BY THE TIME Tate pulled into his father’s driveway, the sky had opened up and the rain was beating down on top of the Mustang—because what better way to end this night.

As he cut the engine, he was surprised to see the porch light switched on and his father pushing open the front door to step out onto the porch. Tate hadn’t said much on the phone when they’d spoken, just that he wanted to come over. But before he had ended the call, his father had asked if he was okay, obviously sensing something was wrong. He’s probably been waiting for me to show up in one piece ever since.

Tate ran a hand through his hair, and when he lowered it and saw that it was shaking, he clenched a fist. He looked through the rain pelting his windshield and saw his father had moved to the railing and put his hands there as he stared down at the car, and Tate took in a deep breath.

Grabbing his phone from the center console, he checked it again on the off chance Logan might’ve called, and when nothing was there, he slipped it in his jacket pocket and shoved open the car door. He tugged the side of the leather over his head and jogged to the stairs and out of the rain, and when his feet hit the landing and he lowered the coat, his father turned to face him.

“Rough night?” he asked, and Tate got the feeling he was talking about more than the weather.

“Yeah.” Tate looked out at the rain, now falling so hard it was difficult to see his car. “It went to shit pretty fast.”

His dad reached out and patted his arm before he headed to the front door and held it open. “Why don’t you come in and get out of those boots and jacket and tell me about it?”

Tate stopped before heading inside. And with a directness he’d learned from this very man, Tate looked into his father’s eyes and finally said out loud the one thing he knew to be true right then: “I fucked up tonight.”

His dad nodded, and his eyes were grave. “Come on. Let’s get you inside and a drink in hand. Then we’ll talk.”

Tate hoped it would be that easy. But somehow, he didn’t think it would be to find the words he needed to say.

* * *

WHEN THE UBER pulled up at nineteen sixty-six Evergreen Avenue, Logan looked out the window and grimaced at the rain, which was now coming down in sheets. He’d hoped it would let up a little on the way over there, but if anything, it had just gotten harder.

Knowing he had no other choice than to make a run for it, he got out his keys and found the shiny new brass one that Tate had added to his keychain earlier that morning. Logan took his glasses off and slipped them into the pocket of his hoodie.

“Glad it’s you and not me,” his driver said, and when Logan met his eyes in the rearview mirror, he shrugged.

“Just kind of how my night’s been going.”

“If that’s the case, probably best you’re home.”

Logan looked out at the two-story home behind the iron fence, and his eyes went straight to the porch light that shone like a lighthouse through a storm. But instead of feeling as though it were guiding him safely home, he remembered kissing Tate earlier that afternoon when he’d switched it on, and felt as though his heart was being pounded against the sharpest of rocks.

“Right,” Logan murmured, then opened the car door and made a run for it. Within seconds, he was inside and shutting the door behind him, and as he turned the lock, Logan stood frozen in place, not wanting to turn around, not wanting to see the large, empty house that had his and Tate’s belongings scattered about it.

There goes the stomach again, he thought, as he rested his forehead against the door and shut his eyes, his hand still fastened to the doorknob. Damn it. Shoving away from the door, he refused to look at the living room, instead choosing to go up to the rooms they hadn’t started unpacking yet.

He took the stairs two at a time, and as he walked down the quiet hallway, he allowed himself to think about what Tate might be telling his father right then. But he didn’t have a clue. Not really. He still didn’t understand everything that had happened tonight, so how could he begin to guess what Tate was sharing with dear old dad?

When Logan got to their new bedroom, he stopped by the door and took in the unmade bed and frame that had been brought upstairs first thing this morning, and the boxes stacked one on top of the other in the corner marked main bedroom, Tate’s clothes, and Logan’s clothing department—and it was shit like that, the jokes, the hints of them, that cut the deepest.

He tore his eyes away, figuring he’d find something dry to wear in one of the boxes by the oversized chair they’d also had brought upstairs. And as Logan headed over there, he stripped out of his wet hoodie and then toed off his soaked Nikes. His eyes flicked to the naked mattress and then the headboard of their bed, and he shook his head. There was no way he was going to lie down on that bed tonight, no fucking way.

This was not how he’d expected to spend their—his—first night in their house, and as he pulled open one of the boxes and rifled through the contents, he saw it was one of Tate’s, and he seriously contemplated going down to the kitchen and searching for a bottle of something to drink.

Deciding alcohol wasn’t the answer, he fingered a pair of grey sweats and red t-shirt and pulled them up to his nose to take a deep inhale before shutting his eyes.

“Damn you,” he whispered into the fabric that smelled exactly like the man he was cursing. “Damn you, William Tate Morrison.”

* * *

“SO…” TATE’S DAD said from where he sat in his recliner. “It’s been a little over thirty minutes and you haven’t said a word.”

Tate stared into the tumbler of whiskey his father had given him when he’d first gotten there. But as soon as Tate had sat down on the far end of one of the loveseats, he’d forgotten all about it, too busy remembering the last time he’d sat in that very spot and Logan had been beside him, supporting him as he dealt with—

“Tate?”

“Huh?” he said, and finally looked over at his dad.

“What the hell is going on? Why isn’t Logan with you?”

Tate swallowed and finally made himself move, putting the tumbler on the side table beside the couch—untouched. He bent forward, rested his forearms on his knees, and put his face in his hands. “Honestly,” he said, and then turned to his dad, “I don’t know where he is.”

Tate thought he saw his father’s eyes narrow a fraction, but he’d already looked away, not sure he could say what he was about to while looking at his dad.

“I don’t understand. Did something happen between you two?”

Yes, Tate thought, staring down at the hands he couldn’t stop twisting together. Yes, it fucking did.

“Tate?” his dad said, more forcefully this time. “What happ—”

“Logan asked me to marry him.”

When silence was all that followed, Tate turned his head back in his dad’s direction to see him shuffling forward to the edge of his seat. He looked completely and utterly dumbfounded, and as his mouth opened and then shut again, Tate shook his head. Well, that shut him up.

Several minutes passed, and when his father had apparently processed what Tate had just told him, he said, “Did you just say that Logan asked you to marry him? Logan? The same guy who—”

“Used to break out in a cold sweat whenever the word marriage was mentioned? Yes, that’s what I said.”

“Wow,” his dad said, and then slumped back in his chair.

Wow is right, Tate thought, and then pictured Logan as he’d been when he’d asked him. There’d been no cold sweats tonight—not from Logan, anyway. He’d been so sure of himself.

So open.

So vulnerable.

And so damn beautiful as he’d knelt at Tate’s feet and completely shaken the ground he stood on.

“I was not expecting that.” His dad rubbed a hand over his lips then sat up and pinned Tate with the same look that had always made him tell the truth as a child. “And you said no.”

Tate dropped his head into his hands and shut his eyes, hating that word now more than ever before. He gripped his hair in his hands as hard as he could, thinking that maybe if he caused himself pain, it would somehow stop the heartache that came from his father’s words—no, from my own words—but it didn’t help. It still felt as though it was being torn from his chest.

With his head down, Tate didn’t see his father walk over to him until the cushion beside him dipped, and a large palm settled on his back. Then Tate looked up at him and nodded slowly. “I said no.”

* * *

LOGAN SETTLED INTO the chair he’d turned to face the window, and propped his feet up on the box he’d taken Tate’s clothes out of. Now dry in the sweats and t-shirt, he watched the rain hitting the glass and running in rivulets down the pane.

It was kind of ironic, Logan thought, that this would be the perfect weather for a romantic night. But considering he was now sitting alone trying not to think about how much his eyes stung from tears and his stomach ached from anxiety, it just seemed like a cruel twist of fate.

He’d turned his phone off around five minutes ago after texting Will to let him know he was home, because he didn’t want to wait around to see if he would answer. Didn’t want to risk Tate calling or texting him, either. He needed some time to think about what all this meant. But Logan also knew he wouldn’t really be able to understand or deal with it fully until he talked to Tate, and he just wasn’t ready yet.

He scooted down into the chair and rested his head against the soft cushion. How was it that something that had never overly mattered to him before was now making him so fucking miserable because he was being denied it?

He wasn’t sure. But as he drifted off, Logan wondered if the hollow feeling inside his chest would ever go away…

“LOGAN? LOGAN, WAIT up, would you,” his asshole half-brother, Cole, called out as Logan booked it down the hallway of Christopher Walker’s dorm and headed for the double doors that would lead him out to the campus grounds. He needed to get the fuck out of there, and fast, after that very public—not to mention humiliating—rejection from Chris.

The last thing Logan wanted was a post-smackdown convo with Cole, who for some reason had chosen today to give a shit that he even existed. Not exactly the brotherly bonding moment I had in mind, Logan thought, as he tried to imagine telling the straight ass still calling out his name that he liked dick.

When he finally reached the double doors, Logan shoved them open and didn’t bother looking back as they shut and locked behind him. He practically ran down the stairs, deciding to head to the library, since it was only one building over, when again, he heard his name being shouted. Jesus, why won’t Cole just fuck off?

Logan put his head down, determined to ignore him, and then made a turn to take the path up to the library stairs. He was about halfway up them when he felt a hand on his arm jerking him around, and when he came to a stop on the stair above Cole, Logan glared down at him.

“Hey, I’ve been calling out to you,” Cole said. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“I heard. I was just choosing to ignore you.”

“That’s real mature, Logan.”

Logan pulled his arm free of Cole’s grasp. “Hmm, ask me how much I care.”

As Logan whirled around to continue up to the library, Cole was right there beside him. But before he got the door open, Cole grabbed one of the straps of his backpack and tugged him off to the side.

“Look, dipshit,” Cole said, and Logan tilted his head to glare up at him. “I just saved your ass back there.”

Logan regarded Cole closely and decided, right then, Might as well get this out in the open, since he pretty much already despises me. “Trust me, my ass was the one thing back there that would’ve been happy not to be saved. But thanks for finally stepping up, and, you know, being a decent human being for a change.”

Cole’s eyes narrowed, and Logan waited for the light bulb moment.

One…

Two…

Thre—

“Wait up. You and Chris were…are…”

“Fucking?” Logan said, and Cole blinked at him like a deer caught in headlights. “If that’s what you’re trying to say—and failing at spectacularly, I might add—then yes.” Logan leaned in close to Cole. “We were. Are you scandalized?”

Cole shoved him in the arm, and as Logan took a step back, he smirked, masking his nerves with bravado as he stood there waiting to see if Cole would make a move to punch him, just like that asshole Chris had.

But Cole didn’t raise his arm, didn’t ball his fist. “I don’t give a shit who you’re fucking.”

Logan opened his mouth with an automatic go to hell at the ready. But as Cole’s words sank in, he found himself wide-eyed and shocked. “Really?”

Cole crossed his arms. “You know, I was coming to find you today because after months of you being a pain in the ass, I thought it could be cool to hang out. Then I see you getting beat up by Christopher Walker, who you now tell me you’re fucking like it’s some kind of accomplishment.” Cole leaned in and pointed in Logan’s face. “But listen to me, brother. Your boyfriend is bad fucking news. He has a reputation, and I don’t want anything to do with him.”

“Neither do I anymore. And he’s not my boyfriend,” Logan said quickly, even though for a while there he’d hoped that Chris could become just that.

Cole raised one of his blond eyebrows, studying Logan in a way that made him fidgety. “Really?”

“Really,” Logan said, thinking about the hateful words that had come out of Chris’s mouth‚ not to mention the fact he’d been going to hit him to save face. “I don’t do boyfriends. Or girlfriends, since we’re on the topic.”

Cole looked unconvinced, but the more Logan talked, the more he liked this new resolve of his.

Yeah, fuck Christopher Walker. He didn’t need some declaration of undying love to make him happy. He just wanted to enjoy his life. Be able to do what he wanted when he wanted, and that included people. Boyfriends, girlfriends—they just made shit messy, and from here on out, he was done with that.

“If you don’t do relationships, then what do you do?” Cole said, looking genuinely curious.

Logan thought about that and shrugged, liking this new idea more and more. “Whatever, and whoever, I want. Try a little, take a lot if I like them, and make sure I’m the one who comes out on top in the end. Each and every time.”

Yeah, that sounds like a good motto to live by. And never ever let someone have the power to break my heart again…

LOGAN WOKE WITH such a start that his feet fell off the box they’d been propped up on and landed on the hardwood with a thud.

Shit. He hadn’t thought about Chris and, well, any of that stuff for years. It made sense that it was on his mind tonight, though. Chris had been the catalyst when it came to him and relationships, and it wasn’t until Tate that Logan had really let his walls down, and now…

And now what? Logan thought with a mocking laugh. There’s no way I’m going anywhere without Tate, so that stupid motto can just fuck the hell off. And that was it, wasn’t it? That was what the dream had really meant. Logan put his feet back up and settled into the chair again.

That day with Chris had been a turning point for him. A moment that had led him down a path until Tate, and then that gorgeous, stubborn man had stopped Logan in his tracks and made him choose a different road.

As Logan sat there thinking about the one who owned not only the clothes he was currently wearing, but also half of the house he was sitting in, Logan knew he needed to talk to Tate. He needed to understand what was going on, because he had no idea, and until he did, the two of them were going nowhere, and that just wouldn’t work for him.

* * *

“TATE.”

TATE HEARD his father say his name but didn’t respond, too busy hearing his own confession over and over in his head. But then his dad shifted closer to him and said, “It’s okay, son. You were allowed to say no.”

And it was that comment that snapped Tate back to reality. He got to his feet and looked down at where his father was staring up at him with a troubled look on his face.

Tate began to shake his head. “It’s not okay. You don’t understand— Oh God. I feel like I’m going to be sick,” he said, and put a hand to his stomach.

His father got to his feet and reached out to touch his shoulder. “Breathe. Deep breath in, then let it out.”

As Tate did just that, he placed a hand on his father’s arm and bent at the waist as the room began to spin. Jesus, this house was starting to really mess with his damn head whenever he set foot in it.

When he finally got his stomach to calm a little, he looked to his father, who had a tight-lipped expression and that glint in his eye that told Tate he wasn’t going to get away with the silent routine much longer.

“Right,” his dad said. “You need to start talking. Help me understand what is going on.”

Tate swallowed and nodded, then brought a hand to his mouth and rubbed it across his lips, as though it would erase what they’d said earlier that night. But it was too late for that. What was done was done. So finally, he spoke. “I didn’t mean to say no.”

When his dad frowned, Tate ran a hand through his hair and tried to organize his thoughts.

“I don’t understand.”

“I know,” Tate said as he spun away and then blurted out, “Neither do I. It was like one minute we were fooling around in the car, and the next we walked into some kind of alternate universe where Logan—Logan—was down on one knee with a ring in his hand. There were candles and…and…it was perfect. He was perfect, and I…” Tate turned back to face his dad. “I freaked out.”

His dad came over, put a hand on either arm, and looked him dead in the eye. “Why?”

Tate shrugged, but his dad shook his head.

“No. That’s not good enough. Not for this. Why, Tate? Why would you tell Logan no, when I know how much you love that man and want to marry him?”

Tate blinked, trying to keep focus, and then finally he said the one thing that had him so scared. “Because I can’t fail again at this, Dad. Not with him. I wouldn’t survive it.”