For the first time since everything began shifting, Logan didn't feel like he was balancing something fragile. He felt like they'd built something new.
And as Tommy settled deeper into sleep between them, Logan realized the night didn't divide anything. It expanded it. He closed his eyes. Three steady breaths filled the room. And for once, nobody was reaching alone.
Epilogue
Six MonthsLater
Tommy
The apartment no longer looked like Logan’s.
It didn’t look like Tommy’s either.
It looked like evidence.
Three coffee mugs crowded the counter beside the sink, none matching, all permanently rotated into shared ownership. A second set of sneakers lived by the door now, larger than Logan’s but somehow always kicked off at stranger angles. Someone had rearranged the bookshelf twice this week alone, and Tommy still wasn’t sure which of them kept doing it.
The place felt fuller.
Not cluttered.
Lived in.
Tommy stood barefoot in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with more confidence than skill while sunlight spilled through the windows in wide golden strips. Music played softly from someone’s phone, a playlist none of them remembered creating but all of them knew by heart now.
Behind him, Logan leaned against the counter drinking coffee like it was a sacred ritual, still half-asleep but pretending otherwise.
Chase sat at the table scrolling through something on his phone, one leg hooked over the chair like sitting normally had never once occurred to him as an option.
Tommy smiled to himself.
Six months ago, mornings had felt quiet in a different way.
Careful.
Like happiness might disappear if he moved too fast.
Now it felt sturdy.
Grounded.
Predictable in the best possible sense.
“You’re burning those,” Logan said without looking up.
“I am not.” Tommy snapped playfully,
“They’re aggressively golden.”
“That’s called flavor.”
Chase glanced up, amused. “He’s right. Those are one step away from becoming toast.”
Tommy turned, spatula raised defensively. “You two are banned from commentary until you contribute.”
Logan lifted his mug. “Moral support.”
Chase pushed his chair back and stood. “I’ll set the table before he commits culinary crimes.”
