I had spent most of my life feeling like I didn’t belong anywhere—because of my parents, because of my brother, because I was always one mistake away from sinking. But I wasn’t that girl anymore.
I decided my worth. No one else. I was here and I’d earned the right to be.
"Do you cook a lot?" Logan asked as he started pulling out ingredients.
There was something comforting about the casual ease of the moment—him making popcorn like this was something he did all the time, Brooks buttering bread with the kind of focus that made it seem more serious than it was.
I smiled, watching the effortless rhythm between them.
They were so different, but there was an unmistakable bond there—one that made my chest ache a little.
I had never had that with Victor.
"Not really," I admitted, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the island. "Most of my meals are microwaved or whatever I grab from the restaurant. But I'd love to learn how someday. The whole process interests me—trying different flavors, spices. Just… creating something from nothing."
Logan glanced over his shoulder, his smirk easy. "So why don’t you take a class? There’s a million videos online."
I huffed out a laugh, shaking my head. "I lack time. That’s why I’m over here at midnight."
He didn’t miss a beat. "I thought it was a booty call."
"Well, it is. But with food," I deadpanned.
Logan threw his head back and laughed, and even Brooks, who had been stealthily ignoring us, let a smirk tug at his mouth.
I grinned, feeling the tension from earlier loosen, like it had been a tangible thing wrapped around my ribs. "Now that we got that out of the way…" I prompted.
Logan tipped the pot, letting the kernels sizzle against the hot oil, the scent of butter and salt already filling the kitchen.
"You like being a manager at a restaurant?" he asked, his tone genuinely curious. "Brooks talks about you a lot, and while it’s annoying, I feel like I already know you."
Something warm unfurled in my chest. The idea of Brooks talking about me to his brother was unexpected, and I didn't know what to do with the way it made me feel.
I glanced at Brooks, but he didn’t turn around. Just kept grilling his fucking bread, like this wasn’t a big deal.
Like it didn’t just soften something deep inside me.
"I do," I answered finally. "But it’s not something I’d want to do forever. The hours are rough—no holidays off, late nights, no weekends. It’s manageable for now, but not long term."
"But at least you get to leave work at work," Logan pointed out.
I nodded, grateful he got it. "Yeah, exactly. I don’t have to bring it home with me, which I’ve heard other jobs require."
"That’s true. I work ten-hour shifts on the weekend most of the time."
Logan leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, his easy grin so much like Brooks’ that I felt myself mirroring it.
I played with the loose string on my sweater, my fingers absentmindedly twisting it, my eyes scanning the room. For all the modern decor, there was one area of the kitchen that felt different. More personal.
It was tucked near the back wall, by a row of tall windows. A small collection of framed photos. Unlike the rest of the house, they weren’t perfectly curated.
Some were slightly crooked, the edges of the frames worn, like they had been moved from another home. Like they were loved.
I stood, walking toward them, my gaze catching on one in particular. A woman stood between the brothers, her arms wrapped around them, their smiles wide, real.
Their mom was beautiful.
Petite, dark-haired, her curls framing the same gray eyes her sons had. They looked so happy. The photo had to be from a few years ago—Brooks looked a little younger, a little less weathered by the sun, and Logan was wearing a graduation gown.
