Chapter 245

Chapter 245
Stella's POV

Logan stood in the doorway, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. His usual cocky grin was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he looked almost shy.

"I, uh, learned this stuff online," he said, gesturing at the elaborate setup. "That tutorial made it look way easier than it actually was. You should probably sit down before I burn the house down trying to reheat everything."

I opened my mouth to tell him not to bother, that I wasn't hungry, that I didn't deserve any of this. But he was already moving toward me, pulling out a chair with an awkward flourish that was so earnest it made my chest ache.

"Wait here," he said. "I'll fix it."

I caught his wrist before he could retreat to the kitchen. His skin was warm under my fingers. "Logan. It's fine. We can just heat it up in the microwave or something."

He stared down at our joined hands like I'd just performed a miracle. Then that familiar grin crept back onto his face, splitting it ear to ear. "Yeah? You're not gonna run away or tell me I'm an idiot?"

"You are an idiot," I said, but my voice came out softer than I'd intended. "But it's fine. Really."

He squeezed my hand once before letting go, practically bouncing toward the kitchen. I sank into the chair and pressed my palms against my eyes. The lab felt like it had happened years ago instead of hours. Finn's revelations, Nathan's promises, the crushing weight of it all—

"So you think I can't cook, huh?"

I looked up. Logan had paused in the kitchen doorway, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

"Can you?"

"I'm not completely useless." He picked up one of the serving dishes and disappeared into the kitchen. His voice drifted back, slightly muffled. "I used to help my grandparents with stuff like this when I was a kid. Before I moved back to the Mellon house and turned into a professional disappointment."

There was something raw in those last words, a bitterness that didn't match his usual flippant tone. I thought about the boy he must have been, shuttled between households, never quite fitting anywhere. Wearing his uselessness like armor because if everyone already thought he was worthless, at least he controlled the narrative.

The microwave beeped. Logan emerged with two plates of reheated pasta, set them down with exaggerated care, then slid into the seat across from me.

"See? Not burned. I'm basically a chef."

I picked up my fork. The pasta was slightly overcooked and drowning in sauce, but it was warm and it was there and Logan was watching me with an expression so hopeful it made my throat tight.

"It's good," I managed.

His whole face lit up.

We ate in comfortable silence for a while. I was halfway through my plate when the doorbell rang. Logan jumped up, returning a moment later with several bags from a nearby boba shop.

"Dessert," he announced, setting an enormous cup in front of me. "I got you the works. Taro boba, sago, aiyu jelly, red beans, green beans, watermelon chunks—basically everything they had."

I stared at the cup. It looked like a science experiment. "This is going to give me a cavity just looking at it."

"That's the point." Logan dropped into his chair and jabbed a straw through his own drink. "When you're sad, you're supposed to eat something so sweet it hurts. That's, like, basic self-care."

"Is it?"

"Trust me. I'm an expert in feeling like garbage."

I took a sip. The sugar hit my tongue like a bomb, so intense my throat actually ached. But there was something oddly comforting about it, the way the flavors overwhelmed everything else. For a few seconds, I didn't have to think about Victor or my grandmother or the weight of evidence I still needed to find.

Logan watched me over the rim of his cup, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Better?"

"I don't know if my pancreas will ever forgive you, but yeah. A little."

After we finished, Logan led me to his home theater room. It was absurdly large, with a screen that took up an entire wall and seats that looked like they belonged in a luxury cinema. He flopped onto the center couch and patted the space beside him.

"Come on. We're watching something stupid and fun. No arguments."

I hesitated, then sank down next to him. He immediately pulled me against his side, one arm looping around my shoulders.

"What are we watching?"

"The Avengers. The first one. It's a classic."

The movie started. I tried to focus on the screen, but Logan kept shifting, adjusting his position so he could feed me popcorn or hold a water bottle to my lips or tuck a blanket more securely around my shoulders. It should have been annoying. Instead, it felt like being wrapped in something warm and safe.

Halfway through the battle of New York, Logan leaned down and murmured in my ear, "So are we like the Avengers? Assembling a team to take down the bad guys?"

Despite everything, I felt my mouth curve. "If we are, you're definitely the Hulk."

He pulled back, mock-offended. "Why? Because I'm big and strong and devastatingly attractive?"

"Because you're green."

"Green?"

"Naive. Inexperienced. Green."

For a moment, he just stared at me. Then he threw his head back and laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Okay, that's fair. But for the record, the Hulk is the strongest Avenger."

"Thor would disagree."

"Thor's an idiot with a hammer."

We fell back into watching the movie, but I wasn't really seeing it anymore. My mind kept drifting, thoughts spiraling in directions I didn't want them to go. Finn's haunted expression. Nathan's anger on my behalf. The years and years of evidence I still needed to piece together.

And under it all, the gnawing awareness that I was using Logan. That every moment of this warmth and safety was built on lies.

But for once, I let myself pretend it wasn't.

When had that happened? When had Logan become the one person I didn't have to perform for?

With Ryder, every word had to be calculated, a careful mix of truth and fiction designed to keep him close without letting him see too much. With Christian, every breath was a chess move. Even with Nathan, I had to maintain the mask of the victim seeking justice, never revealing the cold fury that actually drove me.

But Logan had seen me fall apart. He'd watched me manipulate and scheme and lie, and he'd chosen to stand with me anyway. There was something terrifying about that. Something that made me want to push him away before he got hurt.

Or before I started to care too much.

I shifted, turning to look up at him. His attention was still on the screen, but his hand had moved to rest on my hip, fingers curled possessively against the fabric of my shirt.

"Logan."

"Hmm?"

I reached up and framed his face with my hands, forcing him to look at me. "You know I'm going to destroy your family, right? That I'm going to take everything from them."

His expression didn't change. "Yeah. I figured that out a while ago."

"And you're still here."

"Yep."

"Why?"

He caught my wrists, holding my hands against his face. "Because they deserve it. Because you deserve better than what they did to you. And because—" He paused, throat working. "Because you're the first real thing that's happened to me in years."