On me.
“You…” My throat closes around it, shaky with disbelief. “You actually—”
His thumb brushes my knuckles. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever made a wish on, baby. The only thing I’ve wanted to be true.”
The world slows, and chaos around us—the kids, the whispers, the countdown to curtain—blurs into nothing. There’s just him, standing strong where everything else feels like it’s falling.
“Logan—”
“I’d face Eli. Hell, I’d face anyone if it meant you’d never doubt what you are to me,” he says hoarsely, bringing my hand to his lips. “Not a mistake.Nevera mistake.”
My lip trembles and I tip forward helplessly, so gone for this man. His mouth catches mine, hands framing my face. I lean into it, my arms coming up to wrap around his neck, my toes tipping up to him.
His hands travel down my body, pulling me in closer, kissing me harder as I smile against his lips.
And then, with perfect, catastrophic timing—
The curtain jerks up.
Gasps ripple through the audience, then a stunned hush. For one beat, it’s just me and Logan, frozen in the spotlight, lips still pressed together. The PTA moms snicker in the wings, no doubt the curtain opening earlier than planned is their handiwork.
I turn back to the crowd to find every set of eyes on us. Every single teacher. Every single parent. Every single student.
Then the murmurs start. Parents whispering, kids giggling, a teacher audibly choking on her water.
“WHAT THE ACTUAL F—”
Tamara lunges across her seat and slaps a hand over Eli’s mouth before he can traumatize every child in the room. “Nope! Family-friendly event, babe!”
Zoe is doubled over in the front row, pulling out her phone for photos and wheezing so hard, she’s holding Charlie’s arm just to stay upright. Chase climbs halfway onto his chair, and hollers with glee. “TEN OUTTA TEN PERFORMANCE, WOULD WATCH AGAIN!”
Jake’s shaking his head, murmuring something to Charlie that makes her bite her lip to keep from laughing.
“Oh my god,” someone hisses from the back rows.
And then the recognition sparks.
“Wait—that’s Logan Miller!” A dad in a Storm jersey half-stands, pointing like he’s just spotted Elvis.
The name catches like fire.Logan Miller.It rolls across the rows in rising voices until the whole room is buzzing, kids squealing, phones flashing up in shaky hands.
I catch a blur of movement in the front row—Mr. Dawson, a prominent member of the school board. For a moment, his faceis stuck in some sort of horrified gape, but as he registers who’s on stage, it splits into a grin as wide as the rink itself.
“Go Storm!” he bellows, launching up from his seat.
His clapping sets off a chain reaction, and suddenly parents are on their feet too, cheering, hollering, stomping like they’re in the arena instead of a middle school auditorium.
Beside me, Logan flushes scarlet. His hand tightens around mine, grounding us both. The applause grows louder, kids chanting, parents hooting like this was always meant to be part of the program.
My pulse hammers against my throat as I flick my panicked gaze up at Logan, who stares back at me with wide eyes.
“Lu… what do we do?!”
My mouth quirks, half-sheepish, half-wild. “We bow.”
“What?!”
“Bow, Pookie.” I squeeze his hand, eyes dancing even through the flush burning my cheeks.
