Chapter 29 Logan
TWENTY-NINE
LOGAN
There’s something about my mom’s kitchen that still feels like the safest place in the world. The smell of cinnamon and roasted chicken wraps around me the second I walk in. And having Todd with me this time makes it even better.
He agreed to come over and meet my mom and step dad, since our parents' houses are less than a mile apart, and let’s be honest—we would have never lasted the full three weeks without seeing each other. The four days apart felt like a lifetime as it is.
He hovers a little behind me, polite to a fault, shoulders a little too tense for someone who can flatten a six-foot defenseman on the ice. My mom, of course, notices immediately.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she says, abandoning the oven mitts and wrapping him in a hug before he can even react. “You’re practically family already. Sit, sit—Tom’s carving the chicken, and I made extra pie because Logan said you’re the only one who can eat as much as he does.”
Todd’s ears turn pink. “That’s… probably true, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” Mom snorts. “You can call me Emily, sweetheart. Unless you’re trying to make me feel old.”
Tom chuckles from the counter, knife glinting as he slices through the roast. “Don’t worry, Emily, he’s too scared to call anyone old. Captain Shaw here is the quiet kind, right? Let’s see if he can actually keep up with Logan’s mouth.”
“Tom,” my mom warns, swatting him lightly with a dish towel, but she’s laughing.
Todd’s laugh joins hers—soft, shy, but real—and something inside my chest unclenches. I didn’t realize how much I wanted this until now. Him here, in this kitchen, with my family treating him like he’s always belonged.
We all settle around the table. My mom’s centerpiece is a little crooked—pinecones and a candle shaped like a snowman—but she beams like it’s art gallery material. Tom pours wine. The conversation starts off safely: hockey, travel, the storm forecast rolling in tomorrow.
Then Mom tilts her head at Todd. “So tell me, how long have you been putting up with my son?”
Todd glances at me, smiling. “Depends on the definition of putting up with.”
“Oh, careful,” I warn under my breath, nudging him.
Mom gasps dramatically. “Logan! Are you threatening him already? You see this, Tom? My son brings home the first man who actually seems to like him, and he’s already starting fights.”
Tom grins. “As long as you don’t break any furniture this time.”
Todd looks curious, and I groan. “Don’t—”
Too late. Mom’s eyes light up with mischief. “He’s talking about the time Logan tried to impress his first crush. You were what, fifteen? That poor Zamboni driver never stood a chance. He revved that thing every time Logan walked by.”
Todd chokes on his wine. “A Zamboni driver?”
“I was hormonal! And he was maybe sixteen,” I protest, but even Tom’s laughing now.
“Oh, please,” Mom says. “You invited the poor guy over to ‘help fix your stick,’ remember? Next thing we know, you’re showing off your new slap shot in the living room. Nearly took out the coffee table and Tom’s beer.”
Tom raises his glass like it’s a war story. “May it rest in splinters.”
Todd’s laughing so hard his shoulders shake. “You broke furniture trying to impress a Zamboni driver?”
“It was an accident!” I insist, face burning. “The stick slipped.”
“Sure it did,” Mom teases, topping off Todd’s glass. “You’ve been breaking things to impress people ever since.”
“Mostly hearts,” Tom mutters, earning another playful swat from my mom.
Before I can defend myself, Mom’s already leaning closer to Todd, eyes twinkling. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s got a good heart, that one. And it’s been talking about you for months.”
Todd blinks. “Months?”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. “Mom—”
She waves me off, oblivious to the heat climbing up my neck.
“Oh, please, like I wasn’t going to notice?
Every phone call—‘Mom, there’s this guy on the team who actually knows how to play defense,’ ‘Mom, this guy makes practice bearable,’ ‘Mom, this guy can read the ice like no one else.’ ‘Mom, I think we actually have a chance at Nationals together, he’s so good. ’ And now that he’s home—”
“Mom,” I groan, dragging a hand down my face, but she’s grinning, delighted with herself.
Todd turns toward me, one brow raised, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “All that before we were even—”
“Don’t,” I warn under my breath, though it comes out soft.
He leans just a little closer. “Didn’t realize I’d been living rent-free in your head that long, Brooks.”
“Yeah, well,” I mutter, stabbing a piece of chicken I’m definitely too embarrassed to eat, “guess the eviction notice got lost in the mail.”
Tom laughs, clueless to the undercurrent humming between us. “Good luck with that, son. Once Emily likes someone, they’re permanent.”
My mom beams, sliding a slice of pie in front of Todd like it’s a bribe. “Exactly. So you’d better keep coming around, Todd. You make him happy. I can tell.”
And just like that, my heart’s too full for words.
Todd looks at her and then at me, eyes soft and searching, like he’s trying to memorize what this feels like. Warmth. Family. Safety.
It's everything I ever wanted him to have. Everything I’m terrified of losing.
But I shake it off. We’re solid. He came out to our friends for me. I know it was for me, even without him saying it. That has to mean something that lasts.
When Mom finally shuffles off to the living room with Tom—him carrying the leftovers, her already planning dessert for “next time”—Todd rolls up his sleeves and follows me to the sink.
“I’ve got this,” I tell him, turning on the water. “Guest privilege.”
He bumps my hip with his. “You think I’m just going to sit there while you do all the work? Not a chance.”
“You’ll ruin your hands,” I tease, grabbing the dish soap. “How will you ever hold a stick again?”
He gives me that crooked half-smile that always kills me. “Pretty sure I can manage. Unless you’re volunteering to tape my stick for me now, too.”
“Not a chance,” I say, bumping his hip. “You’re already spoiled.”
He grins. “Guess I’m helping then.”
I just hand him a towel and try not to smile too hard. “Yeah, yeah. Rinse that one before I change my mind.”
We fall into a rhythm—him rinsing, me washing. His arm brushes mine every few seconds, and our shoulders bump between quiet laughter and soft conversation.
“Your mom’s great,” he says after a moment. “She didn’t even blink when I dropped a fork.”
“She’s used to my disasters,” I reply, flicking a bit of suds at him.
He wipes the soap from his jaw with the back of his wrist, pretending to look offended. “Did you just attack me?”
“Consider it retaliation for laughing about my first crush.”
He snorts. “I remember that kid. Rex? Dex? What was his name again?”
“Dexter,” I say and flick him with more suds.
“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?” He dips his hand into the sink, scoops up a palmful of bubbles, and smears them across my forearm.
“Cold!” I yelp, laughing as I splash him back. Water drips down his shirt, and we’re both grinning like idiots when he catches my wrist.
“Truce?” he asks, breath hitching just a little.
I nod, but the word gets lost somewhere between us when he leans in. The kiss is warm and every good thing I didn’t know I needed before him. His hand slips behind my neck, mine flattening against his chest, both of us a little wet, a little reckless.
The faucet continues to flow, forgotten.
He pulls back just enough to grin at me. “You’ve got bubbles on your nose.”
“Because of you,” I shoot back, wiping at it with the back of my hand.
“Worth it,” he says, eyes flicking from my mouth to my eyes again, and that look—God, that look—does things to my heartbeat I can’t control.
“Careful,” I warn, trying for a smirk. “You’re supposed to be rinsing, not distracting the guy with the sponge.”
“You know how to multi-task, Brooks.”
“You obviously don’t know how distracting wanting to kiss you is.”
He stills—hand in the sink, water running over his knuckles, eyes locked on mine. The teasing drains into something quieter, heavier, as though the air just shifted between us.
“Then don’t fight it,” he murmurs.
I don’t.
The sponge slips from my fingers, landing with a soft plop in the water as I grab the front of his shirt and pull him back in. The kiss is deeper this time, slower, his wet hands finding my waist and tugging me closer until the counter presses into my hip.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathless, the faucet still running like background noise to something that suddenly feels too loud inside my chest.
“Guess I’m really bad at following directions,” he says, voice rough with laughter.
“Yeah,” I manage, tracing a line of soap down his jaw with my thumb. “Good thing I’m not mad about it.”
He leans forward until his forehead rests against mine, both of us smiling like idiots, surrounded by half-washed dishes and puddles on the counter.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The kitchen hums with the soft rush of water and the faint clatter of rain beginning to tap against the windows. His breath mingles with mine, and I can almost believe this moment is untouchable.
My mom laughs from the other room, over the hum of the TV, and Todd’s thumb brushes along the waistband of my jeans, grazing my skin with each pass.
I close my eyes and breathe him in—soap, pie, and the faint trace of his cologne—letting it settle deep in my chest.
If I could freeze anything in time, it would be this.
The warmth. The laughter. The way he looks at me as if I’m something worth keeping.
Because, even with the storm rolling in outside, I can’t bring myself to believe it could ever touch us here.