Love is Dead

The Small Things

The night was colder than I expected. Even with the thin blanket draped over my shoulders, the chill seeped into my bones. I huddled near the small fire Logan had insisted we build, even though the risk of being spotted gnawed at me.

"Relax," Logan had said earlier, his voice low and steady, like distant thunder rolling through a valley. "We're far enough out. No one's comin'."

I wasn't convinced, but exhaustion made arguing pointless.

Now, as I poked idly at the embers with a stick, Logan sat across from me, leaning against a moss-covered tree. His bandaged leg was stretched out in front of him, and his body was unnaturally still. He wasn't in pain—not exactly—but there was an unease about him like his body didn't quite fit right anymore.

"How's the knee?" I asked, more to fill the silence than anything else.

He glanced down at it, then back at me, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "Still attached."

I rolled my eyes. "That's not what I asked."

"It's fine. Just doesn't... feel right," he said, his words deliberate, his deep tone carrying a calmness that somehow reassured me despite the subject.

"Fine," I muttered, pulling the blanket tighter around myself. "Be stubborn."

He watched me for a moment, his mismatched eyes catching the firelight. Then, without a word, he pushed himself up. His movements were deliberate, each step carefully balanced as he made his way to his pack.

"What are you doing?" I asked, sharper than I intended.

He didn't respond right away. After rummaging through his bag, he returned to the fire with a small metal container.

"Tea," he said simply.

"You saved tea?"

His shoulders lifted slightly. "Figured you'd need somethin' normal."

The smell of the dried leaves hit me before I could think of a response. He didn't explain himself further, instead pulling out a battered tin cup, filling it with water from his canteen, and setting it on the edge of the flames.

"You don't have to do that," I said, though my voice lacked conviction.

"I know," he replied, his tone even.

That was Logan. He didn't make a show of what he did—he just quietly filled the gaps, doing the things I didn't even realize I needed.

When the tea was ready, he carefully pulled the cup from the fire and handed it to me. His hand lingered for just a moment before retreating, the warmth from the cup spreading through my hands.

"You didn't have to," I murmured, staring down at the steaming liquid.

"You keep me... together," he said, his voice quiet but firm, like he was stating a simple fact. "Least I can do."

The weight of his words settled between us, heavy but not unwelcome.

"Thanks," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, mismatched eyes meeting mine briefly before flickering back to the fire.

I told myself it wasn't anything more than gratitude. Logan had become important to me, yes, but as a friend. Someone I could rely on in a world where trust was a luxury. Attachments were dangerous, I reminded myself. But tonight, I let myself appreciate him.

Logan sat quietly, staring into the fire, his expression unreadable. But in the stillness, I caught the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his jaw unclenched ever so slightly.

Sipping from my cup, I let the moment stretch between us. And I almost didn't hear him when he finally spoke, his voice a low and deep rumble.

"You make me feel..." He paused, his gaze fixed on the flames. "Like I'm still me. Not just... this."

I looked up, startled. His words carried a rawness that he rarely let show, and for a second, I didn't know how to respond.

"That's because you are still you, silly," I said softly, my voice barely louder than the crackle of the fire.

He didn't reply, but his gaze shifted toward me briefly, a flicker of something unspoken passing between us. Then he leaned back against the tree, his face turning to the sky. The silence that followed wasn't empty or uncomfortable—it settled between us, filling the gap in a way words couldn't. It felt like a fragile kind of understanding, one neither of us needed to name.