“So you still haven’t put two and two together…”

“Two and two is four, Logan, but your little riddle is indecipherable,” I snap.

He looks at me impassively for a moment. Then he gets to his feet and says, “I’ll pack that bag for you.”

* * *

The view from the front of my house is a completely different sight to this morning, and now that my stomach is trustworthy, I take it all in. The cottage opposite mine is swarmed with men and women, someone in suits, some in police uniforms, and a long do-not-cross tape encircles the entire property. I could do with some of that tape right now, I think; I’d send Logan a clear message without even saying a word. Not that we’ve said anything to each other for the last ten minutes. We just moved around one another, packing clothes and toothbrushes, not to mention my flowers, him lost in thought and me torn between tears and a tantrum.

I decide on neither. I’m going to enjoy my evening, is what I conclude. A ready-cooked meal of Mercy’s and a soak in the hot tub, before sinking into bed and eradicating this day from my memory bank. Logan can sleep on the couch, I decide as an afterthought.

He locks the front door while I watch what’s going on across the pathway. Then, when he joins me at the top of the steps, I naturally reach for his hand, which he takes willingly. Dammit! Even after I’ve come to my senses and try to pry mine free, Logan doesn’t let it go. We walk the entire way to his car like this, and I have to admit that I like the normalcy of it. It’s the most familiar thing that I’ve felt all day, and it’s probably the reason why the journey to his is calmer than the journey to mine was. Sure we sit in silence, but it’s an easier silence somehow. Less prickly, less agitated, as though those brief minutes of our hands touching relaxed the crazy, stupid, unexplained tension between us.

Of course, in the back of my mind I still want to know what the hell has been going on today, but for now, at least, I’m happy to bask in the quietness, just feeling his presence beside me.

* * *

“Lights,” Logan says loudly.

Our apartment lights up in front of my eyes, and then Logan stands near the open doors of the elevator, indicating that I should walk out ahead of him. I go to the kitchen to put the flowers into the sink; he follows me, throwing his keys onto the kitchen counter, their clanging sound making me jump.

“Someone has to call a truce,” he says, standing at the end of the kitchen island, watching me. “So I’m going to do it,” Logan mans up.

I nod, thankfully. “Good, I think you should,” I say honestly, given that it was him who started our spat.

He clears his throat, and lets my digging comment slide. “I’m going to tell you about my day, and I’m going to do so without insinuating anything about your intelligence.”

I want to sigh in relief. At last, an explanation. I give the flowers a little water, turn off the tap and then take several steps towards him. “That would be perfect, Logan,” I tell him sincerely.

He turns and leads the way into the living room where we sit side-by-side on the sofa that we pleasured each other on only a few days ago. We both instinctively lean inwards towards one another. A good sign, I can’t help thinking.

Then, to my surprise, Logan takes one of my hands in both of his own and holds it in his lap as he speaks. “This morning was probably the worst morning of my life,” he tells me and when my eyes widen in suspicious disbelief, he adds, “No exaggeration, Gemima.” The way that his hands tighten around mine tells me that he’s telling the truth. “I was already on-site when your last text message came through, telling me that you were about to leave for work,” he says, and I nod my understanding. “The thing that I think you haven’t taken into account today, for whatever reason, is that I own the complex where you live…”

I look at him, bewildered. “I know that,” I tell him quietly, still not understanding how that could excuse his behaviour. I urge him to continue.

“And because I own it, I’m obviously informed about any major problems,” he says.

“Like someone getting shot?” I assume.

“For example,” he nods, subconsciously giving my hand another tight squeeze. “So about half an hour after your last message to me,” he goes on, “I got a phone call from the complex manager telling me that a brunette woman in her late-twenties or early-thirties was shot dead on the pathway between houses eight and nine,” he says, his voice becoming uneven. “He told me the estimated time of the shooting, and it was about three minutes after you told me that you were leaving your house.”

That doesn’t sound good, I admit to myself. I inch a little closer to him on the sofa.

“I’m usually a pretty levelheaded guy,” he says with the first hint of amusement that I’ve seen from him all day. “His description of the woman, and the location, and the timing were all a concern to me, but I wasn’t going to lose my mind yet, not until I knew more.” He sighs as he says, “That’s when I tried to call you…and call you…and call you…and you didn’t answer.”

I shake my head, shifting my position on the sofa so that I’m turned to face him. Logan mirrors my actions.

“I started to panic,” he confesses, his eyes pouring into mine. “Panic is not in my nature. That levelheadedness is who I am, and when I lose that, I feel like I’ve lost myself. That could account for the abnormally high number of missed calls,” he explains. “But when I couldn’t get through to your mobile, I called your desk phone. No answer.”

I would’ve been in the meeting room at the time, I think.

“I called Pierson House’s front desk. No answer.”

Layla was absent from reception most of the morning.

“And I called Amélie’s private office number. No answer.”

Amélie was with me, I think mournfully.

“I knew that something was wrong,” Logan says quietly. “Four unanswered numbers, each called multiple times, is not a coincidence. That combined with the information that the complex manager gave me was enough for me to draw a very dark conclusion.”

It all makes sense now. A brunette woman, in my age bracket, outside of my house, and all those unanswered calls…it’s no wonder that he jumped to the assumption that he did.

I reach out and cup his face with my free hand, and a moment later Logan leans into me and wraps his arms around me, holding me like he never wants to let go.

“I had no idea that you knew about the shooting, Logan. Let alone that you thought it was me who got shot,” I whisper to him, hugging him tightly. I’d’ve called him in a heartbeat if I knew, of course I would’ve.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he murmurs, his voice infused with emotion, his arms pulling me closer to him still. “As unlikely and surreal as I thought it was, I was panicked into believing that every detail could only conclude one thing. I thought I’d lost you right after I’ve just found you,” he says, and I feel like I could burst into tears for the umpteenth time today and I suspect I’m not alone in feeling that way.

I want desperately to tell him that his assumption was crazy, I want to tell him that he’ll never lose me, but I can’t. I’d be lying if I did. My parents are a painful proof to me that you can lose the love of your life in the blink of an eye, and so all I can promise Logan right now is, “Not today. You haven’t lost me today, baby.”

We’re silent for a long time, I think, or maybe time is playing tricks on us again. I feel our bubble encase us, but it feels like a different kind of electricity between us than anything else before. It’s not romantic, but we are unified, and I realise that the basis of our bubble, its origins, were never about the steaminess, the sexiness, or the romance, but rather a choice that we both made the second our eyes met at that first lunch date, to be together, to be connected, to be one. We don’t have to be ripping each others clothes off or playfully teasing one another or even talking at all for that connection between us to be there. It is there, and I expect it will always remain.