Noah's POV
When Logan returns, he smells like burial spices and looks like he's been crying.
The scent clings to him—clove and myrrh and something bitter, like crushed walnut shells. The scent hits me, sharp and herbal, strong enough to sting my nose. Underneath that, the salt of old tears. His clothes are stiff with incense smoke, the black fabric of his ceremonial robe creased at the cuffs, and his eyes… his eyes are rimmed in red.
Still, he reaches for me, cups my cheeks like I'm something worth holding and presses his lips gently to my forehead. He stays there for a moment, his touch warm and steady, grounding me in a way that I don't deserve.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at me.
"Have you been crying?"
His voice is soft. Too soft. The kind of soft that only comes from hollowed-out strength.
