Noah's POV
I've never been superstitious, but this feels like an omen.
Oliver is still sniffling into Logan's chest, hiccupping softly. Fat tears are rolling down his cheeks in uneven intervals. He's not crying anymore though, not really— Logan's lullaby worked wonders for that— but he's breathing that wobbly sort of breath that toddlers get after they've cried themselves tired. His small fingers twitch where they rest against Logan's shirt, and his bottom lip is still trembling.
Logan cradles him gently, his hand moving in slow, practiced sweeps over Oliver's back. He's whispering something—soft and low and warm—but the words don't matter. It's the cadence that soothes, the way Logan's body rocks him like a boat at anchor.
The sunlight spilling in from the back doors glints off Logan's silver hair. He's crouched over our son, shoulders curled protectively, the picture of peace. But it's not peace. Not really. I know it isn't.
Because my heart's thudding too fast.
