*~~Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Three~~*

{~~Avery Sterling~~}

Logan’s mother did an exceptional job with the spare room. She must have worked tirelessly because when I stepped inside, it was as if the room had been designed for a child to grow up in—a little haven of warmth and safety. The walls were painted a soft, calming lavender with hand-painted butterflies fluttering across one side. The crib was a gleaming white, surrounded by plush toys and blankets neatly folded on top of the changing table. There were shelves already stocked with baby books, diapers stacked like towers, and jars of baby food arranged in perfect rows. She thought of everything.

Earlier that day, after my panic attack, Logan had taken me to the hospital. My heart had been racing, my breathing shallow, and my mind scattered in a dozen directions. I could barely think straight. Logan, calm and ever patient, had sat with me as they administered something for the headache that had been pounding at my temples. He told me I should try to sleep it off, that