I mean...” Hesh’s voice trailed off, and for the first time, he seemed vulnerable, uncertain, as if this was the first time he’d fully admitted something to himself. “He’s always in demand. Sometimes I wonder why he just... got this power.”

You didn’t answer immediately, letting him speak his truth. You thought of Logan—his calm authority, the way his sharp skills and natural charisma had always made him stand out, even when he tried to stay in the background. There had always been a quiet magnetism to him, a way of pulling people in without trying. You’d seen it a thousand times—Logan could command a room without raising his voice, could turn the hardest of enemies into allies just by being himself.

You understood what Hesh was trying to say. Logan didn’t just have skills. He had something intangible—something that made people gravitate toward him, something beyond just his strength or his training. It was the way he made others feel like they mattered, the way his presence could shift the mood of an entire room without a single word.

You exhaled slowly, breaking the silence between you. “He’s always been like that,” you said softly, your voice steady. “Behind that calm demand, there’s a sharpness to him, yeah. But... it’s more than just his skill. He’s got this... presence, you know? People want to be around him, follow him. He doesn't even have to try. Maybe that's his power—he knows how to make people believe in something.”

Hesh didn’t look at you, but you saw his eyes shift slightly, like he was processing the words, the quiet truth of them. “Yeah,” he muttered after a long pause. "I guess that's it. He’s got something most people don’t."

You could see the tension in Hesh’s shoulders easing just a fraction, the weight of his words lifting, and for the first time in a while, you saw something softer in his eyes—not just anger, but a deep understanding of why Logan had always been the one everyone gravitated toward.

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