Page 71 of Logan
I'll take a risk, take a chance, make a change
And break away
‘Breakaway’ - Kelly Clarkson
I stay in the hallway, half in shadow, the door cracked just enough to see her. The light from inside spills across the floor, thin and golden, brushing against my boots but not pulling me in. I stay where I am, rooted, because this moment doesn’t belong to me.
She’s standing in the middle of the clubhouse, property patch draped over her shoulders like armor, boots planted like she owns the ground under them, which she does. She looks steady, unshaken, like the earth itself would have to shift to move her. Her chin is high, her shoulders back, her spine a line of steel wrapped in fire.
That’s my girl.
But right now, she doesn’t belong to me.
She belongs to herself.
And I’ve never seen anything more fucking beautiful in my life.
Her voice carries through the room. She’s speaking to the women…no, not just speaking.
Commanding.
Every word rings clear, sharp as glass, and there is no mistaking the authority in it. There’s fire in her voice, truth in every syllable, and it pours out of her like it was waiting all this time to finally be heard. She isn’t saying it for show. She isn’t chasing pity or applause. She isn’t asking for anything at all.
She’s giving something.
Permission. Strength. A reminder that broken doesn’t mean ruined.
Her voice shakes once, just once. And when it does, every woman in the circle leans in. Not because she needs saving, not because she’s fragile, but because they recognize themselves in her. Because they know what it means to tremble and keep standing anyway.
I bite the inside of my cheek, jaw tight, fists pressed into my sides like I need to anchor myself in place. Didn’t know pride could hurt like this. Didn’t know it could burn straight through bone and muscle until all that’s left is this raw ache in the middle of my chest.
Didn’t know love could feel like being cracked open just to let more of her light in.
Months ago, I held her shaking body in my arms, kissed tears off her cheeks, and watched her shatter into pieces I didn’t know if I’d be able to help her put back together. I swore I’d never let her fall alone again.
But now… now she doesn’t need me to hold her up. She’s rising on her own. God, she’s fucking radiant.
My chest tightens when she says the words, her voice ringing out steady and strong: “This isn’t a symbol of belonging. It’s a damn crown.”
I freeze. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just let the words slam into me, sharp and holy, like they were meant to carve themselves into the marrow of my bones.
The room answers her with quiet applause. It isn’t raucous or wild, but the sound carries weight. It shakes deeper than any war cry, louder than any cheer I’ve ever heard after a fight. It is respect, pure and unwavering, and it fills the space like thunder rolling through the walls.
She’s earned every second of this. Every heartbeat. Every echo of reverence that vibrates the air around her.
I run a hand through my hair, trying like hell to steady the storm inside me. My pulse thunders, my chest aches, my throat burns. I’ve fought men twice my size. I’ve taken bullets and bled out in the dirt. I’ve buried brothers and stood through wars. But this, watching her stand in her power, refusing to be small, choosing to be louder than the silence that tried to swallow her…this is the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.
And it makes me fall in love with her all over again.
Not because she came through the fire. But because she came through it and didn’t let it burn away her softness. Because she held on to her strength without losing her soul. Because she is both survivor and queen, battle-marked and beautiful, scarred and shining.
I don’t go in. Not yet. This is her space. Her moment. She needs it without me casting a shadow over it.
But when she looks toward the door, I know she sees me. Not with her eyes, those stay steady on the women aroundher, but with something deeper. Something that ties us together in a way words will never touch.
She knows I’m here. Always.
Watching. Waiting. Loving her in every form she takes. Wrecked or radiant. Bare or battle-ready. Mine or her own.
