UNBROKEN PROMISE

~70~ A Whimper.

The night stretched on, the fire in the hearth crackling softly, casting long shadows across the walls. Outside, the blizzard raged, wind howling through the trees, snow piling higher against the windows. But inside, in this dimly lit room, the world had shrunk down to just two people—one clinging to life, and the other clinging to hope.

Logan never left her side.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his hands wrapped tightly around hers, rubbing slow, steady circles against her cold skin. Every few minutes, he’d reach for the warmed stones Mama Becca had left by the hearth, replacing them with careful precision beneath the blankets, desperate to keep the warmth around her.

Mama Becca had given him space, stepping out for a while to let him be alone with her. Maybe she knew he needed this—needed the quiet, needed to fall apart where no one could see.

And God help him, he was falling apart.

Tears slipped down his cheeks, silent and unbidden, as he looked at her—looked at how small she seemed, her face pale, her lips still tinged with blue.

He had done this.

His own damn words had driven her into the storm.

If he had just been honest—if he had just told her what she meant to him instead of letting his fear speak for him—she wouldn’t be lying here now, cold and weak and barely breathing.

His chest ached as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against her limp hand.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice rough and broken. “ Oma… I’m so sorry.”

His shoulders shook as he pressed her hand against his cheek, his tears dampening her already chilled skin.

He clutched at the edge of the blankets, his body tense with emotion as he whispered, “I’ll do better. I swear it. I’ll be a better man… a better husband.”

His breath hitched as another tear slipped free. “Just wake up, sweetheart. Please.”

He stayed like that for what felt like hours, murmuring soft promises into the quiet, his head resting against her chest, listening—praying—for the faint rise and fall of her breath.

And then…

A sound.

Soft. Weak.

A whimper.

Logan’s breath caught in his throat as he jerked his head up, his heart hammering wildly.

Oma’s lashes fluttered against her pale cheeks, a weak movement. Her lips parted slightly, and a hoarse, almost inaudible sound escaped—a fragile attempt at speech.

“Shh,” Logan whispered, his hand cupping her face instantly. His thumb brushed against her cold cheek, his own fingers still trembling. “It’s alright. Don’t talk. Just rest.”

Her eyes—those beautiful, familiar green eyes—opened just enough for him to see the confusion flickering within them. She tried again, her lips forming the beginning of a word, but he hushed her once more, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek.

“You’re safe,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re home.”

A fresh wave of tears burned at the back of his eyes, but he swallowed hard, pushing them down. He had to be strong now. She needed warmth, needed care.

He ran a hand over her hair, smoothing back the damp strands before reluctantly pulling away. “I’m gonna get Mama Becca,” he told her softly. “She’ll know what to do.”