“It doesn’t matter,” Logan says, stepping forward now. His hand finds mine, warm and steady as he threads our fingers together. “Whatever pieces you find—we’ll hold them with you.”
Trey’s hand still rests on my shoulder, but it’s Logan’s touch that grounds me. The way he looks at me like I’ve already come home—even if I don’t know the whole path yet.
“She’s back,” Trey says softly, looking at them. “Maybe not all the way, but... she’s here.”
“Damn right she is,” Sam grins, raising his coffee like a toast. “Mac attack, back in the house.”
Laughter ripples through the room, unsteady and emotional, but real. I blink against the tears in my eyes and lean into Logan, his lips brushing my hair with a kiss.
Am I back?
Not all the way, sure… and maybe that’s for the best, because I am liking this me.
The cold hits me the second we step out of the black SUV and into the crisp, electric buzz of Montreal in October.
I suck in a breath, hugging my coat tighter around me as the wind whips strands of hair across my face. The scent of roasted chestnuts and sweet cinnamon pretzels rides the air, mingling with the sharp tang of smoke machines and the distant thump of bass from the main stage.
Festival grounds sprawl before us—an ocean of bodies moving in every direction. Lights flash from massive digital banners, LED panels scroll through set times and sponsors, and somewhere in the distance, someone screams when they spot the boys.
And I get it.
Even standing next to them, I get it.
They’re rockstars in the flesh—each one of them effortlessly magnetic in that way you can’t fake. Sam’s in his usual tight long-sleeve thermal and black beanie, arms crossed like he’s already scoping out the surroundings. Chace’s got that lazy swagger, a leather jacket hanging open over his flannel, his sticks sticking out of his back pocket like they’re part of him. Trey’s in all black, hoodie up, rings flashing every time he lifts his hand to push it back—and despite his low profile, girls are already pointing and whispering.
But it’s Logan they keep staring at.
Logan with his windblown hair and jaw carved out of sin. Dark denim, heavy boots, black thermal rolled to his elbows, veins standing out on his forearms as he tugs me closer. The strap of his guitar case cuts across his chest, and even with all the noise and movement and chaos—he makes it look like his stage, his show.
And I’m in his spotlight.
He hasn’t let go of my hand once.
I’m bundled up in a thick ribbed knit coat, the hem just brushing the tops of my thighs, my red and black plaid skirt with black tights underneath and my favorite heeled ankle boots that I regret almost immediately—festival ground is not a friend to fashion. Logan’s hoodie is layered under the coat, the hood pulled up over my beanie, and the sleeves are long enough to cover most of my hands. It still smells like him—cologne and mint and the kind of temptation that never fails to make my knees weak.
He pulls me through the crowd like he’s done it a thousand times, and every time someone shouts his name or flashes their phone for a selfie, he’ll pause—but only after tugging me snug to his side. His arm wraps around my waist, his hand resting just under the edge of my coat, fingers warm and possessive over the curve of my hip. He never let’s go.
And every time he leans down to kiss me—in between photo flashes and shouted questions—I melt a little more.
“You know they’re taking pictures of you,” I whisper against his mouth after the third kiss in ten minutes.
Logan just grins, brushing his nose against mine. “Good.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re mine,” he murmurs. “And I want the whole damn world to see it.”
My heart practically flips.
A group of girls rush over, barely able to form full sentences through their excitement. One of them is already shaking as she asks Logan for a picture, her friend holding out a permanent marker and tugging up her jacket sleeve for Trey to sign.
The boys take it in stride—smiling, posing, signing everything from posters to phone cases to a bra that I definitely saw someone whip off right in the middle of the crowd. Trey signs it without flinching. Chace just raises a brow and laughs.
Sam eyes me while he takes a picture with a couple of girls. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I nod, surprised that I mean it. “It’s a lot, but... it’s good.”
Sam flashes his warm grin. “Get used to it.”
