“Thank you for telling me,” he says quietly. “I know that wasn’t easy.”
“It’s easier than it used to be.” I squeeze his hand. “And you should know. You’re... you’re important to me, Logan. I want you to know the real stuff. Not just the surface.”
He nods, but something darkens his expression.
“What about your brothers?” he asks, and I recognize the deflection for what it is. But I let him have it for now. “How did they end up running an auto shop while you became a biomedical engineer?”
I snort. “Honestly? They never understood me. Still don’t, really. To them, I was always the weird little sister who’d rather read textbooks than watch football. But they supported me anyway. Dad saved for my college, but all three of them worked extra shifts when the fund ran out, just so I could finish my studies without taking out loans. They didn’t understand why I needed to study brains instead of engines, but they made sure I could do it.”
“That’s...” Logan shakes his head. “That’s incredible.”
“They’re good men. Loud, overbearing, completely incapable of boundaries—” I gesture at the chaos they left behind. “But good. They’d do anything for me.”
“I can tell.” There’s that shadow again, darkening his features. “Your dad, too. The way he looks at you... You’re everything to him.”
“He’s a softie under all the gruff. Mom’s death nearly broke him, but he held it together for us. Worked two jobs, coached little league, learned to braid hair.” I smile at the memory. “He’s not perfect, but he tried. He’s still trying.”
Logan is quiet for a long moment, staring at our joined hands. I wait, giving him space, sensing he’s working up to something.
“My family isn’t like that,” he finally says. His voice is flat, carefully controlled. “We don’t do birthday breakfasts or surprise visits. We don’t do... any of this.”
“What do you do?”
He pulls his hand back, and I feel the loss immediately. “We do scheduled dinners with agendas. Obligatory appearances at the right events. Emails via assistants instead of phone calls.” He says it flatly, like he’s reciting facts about strangers. “They’re not... they’re not like your family, Audrey. They don’t show up with ice cream cake and gifts they thought I’d like.”
“Logan, I?—”
“It’s complicated.” The words come out clipped, a door closing. “I don’t really want to get into it right now.”
“Logan...” I try again.
“It’s fine.” He stands abruptly, gathering plates with more force than necessary. “It’s just different. Not everyone grows up with people who actually like each other.”
I want to push. I want to ask about his parents, about why he never talks about them, about why he goes quiet whenever family comes up. The old Audrey would push—would dig until she understood, because understanding is how I make sense of the world.
But there’s a wall in his expression now—one I haven’t seen since before we got together—and I recognize that some things can’t be solved by asking better questions. Some things just need time.
So instead, I stand and help him clear the table, our shoulders brushing as we work in silence. It takes everything I have not to analyze the silence, not to turn it into data I can interpret.
The easy intimacy of the morning feels fragile now, like something precious that could shatter if I’m not careful.
“Hey.” He catches my arm as I reach for the cake box. “Happy birthday.”
He says it like a benediction. Like a plea.
And before I can get out a thank you or a clever retort, he’s got me pressed up against the countertop, his hands suddenly, gloriously, on my waist. He kisses me like the first taste of water after a desert crossing, greedily, fiercely, as if there’s something in his mouth that could save us both.
He pulls me in hard—enough to bruise, enough to tell me, without words, that he wants to dissolve the memory of his discomfort from his own skin. I’m so startled I laugh against his mouth, which only makes him deepen the kiss, his tongue stealing the sound right out of me.
We’re all coffee and sugar and morning sweat, and I want him so urgently I could cry. I forget the ice cream melting on the table, the mugs in the sink, my nails scoring down his back as he hoists me up onto the counter like I weigh nothing at all. The GIRLS IN STEM shirt is ridiculous and perfect, stretched taut across his chest. I want to rip it off, but also never see him wear anything else.
He kisses me until I’m breathless, until my legs are wrapped around his hips and the ache between my thighs is so sharp it almost hurts. His hands slide up under the shirt I’m wearing—his shirt—palming my breasts, thumbs grazing nipples and making me shiver up against him.
He’s fully hard again, pressed against the thin cotton of my leggings, and the hunger in his eyes makes something in me break and put itself back together better than before.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of his jeans, yanking him against me. “Bedroom,” I tell him, my voice rough and shaking. “Now.”
He grins, wild and beautiful, then lifts me bodily from the counter in a move that’s hot as fuck. His mouth never breaks from mine as he navigates us down the hall, bumping into the doorframe and swearing under his breath, and I laugh again, the sound ugly and perfect, and clutch him tighter.
