Chapter Text
Logan Echolls has imagined himself as a lot of things.
A pilot.
A lieutenant.
A decorated intelligence officer.
A boyfriend. A lover.
A husband.
A father—always, very specifically, to a little girl.
He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when that last one had taken root, but it had been there for years. Late twenties, maybe. Somewhere between deployments and long stretches of quiet, it had settled into him—this oddly vivid image of a brown-haired kid with scraped knees and a stubborn streak, who would absolutely wrap him around her finger. By the time he and Veronica found their way back to each other, it stopped being abstract. (Damnit, Veronica really brings out the lovey-dovey side out of him)
It became inevitable.
“Girl dad?” Veronica had said once, squinting at him over her coffee like she was cross-examining a witness. “You? The man who once set a swimming pool on fire?”
Logan had leaned back, unfazed. “Allegedly.”
“You confessed.”
“I was coerced.”
“You bragged.”
He’d grinned. “And yet, here I am. A reformed man with a dream.”
“A dream,” Veronica repeated flatly.
“Yes. Me, a tiny human, matching tiaras. Emotional vulnerability. Growth.”
Veronica had snorted into her mug. “God help her.”
-
God, apparently, had taken that as a challenge.
Because two years into their marriage, they brought home Evelyn Echolls—Evie—7.4 pounds of outraged fury and a set of lungs that could probably shatter glass. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A glare that, even then, felt eerily familiar.
“Congratulations,” Wallace had said, peering into the hospital bassinet. “You cloned Veronica.”
Veronica, pale and exhausted but smirking, didn’t even open her eyes. “She is, my child, after all.”
Logan had just stood there, staring. He had been undone from the second she’d wrapped her impossibly small hand around his finger.
“Hey,” he’d whispered to her in the hospital room, voice wrecked in a way no battlefield had ever managed. “You and me? We’re gonna have a great time.”
And they did.
-
From that moment on, everything rearranged itself.
The Navy, for one.
He’d loved parts of it—the structure, the purpose—but intelligence work demanded a kind of unpredictability he no longer found thrilling. Not when he had a kid at home who deserved consistency. Not when “worst-case scenario” stopped being theoretical.
So he walked away.
It felt less like giving something up and more like finally choosing the right thing.
-
Domestic life, as it turned out, suited him in ways his younger self would’ve mocked relentlessly.
He had a vision for this life.
There were Saturday mornings in mismatched pajamas, music playing too loud while Evie spun in dizzy circles between them. There were baking attempts that ended with flour on the dog—Pony, long-suffering and deeply betrayed—and frosting on the walls. There were beach days where Veronica pretended she wasn’t enjoying herself and Logan absolutely did not pretend anything.
There were Christmases—plural, because Logan had opinions about Christmas now—where he insisted on real trees and too many lights and ridiculous traditions.
“Echolls,” Veronica had said one December, standing in the doorway while he and Evie argued over ornament placement, “you’re one garland away from becoming a Hallmark movie.”
He’d grinned at her, one arm slung around their daughter. “Admit it. You’re into it.”
“I’m into her,” Veronica shot back, nodding at Evie. “You’re just the overly enthusiastic set decoration.”
Evie gasped. “Daddy’s decoration?”
Logan clutched his chest. “Betrayed. By both my girls.”
Veronica smirked. “You’ll survive.”
He always did.
He’d imagined the milestones, too. More than he ever admitted out loud. First day of daycare. Pre-nursery. Kindergarten. All the way up to college, in these oddly cinematic flashes where he and Veronica stood on either side of their daughter, walking her up to doors that would lead her into every new phase of her life.
He’d imagined nerves. Pride. The bittersweet ache of watching her grow.
What he had not imagined, was this…