Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Logan
Declan picks the worst possible bar.
It’s not that it’s crowded or loud or even inconvenient. It’s just... public.
Too many witnesses. Too many opportunities for this to turn into something it shouldn’t. Like a scene. Like a fight.
I get there ten minutes early and sit at the bar with a glass of water, watching the door like I’m waiting for a bomb to go off.
Declan walks in right on time. Black jacket, jeans, jaw set like he’s already halfway to pissed off.
He spots me instantly and makes his way over. Slides onto the stool beside mine and orders a beer.
Then we sit.
Silence.
Tension so thick I could slice it with my skate blade.
Finally, he takes a sip of his drink and says, "How long?"
"Few weeks."
He nods slowly. "And before that?"
I meet his eyes. "I’ve had feelings for her longer than I care to admit."
His jaw tightens. "So this isn’t just some... thing."
"No. It’s not a thing. It’s real."
Declan exhales hard and sets his beer down. He looks toward the wall of sports memorabilia like he’s searching for answers in old jerseys and signed photos. "You know, I always wondered if something like this would happen."
"Then why didn’t you warn me?"
He snorts. "Because I didn’t think you’d actually be dumb enough to go there."
I can’t help the small laugh that escapes. "Yeah, well. Here we are."
He looks back at me, expression unreadable. "She’s not like other girls, Logan."
"I know."
"She gets attached. She feels everything. If you hurt her?—"
"I know," I repeat, firmly this time.
Silence stretches again.
Finally, Declan sighs. "Does she make you happy?"
I nod. "She makes everything better."
He studies me for a long second. "Then don’t screw it up."
Relief floods through me so fast my shoulders sag under the weight of it. "I won’t."
He raises his beer. "Then we’re good."
We clink glasses.
Just like that, it’s done.
When I walk into the apartment later, Violet is curled up on the couch in one of my hoodies, half-asleep with a book in her lap.
She blinks up at me. "Hey."
"Hey."
I kick off my shoes, hang up my jacket, and make my way over to her.
"You okay?" she asks.
"Yeah. Declan and I talked."
Her eyes search mine. "And?"
"We’re good. He gave us his blessing. More or less."
A slow smile spreads across her face, and she holds out her arms. I sink into them without hesitation.
"Told you it’d be okay," she murmurs.
"You did."
And for once, I’m glad she was right.
The next few days are some of the best I can remember.
We don’t change much—we still keep things relatively quiet in public, still have our own routines—but the shift is there.
Subtle, sure, but constant. A hand on my arm when she walks by.
A kiss pressed to my jaw when she thinks no one’s looking.
A look exchanged across a crowded room that says, I see you. I’ve got you.
I’ve always thought leadership was about control. About setting the standard. About making sacrifices.
But maybe it’s also about knowing when to bend. When to trust the people around you to hold the line with you.
Maybe strength isn’t silence.
Maybe it’s love.
Maybe it’s Violet.
And if that’s true?
Then I’ve never been stronger than I am right now.