Chapter 35 Logan
THIRTY-FIVE
LOGAN
Todd’s weight settles against me, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. He’s here. Warm. Real. Shaking just enough that I can feel it through the fabric of his hoodie.
I don’t move at first. I’m terrified that if I do, he’ll vanish—as though this is one of those half-awake dreams that dissolve when you reach for them. So I just sit there, my hands hovering near his back, not sure where to start, not sure I even need to.
Then he exhales, a long, uneven sound that rattles against my chest, and I can’t help it. My hands find him. One on his shoulder, the other splayed low across his spine, holding him like I could anchor us both.
For the last couple of weeks, I’ve imagined this—what I’d say if I ever got the chance. But now that he’s here, I don’t want to talk. I just want to feel him breathe.
He shifts slightly, pressing closer, and I realize how small he feels like this—curled against me, face tucked into my neck. The hoodie he’s wearing still smells faintly like the rink, like ice and something that’s just him.
My chest tightens. I press my nose into his hair, to breathe him in.
The tension starts to bleed out of him, slow and shaky, until he melts completely. One of his hands curls into my shirt, and that tiny, unconscious grip just undoes me.
“God, Todd,” I whisper, voice catching. “You scared the hell out of me.”
He hums something that might be an apology, but it’s quiet, muffled by my collar.
I don’t even think about it—I lean down and kiss the top of his head. Once. Twice. Then again. The soft brush of his hair against my lips does something to me I can’t name.
Every little touch feels like a promise I’m terrified to make and even more terrified to break.
He tilts his head slightly, and my lips find his temple. Then his cheek. The edge of his jaw. I don’t mean to keep going—I can’t seem to stop. Each kiss is small, careful, but my heart’s beating like I’ve just scored in overtime.
He breathes out my name—barely audible, almost a sigh—and it pulls something deep and wordless from me. I whisper his name back, my lips brushing his skin.
By the time I pull back, his eyes are open—glassy, tired, but softer than they were all day today.
“You done?” he asks, voice rough, a faint smile ghosting across his mouth.
“Not even close,” I say, because it’s the truth.
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating against me. Then he leans his forehead against mine, and for the first time since everything fell apart, the world feels right again.
No crowd. No noise. No headlines. Just us.
He doesn’t move off me, and I don’t want him to. The clock hums somewhere near the kitchen, and the heat kicks on again. It’s the only sound besides our breathing.
Todd’s fingers twist in the fabric of my shirt, like if he lets go the world might tilt again. I slide my hand into his hair, slow and careful, tracing small circles against the back of his head until the tension finally starts to leave his shoulders.
“You should sleep,” I murmur.
“Can’t.” His voice is rough. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there—him telling me it’s just a phase and that I need to get my head on straight.”
My throat goes tight. “This isn’t a phase,” I say. Then softer, “You hear me? Nothing about you needs fixing.”
He swallows, nodding against me. “It’s hard to believe that sometimes.”
“Then let me keep reminding you until you do.”
He lets out a breath that shakes through both of us. I can feel it all the way down to my ribs.
Minutes pass—maybe longer. The city noise fades; the light from the window turns the room gold as the sun starts to set. Todd’s breathing slows until it matches mine, the weight of him growing heavier in my arms.
He mumbles something I almost miss. “You still mad at me?”
I smile against his hair. “A little. But I’m more tired than mad.”
“Fair.” His voice slurs with exhaustion.
“Next time you need to breathe,” I whisper, “just…do it here, okay?”
He nods, the motion small and sleepy. “Okay.”
I press one last kiss to his temple, lingering there until my eyes close too.
The world narrows to warmth, the soft rasp of his breath against my throat, and the quiet promise sitting between us—fragile but real.
By the time the heat sighs again, he’s asleep in my arms, and for the first time since that picture hit the internet, I finally believe we might be okay.
The first thing I feel is warmth. Heavy, real, and pressed against me like the night finally decided to give something back.
For a second, I don’t open my eyes. I just let myself exist in the weight of it—the slow, steady rise and fall against my chest, the quiet hum of his breathing, the faint scent of Todd’s shampoo clinging to his hair.
When I finally look down, he’s sprawled half across me, face buried against my neck, one arm draped over my ribs. His hand has slipped beneath my shirt, skin to skin, his fingers resting against my stomach like he needed the contact to sleep.
Something in my chest clenches hard.
The morning light sneaks through the blinds, striping his back in pale gold. It catches in his dark hair, the strands curling slightly against my chin.
My body reacts to the closeness—inevitable, unintentional—but I don’t shift. I don’t want to ruin this with movement or thought or anything that might remind him how easily everything could still fall apart.
So I just breathe.
His breath ghosts across my throat, and my hand moves on instinct, tracing the line of his spine with my thumb. He murmurs something in his sleep, something soft and unintelligible, but it sounds like my name.
That’s what undoes me.
I press my lips to the top of his head, barely touching, a whisper of a kiss. Then another, just below his ear. I can’t seem to stop. Every small press feels like proof he’s real—proof that I didn’t dream the apology, the forgiveness, the quiet way he said together.
He stirs but doesn’t wake, only shifts closer, his fingers twitching against my skin before settling again. I close my eyes and let the moment hold me. The world outside can wait—practice, headlines, all of it. For now, this is enough.
For now, he’s here.
And I’m not letting go, ever again.
Todd stirs against me, a soft hum vibrating through his chest. Then his hand flexes where it’s resting under my shirt, fingertips brushing my stomach. I feel the shiver ripple through me before I can stop it.
He shifts again, the movement slow and lazy—and then he freezes. A heartbeat later, he tilts his head just enough for his lips to graze my throat.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
“Hey,” I whisper back.
He blinks up at me, eyes still heavy-lidded, lips curving just slightly. Then his brow lifts. “Is that your stick in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?”
I groan quietly, half laugh, half mortified sound. “You’re really calling out my morning wood?”
He grins against my collarbone. “Just making sure you’re still human.”
“I’m trying very hard to be a gentleman right now,” I mutter, brushing my thumb along his jaw as I angle his face up. “Don’t make it harder.”
That earns me a quiet snort, and he shifts again, clearly enjoying this too much.
Instead of taking the bait, I press a series of soft, quick kisses along his cheek, his temple, the bridge of his nose—little butterfly touches that make him still and breathe out a slow, shaky laugh.
He tilts his face up toward me, eyes flicking between my mouth and my eyes. “You know,” he says, teasingly low, “I’ve heard of something called makeup sex. Supposed to be life-changing. A reward for fighting.”
I huff out a laugh that shakes through both of us. “You would say that.”
His grin widens, but before he can get another word out, I roll us, careful but fast enough to make him gasp. The couch groans under the shift of our weight, and now he’s beneath me, hair mussed, cheeks pink. Looking hot as fuck.
I hover there for a moment, drinking him in. The sight of him like this—warm, alive, smiling again—feels like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Then I lean down and kiss him.
It starts soft but deepens quickly, all the pent-up longing and fear and need bleeding into every brush of our mouths. His hands find my shirt, clutching it tight as he exhales a small, helpless sound that shoots straight to my cock.
When I finally pull back, his eyes are dilated, lips red, chest rising fast.
I grin, breathless. “Unfortunately,” I murmur, “I’m pretty sure Coach will have our asses if we both miss practice completely.”
He laughs, the sound quiet but real this time, his fingers still twisted in my shirt. “Guess we should make it quick, then.” He arches up into me, and I can feel his length against me.
My eyes drop shut as I breathe through the need coursing through me. We really shouldn’t miss practice. Not if we are going to convince the team that just because we are together doesn’t mean it will impact them.
“Tempting,” I say, leaning in for one more kiss—short, sweet, enough to leave us both smiling. “But I like my ice time, Captain.”
He groans, flopping back against the couch. “You’re no fun.”
“Maybe later,” I whisper, brushing a thumb across his bottom lip.
“Promise?”
I grin, standing and offering him my hand. “Yeah. Promise.”