Page 93 of Duty Devoted

“I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. I know I fucked up in ways that can’t be fixed with an apology. But Lauren, I—” He stopped, seemed to gather himself. “I want to try. To get help, real help. Find a therapist who actually understands PTSD, not just someone who wants to talk about feelings.”

“I can help with that. There are specific therapeutic approaches that work better for combat-related trauma. EMDR, cognitive processing therapy. I can help you find someone who specializes in what you need.”

“You’d still help me? After everything?”

I thought about the past two months. The sleepless nights, the constant looking over my shoulder, the hollow feeling that had taken up residence in my chest. But I also thought about the jungle, the hurricane shelter, the way he’d looked at me like I was something precious.

“I’m still hurt,” I said finally. “And angry. And it’s going to take time to trust you again.”

“I know.”

Silence overtook us again, both of us with so much more to say but not knowing exactly how.

“How about you since we’ve been back?” he finally asked. “Chicago. The new job.”

“Neither has been particularly fulfilling.”

“I have to admit, I was surprised you were working at the hospital. It wasn’t what I’d figured you’d do. I thought you might sign up for another mission with Compass or some other organization.”

I leaned my head back against the metal wall. “Let’s just say I figured out you were right before. About my being naive.”

“I was wrong about that. So wrong.” The intensity in his voice made me look at him. “Lauren, what you did in Corazón, what you do… If all you accomplished in six months was teaching Elena English and treating wounds and delivering babies, that’s more good than most people do in a lifetime.”

“That’s not what you thought in Corazón.”

“And you proved me wrong every single day. You stayed when everyone else evacuated. You saved lives with nothing but determination and whatever supplies you could scrounge. Youfaced down a cartel leader and didn’t break.” He met my eyes. “Don’t let my stupid words make you doubt what you’re meant to do. This hospital job, this life—it’s not you. Not unless it’s what you really want.”

“It’s not,” I admitted. “But after everything that happened, I thought maybe I should want something safer. Something normal.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting safety. But giving up who you are because of fear? That’s not living.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Hell yeah, I am.” He shifted against the wall. “I’ve been hiding in war zones because they’re easier than facing real life. You’ve been hiding in normalcy because it’s easier than risking your heart again. We’re both being cowards, just coming at it from opposite ways.”

The truth of it stung, but he wasn’t wrong. “So what do we do about it?”

“I don’t know. But maybe we figure it out together?”

The word hung between us again. Together. Such a simple concept that felt impossibly complex given everything that had happened.

“I want to try,” I said finally. “But Logan, if you run again?—”

“I won’t.” He said it with such certainty that I had to believe him. “I’m done running. From you, from this, from myself. I want to get better. Be better. Be someone who deserves you.”

“You already?—”

He moved then, scooting across the small space between us but stopping just short of touching me. “Can I?”

I nodded, and his hand found mine, our fingers interlacing with the same perfect fit I remembered. Such a simple touch, but it felt like coming home.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “For the bruises, for leaving, for the silence. For all of it.”

“I know.”

“And I’m going to keep apologizing until you’re sick of hearing it.”

“That might take a while.”