Logan's POV
Oliver's tiny fist is tugging at my beard, and I'm letting him. He giggles when I grunt like it hurts, a squeaky little sound that rattles in my chest like sunlight in the middle of night. He claps, babbles something that makes sense at first then dissolves into nonsense and pats my cheek.
I whisper against his hands, "You're gonna pull it all out, you know that? I'll be bald by the time you're five."
He squeals as if that's the best news he's ever heard.
It's when his laughter subsides that I realise I'm surrounded by silence. I think it's been silent for a while but I was too busy blowing a raspberry on Oliver's cheek, too wrapped up in the way he kicks his chubby legs and cackles to notice. His joy is infectious. It fills the bond between me and Noah, wrapping warm around me, making me forget that I'm actually surrounded by people.
Which is why, when I finally look up, I'm shocked to see that every single face in the tent is turned toward me.
