“Do you?” Logan’s eyes practically sparkled at him, and he stroked Tate’s cheek.

“Mhmm,” he hummed before sitting in the opposite chair.

He loved the way Logan was staring at him. It was like he’d just offered him the world—it made him feel like a fucking king.

“So…this morning I get to try your cooking, huh? Is this a prelude of something I have to look forward to?”

And with those few words, Tate was reminded of why he’d cooked. He’d been unable to fucking sleep, and why? Because he didn’t have the first idea how to explain himself to Logan—and he deserved an explanation.

Taking a moment to think, he shoveled two biscuits onto a plate and then poured the sausage gravy over it before handing the plate to Logan. He took it from him with a quiet, “Thank you,” and Tate knew he was waiting—waiting for him to open his mouth and start the conversation he didn’t want to have.

How the hell do I even begin?

He smothered his own food in the creamy sauce, and when he placed the pot back on the table, he noticed that Logan was still watching him. But this time, the look in his eyes was…pensive.

“You not going to eat?” Tate asked, mentally kicking his own ass for being a fucking coward.

“I am,” Logan said and picked up his fork. “You going to talk? Or sit there scowling at your plate?”

“I’m not scowling.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m thinking,” Tate explained. “There’s a difference. And I’d think you would be used to this face by now.”

“Oh, I recognize it for what it is. I was just checking. Well, then. I’ll just sit here and eat my delicious breakfast quietly until you’re ready.”

Tate smirked as he stretched one of his legs out in front of him. “You are going to sit quietly?”

“Yep,” Logan told him before he brought a full fork to his mouth, pushing the food between his lips. He bared his teeth at Tate and dragged the fork free, giving him a grin. “I can be quiet.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Yes. I can.”

Tate didn’t reply. Instead, he started to eat his breakfast in complete silence. He watched Logan do the same, and as the seconds ticked by and turned to minutes, Logan sat forward in his chair.

Tate reached for his orange juice and raised it to his lips. After taking a sip, he put it back down and acted as if he were about to talk. Logan’s eyes widened a little, expectantly, but Tate started to eat again, enjoying the game immensely.

Noticing Logan’s jaw bunch as though he were clamping his mouth shut, possibly biting his tongue in an attempt to keep it closed, Tate was about to relent until Logan lost it first.

“Okay, so apparently, I can’t keep my mouth shut. Happy?”

Tate crossed his arms over his chest. “Nah. I rather like you with your mouth open. But…”

“But the answer’s still no, right?”

Don’t let me be fucking right, was all Logan could think as Tate sat up straight in his chair and replied, “Right.”

He barely held back the urge to demand why. As it was, he was trying his best to be patient, but Tate needed to talk. He needed to help him understand what was going on.

“Is it me? You don’t think you’d like living with me?”

Tate’s eyes found his as he adamantly denied that claim. “No. No. It’s nothing like that. It’s not you—”

“If you end that sentence with ‘it’s me,’ I might kick you.”

Tate brought a hand to his hair and pushed his fingers through it. He seemed extremely uncomfortable, and Logan hated that, but at the same time, he wanted answers. Then, with a long sigh, Tate dropped his hand onto his leg and squeezed his fingers into his thigh.

“Is it because of Chris?” Logan hedged, wondering if maybe the reappearance of his ex had somehow made Tate doubt him just as Cole had suggested. Fuck, he hoped that wasn’t the case. He’d done everything in his power to gain Tate’s trust, and he wasn’t about to blow it on Christopher fucking Walker.

“No. I don’t like that he’s back in your life. But I don’t give a shit about him,” Tate said and then met Logan’s gaze head on. “Should I?”

Sitting forward on his chair, Logan put his hand over Tate’s, where it remained on his thigh. “Of course not. You don’t ever need to worry about him,” he said, curling his fingers around Tate’s. “If it’s not Chris and it’s not me, then what is it?”

Tate entwined their fingers, a habit of his that always reminded Logan of how far they’d come since their first coffee date at The Daily Grind.

“I…” Tate trailed off, and Logan waited, figuring that it was best to let Tate get off his chest whatever was making him feel so uneasy. “I’m not comfortable moving in with you because…” He looked up then, and the emotion in his eyes made Logan feel anxious.

“Because?” he encouraged.

“I have nothing to fucking offer you,” Tate finally said on a rush of air.

Wait. What the…“What are you talking about? I don’t need anything—”

“Exactly. That’s exactly my point.” Tate let his fingers go and sat back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re Logan Mitchell.”

Logan was sure Tate hadn’t meant for it to sound like a bad thing, but right then, that was exactly how it had sounded.

“And what does that mean?”

Tate abruptly pushed out of his chair as though he couldn’t sit still and turned away from him. “It means you’re thirty-four years old and own your own company, not to mention a cabin with practically an entire forest behind it. You wear the best clothes, drive the best car, and live in and own a fucking high-rise in downtown Chicago.” Tate stopped talking and turned with a frown. “It just means that it’s a little intimidating is all. I had so many plans for myself… I still do.”

For once in his life, Logan didn’t know what to say. He’d had no idea that was what had been bothering Tate. It’d never even occurred to him. But as he remained seated and Tate walked into the living room, Logan knew he needed more information.

If that was what was standing between Tate living on his own and moving in with him, then he needed to know exactly what Tate wanted.

“Tell me.”

Tate faced him, leaning his back against the small windowsill and crossing his arms. “They’re just ideas in my head. They probably won’t ever happen.”

Logan stood and walked toward Tate, but feeling as if he might still need his own space, he stopped by the couch and sat. “Tell me anyway.”

“Well,” he started and then gave a self-deprecating laugh as he shook his head. “You can’t laugh at me.”

“Why would I laugh?”

“I don’t know. Any time I’ve ever told anyone this, they just kind of laughed as if it would never happen.”

Logan cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at him. “Anyone as in Diana?”

Tate said nothing, and Logan knew he was right.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, there are a lot of ways in which Diana and I differ.”

Tate’s eyes roamed over him. “Believe me. I noticed.”

“Good,” Logan said. “Then you’re also aware that my reactions to most things also differ from her. You once told me not to compare you to Chris. I’m telling you right now—stop comparing me to her.”

Logan could tell that the tone of his voice had gotten through because Tate’s lips pulled tight and he replied with a curt, “Okay.”

He nodded once and relaxed back into the couch, putting an ankle across his knee. He tapped his thigh several times, waiting for Tate’s next move, and when he came over and sat beside him, Logan said again, “Please, tell me your plans.”

Tate angled his body toward Logan and thought about his next words carefully. For years, he’d had an idea he’d kept on the back burner, waiting for the right opportunity, and it wasn’t until recently that he’d really started to think of the possibilities.