I set it on the counter.
Unopened.
Logan’s eyes lock on it, and something flickers across his face—nerves, hope, a quiet awe—like he’s trying not to scare the moment by wanting too much.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Talk me through what you need.”
I blink at him. “I…need you to stop being good at this.”
That gets me the smallest laugh from him, like he’s relieved I’m still me.
“Can’t,” he says. “Turns out I’m great at just about everything. Sorry.”
I open the box. My hands don’t feel like mine.
I take the test.
I set it on the counter like it’s a tiny bomb.
Three minutes.
One hundred and eighty seconds.
An entire lifetime.
I lean back against Logan’s chest. His arms come around me fully now—careful and strong. He rests his chin on my head.
And for a second, I’m not scared.
I’m just…held.
“You wanna look together?” he asks softly.
“No,” I say immediately.
Then, “Yes.”
He huffs a quiet laugh into my hair. “That’s what I thought.”
He doesn’t move yet. He waits until my breathing slows. Waits until my hands unclench from his forearms.
Then he steps forward.
I keep my eyes on the tile because I can’t do this. I can’t do it.
The silence stretches.
And then?—
“Oh,” Logan whispers.
My head snaps up.
His eyes are on the counter, frozen. Hand braced on the sink like he needs it.
“What?” I croak. “Logan—what does it say?”
He turns toward me slowly, and the look on his face hits like sunlight through cloud cover.
