CHAPTER 172: THE LOST BATTLE

Logan didn’t need to open his eyes to know she was awake.

Jean’s body was tense... too tense. Not like someone resting, but like someone holding back tears. Breathing shallow. Movements are almost too quiet, too careful, like she didn’t want him to notice.

But he noticed.

He always noticed.

Logan slowly blinked his eyes open, taking in the soft light of morning and the woman lying stiffly in his arms. His hand was still on her, protectively. She hadn’t moved it. Hadn’t pushed him away.

That alone was a small miracle.

He propped himself up slightly on his elbow, watching the side of her face. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing. Lips parted as if she were in the middle of a thought she couldn’t say out loud.

"Jean," he said gently.

She tensed further. Didn’t answer.

He lowered his voice, softer now. "Did you get a good sleep?"

A pause. Then, she shook her head once, barely perceptible.

His heart ached.

"Why didn’t you wake me?"

Still, no answer. The silence stretched like wire between them... taut, sharp.

So he tried something else.

Logan reached out and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. "I know it’s not okay," he whispered. "I know you’re not okay. And I won’t ask you to pretend anymore."

Her eyes fluttered closed, but a tear escaped anyway.

Logan’s voice cracked slightly as he added, "Let me be here. Don’t shut me out again."

She turned her face just slightly toward him, but not enough to meet his gaze. Her voice came out hoarse, barely a breath. "I don’t know how..."

He brushed his thumb along her cheek. "Then let me teach you."

There it was... the beginning of something fragile, something honest. A rare crack in her armor.

Jean didn’t say anything more. But this time, when she turned into his chest and let him hold her again, her arms wrapped around him too.

And for Logan... that was enough.

For now.

Jean didn’t speak again after wrapping her arms around him... and Logan didn’t ask her to.

He simply held her, his hands gently moving over her back in slow, steady motions, as if anchoring her in this moment, reminding her she wasn’t alone.

The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore. It was healing.

And then... she looked up.

Her eyes met his. No mask. No coldness. Just... vulnerability.

Logan stilled, his gaze locked on hers, reading the sadness, the fatigue... and something else shimmering beneath it. Something softer. Something like trust.

His fingers reached for her face again, brushing the tear-streaked strands of hair from her cheek.

"Jean," he whispered, his voice gravelly with emotion, "can I...?"

But he didn’t finish the sentence.

Because she answered by leaning in first.

Her lips met his... hesitant, trembling, but real.

It wasn’t a desperate kiss. It wasn’t fire and passion like before.

It was a quiet surrender. A kiss full of unsaid apologies, of grief, of a cautious beginning. It tasted like salt and morning warmth and the tiniest drop of hope.

When they pulled apart, Logan didn’t speak. He rested his forehead against hers instead.

Jean breathed out shakily, "I’m scared."

He kissed her forehead gently and replied, "Then we’ll be scared together."

And just like that, for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to rest in someone’s arms... not out of necessity... but out of choice.

Jean didn’t move from his embrace. Her head still nestled beneath his chin, her breath warm against his collarbone. But something inside her had shifted... subtly, like a locked door creaking open for the first time.

Logan noticed it. He felt it in the way her hands curled into his shirt. Not to push him away, but to hold him closer.

His fingers brushed the edge of her jaw, lifting her face slowly. His thumb gently wiped the last remnants of tears from her cheeks.

She looked at him, deep in his eyes... at the man who had fought beside her, yelled at her, hurt her, protected her... stayed.

"I don’t know how to be this version of me," she confessed, voice barely above a whisper. "The one who leans on someone else."

"You don’t have to know," Logan said, his voice low and steady. "You just have to let yourself try."

His lips found hers again, softer this time... not asking, not demanding, just... staying.

Jean responded tentatively at first, the kiss delicate like spun glass. But when Logan’s hand slid up to cradle the back of her head, holding her like she might slip away... something inside her melted.

She pressed in closer.

Their bodies found a rhythm, not frantic, but slow... memorizing. Logan’s lips moved from her mouth to her jaw, down the curve of her neck. Jean gasped softly, her fingers finding the fabric of his shirt and gripping it like it was the only thing tethering her to earth.

And then he paused. Just above her shoulder blade... the same one he’d kissed days ago, the one now laced with faint burn marks.

He trailed his fingers over the scar tissue, featherlight.

Jean flinched.

Not from pain... but from how gently he treated her broken pieces.

"You’re beautiful," he murmured against her skin.

She closed her eyes.

No one had ever looked at her and said that while seeing the damage. The past. The pain.

She whispered, "Don’t stop."

So he didn’t.

Not until her breath trembled and her back arched ever so slightly. Not until she forgot... just for a moment... what pain felt like.

She didn’t promise anything.

But her hand in his hand said enough.

Just as Logan tucked a loose strand of Jean’s hair behind her ear, their breathing still syncing from the moment they shared, his phone vibrated harshly on the nightstand.

Both of them flinched.

Logan reluctantly reached over, casting a quick glance at the screen.

Henry.

He frowned. Henry never called unless it was urgent... and especially not this late.

He answered immediately. "Yeah?"

Jean sat up slowly, wrapping the blanket around herself, sensing something was wrong from the tightness in Logan’s voice.

Henry’s voice was laced with frustration, confusion, and something else... desperation.

"You need to hear this from me before it hits the press or reaches Jean in some twisted form..."

Logan sat up straighter, his entire demeanor sharpening. "What is it?"

"The police just announced internally that they’re dropping Emma’s case."

Logan froze.

Jean blinked, stunned. "What did he say?"

"They’re calling it ’insufficient evidence’ now. The surveillance footage got corrupted. The nurse who first raised the alarm isn’t speaking anymore. It’s like someone scrubbed the whole thing clean."

"No, that’s not possible..." Logan growled, already throwing off the covers and standing up, pacing the room.

"They’re not even keeping Morris in the loop anymore. Something’s wrong, Logan. Really wrong."

Jean’s heart dropped.

Her body still ached. Her burns, her mind... barely healing.

And now this?

"They’re protecting him," she whispered, almost to herself.

Logan hung up the call after a few more sharp words, his chest heaving with fury.

"They’re protecting Alex," she repeated, her voice trembling now. "They’re going to let him walk. After everything... After Emma..."

Logan turned to her, eyes dark.

He remained standing by the window, his back to her, hands clenched at his sides.

The glow of the sun rays outside flickered across his reflection... a man consumed by fury, tethered by helplessness.

Jean sat on the edge of the bed, her shoulders hunched, fingers digging into the sheets.

Finally, Logan spoke... voice low but cutting.

"You were right, Jean... about your family. Their ties with the police run deep. I should’ve seen it earlier."

Jean let out a bitter breath.

Of course she was right. She’d lived through it... endured it. Still, hearing it aloud didn’t feel like validation. It felt like a knife twisting in the same old wound.

"They’ve bought silence. Erased evidence. Scrubbed away Emma’s attack like it was a mistake on a chalkboard."

She turned away, blinking rapidly. "Then how do we fight them, Logan?" she whispered. "Tell me... how do you fight someone who never plays fair? Who owns the law, bends truth, and gets to rewrite every story?"

He turned to her... and for a moment, he saw it.

Not the fierce, unyielding Jean the world knew.

But the woman who was tired of surviving battles no one else could see. The woman who bled in silence, burned in shadows, and still stood tall.

Logan walked toward her and knelt in front of her, taking her trembling hands in his.

"We don’t fight them by playing fair," he said softly but firmly. "We fight smart. We fight loudly. We hit them where it hurts... their power, their reputation, their money."

Her lashes fluttered as she stared at him, but her voice cracked anyway.

"And if we lose?"

He squeezed her hands tighter.

"Then we make sure the world knows exactly who they are... and we don’t go down alone."

Jean didn’t reply.

But a tear slipped down her cheek... not out of weakness.

Out of the quiet, dangerous promise forming in her heart.

They weren’t just going to survive this.

They were going to burn every lie down to the ground.