"Not at all," I say, surprising myself with my calm. "We fight smart, not hard. We show we're reasonable adults who care about Tyler's well-being above all else."
The conversation continues, legal terms flowing around me—affidavits, motions, hearings. The kitchen table has become the command center for a battle I never wanted to fight.
Through it all, I feel a strange clarity emerging from my fear. Yes, I'm terrified of what this is going to put us through. Yes, the public humiliation stings like hell. But underneath that is something more solid and true. I picture Tyler's face when he ran to me at Christmas, the trust in his eyes when he asked me to read him a story, the way he hugs me.
Those moments matter. They're worth fighting for, even if I have to do it quietly, strategically, without the kind of rage that's coursing through Logan right now. I don’t want to be full of the resentment and anger I’m entitled to.
As Patricia and Mara pack up their materials, scheduling our next steps and promising to file our response by Monday afternoon, I turn to Logan. His profile is sharp in the afternoon light, his gaze fixed, the muscle in his jaw still rigid with tension.
"This is just the beginning, isn't it?" I ask quietly.
Patricia, overhearing, nods grimly. "I'm afraid so. These cases rarely resolve quickly or cleanly."
After they leave, Logan and I sit in silence at the cluttered table. He suddenly looks exhausted, his shoulders slumping, theanger giving way to a bone-deep weariness I recognize from the aftermath of particularly tough losses.
"I'm sorry," he says finally. "For bringing all this into your life."
"Don't." I squeeze his hand, keeping my voice steady.
He studies my face, searching for doubt or regret. "Thank you for doing this with me. You can’t possibly know how grateful I am for you. For us."
"I know." And I do know, with a certainty that surprises me. Despite the headlines, the legal threats, the public dissection of our relationship, that truth remains solid: Logan loves me. I love him. We love Tyler.
Everything else is just noise.
"Together," Logan invokes our mantra, bringing my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against my knuckles.
Chapter 21
Logan
Tyler laughs, milk dribbling down his chin as Nate makes a T-Rex shadow puppet on the wall with his hands. I catch Reese's eye across the table, and for the first time in weeks, she's actually smiling, not just re-arranging her face. Small moments. This is what we're fighting for—Tyler's laugh, Reese's real smile, Elena kicking Nate under the table when he pushes the joke too far. Normal family chaos, the kind you take for granted until lawyers start measuring it out in visitation hours and emergency orders.
"T-Rex doesn't sound like that," Tyler protests, wiping his mouth with his sleeve before Reese can reach him with a napkin. "He roars like RAAAAAWR!"
His tiny-but-mighty roar turns heads at nearby tables. I should probably shush him, but I can't. Not tonight. Not when these moments feel increasingly rare, stolen between lawyer meetings and PR nightmares.
"My mistake," Nate concedes with mock seriousness. "Clearly you're the dinosaur expert at this table."
Elena leans over. "He's been practicing that roar for Tyler. Logan taught him."
"Guilty," I admit, ruffling Tyler's hair. "I think I may have the best T-Rex sound effects in Chicago."
Reese catches my eye again, and I know she's thinking what I am—how bizarre it feels to be sitting here pretending everything's normal when our lives have come under attack. But we agreed: tonight is just for us. No lawyers, no custody talk, no mention of the headlines or Jessica's latest petition. Just dinner, family, and Tyler's playful joy.
The check arrives, and we bundle up against the late January chill. Tyler looks very proud wearing his giant dinosaur hat with spikes down his back that Reese found at some children's boutique. He looks ridiculous and perfect.
I zip his coat up to his chin while Nate helps Elena with her scarf.
"Can I have ice cream at home?" Tyler asks, already negotiating his next treat.
"We'll see," Reese answers, which I’ve learned is parent code for "probably not but I don't want to fight about it now."
The restaurant door swings open, and we step into the crisp night air, our breath clouding in front of us. Tyler grabs Reese's hand instinctively, his small fingers disappearing into hers. I have to look away for a second because I feel emotional. How can Jessica not see what I see—how natural they are together, how Tyler reaches for her without hesitation?
I'm still watching them when the first camera flash explodes in my peripheral vision and I’m blinded.
"McCoy! Over here!" A voice shouts from the darkness.
