WHEN LOGAN HAD gone upstairs, he hadn’t done so with the intention of staying there. But when he entered their loft and looked around the space that had been one of the biggest draws for him and Tate, he’d headed straight for the liquor cabinet to pour himself a glass of whiskey.

That dick in the bar—what was his name? Scott? Really, who the fuck even cares—had ruined his mood, night, and good goddamn week. And Tate sending him upstairs to cool off wasn’t helping his current frame of mind either.

Snatching up the bottle of Jameson, he headed into the living room with a glass and some ice. The loft wasn’t large by any means, but over the years the two of them had made it a cozy place for them to crash—and by cozy, that meant a fully renovated kitchen directly off to the left, with all-black marble, wooden cabinetry, and stainless steel appliances. The original hardwood floors had been polished and refinished, and had large rectangular rugs under the leather couch and coffee table. And they’d both agreed to leave the exposed brick as it was, because it added character when in contrast with the wall of windows that made up the other side of the space.

However, none of that was what he loved most. No. His favorite area was up the ten winding steps that led to a balcony that hung over the kitchen. That was where their bed was.

Up there, it was as though they were as far away from the world as they could possibly get. But tonight, it felt as though it had been invaded. It felt like that motherfucker had come into their home and tainted it with his hatred, and that made Logan want to kick someone’s ass. Well, more so than he had already.

Fuck, it wasn’t often that he let people get under his skin. He was an expert at not giving a shit about what others thought of him. But when someone went after Tate? When someone had the audacity to judge him, to judge what they shared? Not much could hold him back—except Tate himself, that was, who’d quite pointedly sent Logan’s ass upstairs. So, that was where he’d stayed. Now there he was with a bag of ice on his knuckles, and several drinks in him, and somehow three hours had passed.

As the heavy firehouse door slid open and Tate stepped inside, Logan glanced over his shoulder to see a scowl plastered on Tate’s face, and then turned back to down his drink.

“Why didn’t you come back downstairs?” Tate said.

Logan sat forward on the couch, put his empty glass on the table, and got to his feet. “I wasn’t quite sure I’d be welcome,” he said as he flexed his fingers and dropped the Ziploc bag on the table.

Tate’s eyes slid to the bottle and glass, and then came back up to lock with Logan’s. “You drunk?”

“I’m… Not quite yet.”

“But that’s the goal?”

“It’d crossed my mind,” Logan said as he headed into the kitchen, thinking the likelihood of continuing on his current path was now over and he might as well drink some water.

Once he’d gotten himself a bottle from the fridge, he moved so he could lean against the counter as Tate came over and rested back against the fridge’s double doors.

“What’s going on here?” Tate asked.

Logan took a swig of water and then shrugged, thinking it might be best if he just slept his mood off. His emotions were still primed and on edge—and not in a good way.

“I missed seeing you downstairs,” Tate said as his gaze wandered over Logan. “Sitting there. Watching me. I’d been looking forward to that all day.”

Logan twisted the bottle between his fingers but remained silent, knowing if he did open his mouth, this wasn’t going to end well.

He was pissed. Pissed at what that asshole had said. Pissed that Tate hadn’t let him check that he was okay after the horrible things that had been said. And he was pissed that he was yet again the reason some jerk-off thought they had permission to disrespect the amazing man currently staring him down, waiting for a response.

“Hey?” Tate said. “You need to let this go. Everything’s okay now. He’s gone.”

And that was when Logan finally decided to speak up. “Shouldn’t you be downstairs closing?”

“Amelia’s doing it tonight. I wanted to come and find you. Now would you please start talking? What’s going on with you?”

“Was just thinking.”

Tate cocked his head to the side. “About?”

Logan placed the water bottle down and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “What happened earlier.”

“Yeah, I got that much. Which part are we talking about here? The beginning or the end?”

“How about we go with option C—all of the above,” Logan said as he shoved away from the counter, ready to head upstairs and go to bed. But as he walked by, Tate reached out and took hold of his wrist.

“Logan, talk to me.”

Logan told himself to just let it go. Told himself to just kiss Tate and drag him up to bed and work out this leftover aggression he was feeling. But he’d never really been one to take advice—even his own. “So now you want to hear what I have to say? You didn’t seem all that interested earlier.” Tate frowned, and Logan raised an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”

“I told you to come back once you’d cooled off. I could see how pissed you were.”

Logan wrenched his arm free and turned on Tate. “Damn right I was pissed. Can you blame me?”

“No,” Tate said, taking a step forward until Logan was caged in against the counter, placing his hands on Tate’s chest for balance. “Of course I don’t blame you. But taking it any further wasn’t going to do either one of us any good. It happened. The same as it has before, and likely will again. But we deal with it and move on. Especially if, and when, it happens at work.”

“It shouldn’t ever fucking happen.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Tate said, and reached out to circle Logan’s wrists. “But it did. And I hardly think our customers wanted to see either of us handcuffed.”

Logan was practically vibrating from his outrage at the injustice of it all. Why shouldn’t he be able to stand up for himself, for Tate, if he fucking wanted to?

But then Tate brought Logan’s right arm up so he could inspect his knuckles. “I hate that you hurt yourself,” he said, and Logan closed his eyes and let out a sigh as Tate pressed his lips to the abused and swollen flesh, the fight in him slowly subsiding.

“I don’t know, Tate. Maybe it’d just be better if I didn’t come in during your work hours.”

“To your own bar?” Tate said, raising his head and looking Logan in the eye. “To our bar? You own this place as much as I do. One of our homes is above it, for fuck’s sake. You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious. One of the reasons I don’t let you anywhere near a courtroom is because—”

“Stop talking.”

“Excuse me?” Logan said, getting sick and tired of being cut off tonight.

“I said. Stop. Talking.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed on the irritated expression that had crossed Tate’s face, but instead of heeding the warning, he continued. “I don’t let you in there because I get distracted and it affects my job. I don’t want my being at the bar to be the cause for some customers to leave or to start fights with you.”

The muscle of Tate’s jaw ticked, and he shook his head.

“What? It’s true,” Logan said. “If I hadn’t come up to you when I did—” He didn’t get to finish his sentence, though, because Tate let go of his hand and stormed into the living room to pour himself a glass of whiskey.

Fucking hell. I knew this would turn into an argument.

Logan kept his eyes on Tate as he brought the glass to his lips and downed the alcohol, and then he slammed the tumbler on the table and turned to walk back to Logan. The fulminating look from a second ago was still there, but when Tate stopped in front of Logan, he said, “Come with me.”

Logan watched in silence as Tate walked over to the stairs, and when he got to the bottom, he looked over his shoulder to where Logan still stood.

Okay…guess he’s not gonna ask twice, Logan thought, and headed over to where Tate was waiting, and was shocked when he held his hand out and said, “What you just said. You can fucking forget it.”

“Forget…?”

“Not coming to the bar. Come on, Logan, it’s not like you to let someone get under your skin like this.”

Logan narrowed his eyes. “It’s not me I’m worried about. I don’t like how it makes you feel.”

“And how do you think it makes me feel?” Tate said. “Please tell me, because obviously you have it all worked out.”

“Pissed off. Uncomfortable.”

“Of course I’m uncomfortable. I wanted to do exactly what you did and beat his ass for what he said. But instead, I have to play nice. I have to keep a level head and keep that place running. That’s enough to make anyone uncomfortable.”

“And is that the only reason you’re uncomfortable?” Logan said without even realizing he’d been going to ask. It wasn’t that much of a shock, really. This concern. This worry. It wasn’t a new one for him, that was for sure. But it was one that was always there, niggling away at some recess of his mind whenever someone was anything other than accepting of them.

Does Tate still think this is all worth it? Does he think that I’m worth it?

“Ahh. I see,” Tate said. “Now we’re getting to the real reason for you stewing up here. Aren’t we?”

Logan glared him down, and Tate, the bold fucker, held his stare and took a step forward until they were toe to toe.

“So what if we are?” Logan said. “You’ve been pushing at me since you walked in that door tonight.”

“You’re right. I have been. But you still haven’t said what’s really on your mind. Have you?”

Logan was the first to admit he was horrible at expressing himself, and even worse at arguing his point when it came to Tate. He always managed to somehow put his foot in his mouth, so he tried to avoid it as much as he possibly could.

When he remained stubbornly silent, Tate took his hand again and said, “Come with me.”

As Tate started up the stairs, Logan trailed behind until they reached the landing that housed their bed, and not much else. Tate stopped and pivoted so they were face to face, with only the slivers of moonlight filtering through the large windows, and then he stepped in close enough that he could touch their lips together.

“Go on,” Tate whispered, and a shiver skated up Logan’s spine. “Ask me.”

“Ask you what?”

“The question I can see in your eyes,” Tate said as he cupped either side of Logan’s face, making him hold his stare.

“And what question is that?”

“The same one I see each time someone questions me about us,” Tate said in a tone that dared Logan to deny it. “Ask me.”

Logan searched Tate’s expression, and the raw honesty he saw there finally had him lowering his guard and voicing his greatest fear: “Do you ever regret it?”

* * *

AND THERE IT is, Tate thought, as one of his curls fell forward and Logan automatically moved to brush it back from his forehead. For a man who claimed he wasn’t sweet and said the wrong things, Logan always managed to take the wind right out of Tate’s sails in moments like these. He wasn’t even sure Logan was aware of what he was doing. But the look of absolute devotion in his eyes as he fingered the strand of hair put into words everything he was unable to say out loud. And Tate loved that this was a side of Logan that was all his.

“It?” Tate asked, recapturing Logan’s attention.

“You know which it I mean… Me. Us. This.”

Tate bent his head until his forehead was resting against Logan’s. “There’s only one thing I regret. And that’s that I didn’t meet you sooner.”

Logan’s breath caught, and when his entire body trembled, Tate took hold of the back of his neck and pulled him forward. As their lips met, Logan opened immediately, letting him inside, and as soon as he got the taste of Logan on his tongue, Tate groaned and tightened his grip, holding Logan in place so he could devour the mouth now consuming his own.

Tate closed his eyes, allowing the wave of emotions to crash over him as he reached for Logan’s shirt next, and when it became clear what he was about to do, Logan tore his mouth free and raised his arms so Tate could pull the fabric off him. Tate tossed it to the floor and then went to work on his uniform as Logan removed the rest of his clothing, and by the time the both of them were naked and climbing beneath the sheets, Tate was desperate for the feel of Logan’s body pressed alongside his.

With the shadows dancing over their skin, the two of them stretched out on their sides, their legs tangling as their mouths reconnected, and Logan’s fingers threaded through his hair, causing a groan to emerge from the back of Tate’s throat.

Christ. He loved being with Logan like this. It was everything. It was what he lived for, and as Logan’s cologne enveloped him, Tate closed his eyes and let his senses go into overdrive.

He basked in the man destroying him and then reviving him with every touch and sound he made. Then Tate rolled Logan to his back and hovered over him.

As he looked down at the man under him, Tate stroked his fingers through the thick strands of black hair on the pillow and said, “When are you going to understand that nothing anyone says to me will ever change how I feel about you?” As Logan’s blue eyes glistened, the depth of his vulnerability had Tate lowering his head to kiss his temple. “I love you, Logan Mitchell. That’s never going to change.”

Logan wrapped his arms around him, cupping one hand at the back of his neck, and Tate took another inhale of the intoxicating scent—the cologne he’d given Logan for his birthday. It was masculine and woodsy, yet had a floral undercurrent that enhanced the dark, sultry blend. And on Logan, it was downright potent.

“God, Tate,” Logan said, as he smoothed his hands down his back to his waist, and when Tate raised his head to look at him, Logan shut his eyes, but Tate wasn’t about to have that. What he was about to say next he needed Logan to hear, understand, and believe.

“Look at me,” he said, and when Logan’s eyes opened and found his, Tate traced a finger down his jawline. “After all this time, you still don’t realize how important you are to me. And you need to. This, what we have, is the reason I wake up in the morning. And Logan?”

Logan swallowed once, and his nostrils flared. “Yes?”

“I will never leave you. I can’t even imagine what that would be like. I don’t ever want to.”

Logan’s eyes darkened as Tate stared at him, and just when Tate thought he would stay silent, Logan said, “Never, huh?”

A slow smile curved Tate’s mouth as he lowered his head and bit Logan’s lower lip. “Not. Fucking. Ever.”

Logan’s answering smile was so damn rewarding that Tate would’ve gone through tonight over and over again just to see it before he fell asleep. But luckily for him, that wicked grin was one Logan offered up to him on the regular, and it was a more than welcome sight tonight.

He nestled in between Logan’s thighs and kissed him once more before he laid his head down on the broad chest beneath him. The storm had finally passed, and as the tension in the room faded into the shadows, he felt a hand smooth over his hair as the steady thump thump thump of Logan’s heart lulled him to sleep.

Then, right before he drifted off, Tate heard Logan whisper, “I love you so damn much. I can’t believe there was ever a time when I didn’t.”

And if Tate had his way, Logan would never know a time like that again.

Not. Fucking. Ever.