zayn. she/her. 20. virgo. editor. beginner writer. loves x-men. loves twd. loves anime. loves hugh jackman. old man logan enthusiast. eddie alden hot girlfriend.
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nanami x reader ─ arranged marriage, enemies to lovers au
you didn't choose to marry nanami kento. the marriage was arranged, the love absent, and your heart still clung onto another man who was everything your husband wasn’t - wild, untethered, and free. you thought it would be the end of you. instead, it’s where everything begins.
─ love doesn’t happen all at once, but nanami is nothing if not patient.
content: arranged marriage, reader is a sorcerer, enemies to lovers but it's entirely one sided, tw: archaic marriage practices, period-typical sexism, lots of sexual tension, yearning final boss nanami kento, references to reader's past lover, past heartbreak and healing, explicit content, non-explicit mentions of violence and suicidal ideation, past domestic abuse, loss of virginity, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, inexperienced reader, link to ao3
word count: 3.8k
a/n: holy crap i somehow managed to get a new chapter out in time. this series can get quite tiring to write tbh, im literally huffing and puffing after i finish every chapter LOL. but my babies are finally making some progress... i'm so proud of them
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It’s early in the night when you step out of your room. Well, earlier than the first few times anyway.
You pad down the hallway, going through the usual motions you’ve now come to be acquainted with. Bare feet pressing on the cold wooden floor, your fingers trailing across the skirting boards. It’s a familiar path and a familiar time – a meeting held each night like a fragile truce called – but you still find yourself hesitant, like every step towards the kitchen would only lead you to disappointment.
And this time, it does.
The kitchen is dark, silent, the chairs pushed neatly into the dining table and the kettle cold on the counter. For a moment, you peer outside, eyes flitting to the winding staircase and wondering if you got here earlier than him. If he could still be on his way, late from work or tied up in other affairs.
You linger there for a moment, unsure of what to do with yourself. Only the stillness of the late evening greets you today, no clink of porcelain, no shuffle of movement, no warm scent of honey apple and chamomile that warms your hands.
You’re about to leave when your gaze lowers, finally catching on the small detail that breaks that pattern. It’s a single sheet of paper resting on the table, folded crisply and held down beneath the porcelain teacup Nanami always sets out for you.
The handwriting immediately catches your eye as you unfold it. It’s neat, deliberate, with fluid lines pressed into the paper with a kind of precision and care that seems fitting for a man like Nanami. Every stroke controlled, every word considered.
I’ll be away for work this weekend. I’m sorry I couldn’t inform you earlier, it was an urgent matter that required my attention. I can’t prepare tea for you today, but I hope to do so once I am home.
Do not hesitate to call me if you need anything. You can find my number at the back.
Yours, Nanami Kento
Your brows lift, mouth twisting as you stare down at it. A short note signed like letter and complete with his signature, as if he was conducting polite business with a stranger.
That’s what we are, you suppose. Strangers.
Thumb brushing over the black ink, the last three words stand out amongst the rest.
Yours, Nanami Kento.
They catch your eye the same way his wedding ring caught the light in the kitchen last night, a faint gleam of gold flashing in the warm glow of the overhead lamp as you cried into his arms. If you hadn’t been so overwhelmed in the moment, the fact that he was wearing it at all would have took you by more surprise.
(Yours was shoved in the back of a drawer. You would never wear the symbol of your ruin openly your fourth finger.)
You remember the tremor in your hands as you slid it on his finger, and the immovable stoicism in his face as he did the same for you. Despite the ring only weighing several grams worth of gold, they felt as heavy as a shackle upon your wrists.
The vows you were made to repeat had been straight forward and succinct. Every eye in the room settled on you as the officiant paused, waiting for your response.
On this day, in accordance with law and custom, I vow to take you as my husband.
I pledge to honor this union as is expected of me, and to uphold the responsibilities that accompany this bond.
You stumbled over all your lines, the words catching in your throat like a bitter new reality you were being forced to swallow whole. There had been no heartfelt promises of eternal love or care, only the perfunctory words required to bind two people together.
But in spite of all of that, what your husband keeps offering you, time and time again, is something so steady it feels foreign. Unreal, almost, in its sincerity. A quiet patience and an unshakeable attentiveness, each gesture delivered with a kind of consistency you can’t reconcile with anything you’ve ever known.
Nanami had spoken his vows cleanly and resolutely, voice carrying across the room without a trace of resistance you had been hoping to find. Yours were acid poured down the throat, and yet his visage conveyed nothing of the same emotions that were threatening to swallow you whole.
Stoic. Immovable. That face made him your enemy.
I vow to guide and protect the life we are to share.
Before those who witness us, and before the Gods who guard this union,
I give my word to remain steadfast at your side.
The vows themselves may have been devoid of sentiment, but it’s difficult to keep pretending you don’t notice the Nanami seems to live them out in silence.
Even the simple note – signed Yours, – as though the word could mean something.
(As though it already does, at least to him.)
Nanami is like nothing you have ever known before. If the steadiness he keeps offering you feels stable enough to stand upon, if he feels like he could be safe enough to trust, will you still keep turning away from his outstretched hand?
When life has been lived with your hand held in tightly hidden fists, what does it mean to finally force them open?
You think of the way he held you last night, against the hard line of his body, the warmth of his arms against your skin. He never pulled away, even when you dried your tears and snot against his shirtsleeves that should have driven him to recoil.
For those several pitiful moments, the animal in you let itself be seen. Starving for touch, trembling fingers digging into the meat of his chest, clawing towards the very thing you want to vehemently reject.
It is overwhelming shame, perhaps. To catch yourself in the humiliating act of wanting something you’ve sworn never to need again. Like an animal starved, a terrible desire trapped between sharp teeth and bitten tongue, weak from hunger and betrayed by desperation at the mere offering of the smallest measure of tenderness.
This is what it feels like to unearth a beast you could not bury with pride.
Your eyes flicker down to drag over the ink another time. Then with a flex of your fist, you crush the note and those unsettling thoughts in the palm of your hand before temptation, before confusion, can root itself any deeper.
The paper crumbles easily under your fingers, a tiny yet futile victory you claim for yourself, and you march back down the hallway, shoulders stiff.
In the solitude of your room, you shove the note into the same drawer you hide your wedding ring in, with enough force to rattle the wood. His number on the back, written in neat penmanship, now crumpled in a ball, the ink hidden beneath angry creases.
Tightly hidden fists.
You won’t call him. You have no reason to. He shouldn’t have left it at all.
Why did he leave it? Almost as if it were an invitation to call him. An invitation implies hope. Expectation, even. And you cannot bear the thought of Nanami hoping for anything from you.
With that one last resentful thought and the letter out of sight, but not out of mind, you settle into bed, pulling the covers up over your head.
But sleep is no sanctuary tonight, or the next. It’s the same reoccurring nightmare that seizes you – so often visited it might as well be burned in the back of your mind.
Rose petals scatter the bed and the carpeted floors, their crimson softened by the warm glow of candlelight.
It’s a baby blue robe you’ve picked out for the occasion, cutting off at your upper thighs and resting softly on your skin. Your fingers twist in your lap from the excitement, cheeks flushed with shy anticipation.
This is it.
It’s everything you’ve ever wanted.
You gasp his name as his hands slide across your waist, running down the curve of your body, fingers trailing up the valley of your thighs. It always feels so real in the moment – rough palms, the warmth of his breath on your skin, the reassurance that everything will be okay. It’s the part you try to savour before everything changes.
Because the tenderness doesn’t last. His movements always turn hurried, the smile slipping off your face in an uneasy stutter as he rushes toward something unseen.
You call his name, tell him to take his time, saying we have a whole lifetime, but the words itself are lost to the air. Hayate never seems to hear you – his mouth is claiming, almost insistent, and the dream starts to break when your knees hit the back of the mattress.
Petals blur into shadows.
The candlelight burns low.
“Don’t you get it?” his voice echoes, even though the room is empty. “It was always going to end this way.”
You wake up with that same ache still lodged in your throat, sobs that leave your chest in near soundless gasps. Shame clings to you like sweat, your heart twisting in your chest.
By the third night, you’re weary and worn from the sheer vividness of your nightmares. It’s the same sequence, the same string of events that start with tenderness and end with heartbreak, only they’ve become sharper, more merciless in their clarity.
You lie in bed, painfully awake, chest tight with unease, too afraid to let sleep claim you.
That unease has only deepened today, where you know Nanami is supposed to be back. The note had said this weekend, and the weekend had passed with no sign of him.
There hasn’t been food outside your door today, which should have been telling enough, but still, you found yourself checking the kitchen once evening came for signs of his presence.
You looked around again for some trace of him – an extra cup left to dry by the sink, or a faint smell of fragrant tea lingering in the air. Instead, only emptiness greeted you. And when you peeked past his room and found all the lights turned off, it became impossible to deny the truth.
It shouldn’t bother you at all. You shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t leave you rummaging your bedside drawer for his note either, the once-crumpled note now ironed out and flattened to the best of your ability as your eyes run over the number written at the back of it.
It’s only because we agreed to tea, you tell yourself, pushing aside the uneasiness in your chest. An unspoken truce you both settled into, a delicate peace treaty signed with your tears and his arm around your shaking form, sealed by an apology you know deep down he doesn’t owe you.
He’s a good man, you reason. It would be normal to feel concern. Anyone would worry if a stranger they shared a roof with simply vanished without warning.
Right?
The longer you sit on the edge of the bed, your thoughts racing with possible scenarios, the less certain you feel. The truth is hard to deny: you hardly know Nanami at all.
You live in the same house, drinking from the cup he sets in front of you, and you eat the food he wordlessly prepares – but beyond that? Nothing.
You were tied to him by name and by law, but in every way that really mattered, you were still as good as strangers.
A horrifying thought creeps its way into your chest and settles heavy between your ribs. Would there be anyone to tell you if something happened to him while he was away?
Would you even be considered as someone who deserves to know?
What if all the times you cursed him under your breath lead to his demise?
You tell yourself it’s ridiculous. What does it matter to you where he is? Let him stay a stranger, a number you never have to dial.
But fear moves faster than reason today, and your hand is already reaching for your phone, cold and trembling. You punch his numbers into the keypad of your phone with shaky hands, eyes running over the digits again and again to make sure you got them down right.
The line rings once, twice, and with each passing beat you feel your heart pounding harder and harder against your ribs, mind starting to get overrun by every terrible possibility, every scenario of curses and blood and violent endings you can’t bring yourself to picture in detail.
The line connects, and you hold your breath as the ringing starts.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
“Hello?” The crackling of his voice emits through the speaker.
You freeze.
He’s alive. You hadn’t even realised that your body had been tensed and tight as you waited for him to pick up, hands curled around the phone with a white-knuckled grip.
What should you say? What could you say that wouldn’t leave you feeling more embarrassed than you already were?
I couldn’t find you?
I wanted tea?
I was worried about you, and I don’t know why.
Nanami says your name, almost hesitantly. “Is that you?”
You can’t bring yourself to answer, lips parted, though no words come. Then, the line goes quiet, and for a moment you think he’s about to hang up, until the static crackles yet again, and his voice returns, softer this time.
“…Can’t sleep?”
You bite your lip. Still, you say nothing.
He’s fine.
That should be enough for you to end the call. Your fingers twitch, but for some unknown reason, you can’t bring yourself to hang up.
“…That’s okay,” he continues, after a pause. “I can’t sleep tonight either. The hotel they’ve put me in is… not the most desirable, to say the least. There’s been a bit of a hiccup, trains were cancelled because of the weather, and it’ll take me another day to reach Tokyo. I apologise if you were waiting for tea tonight.”
Some shuffling, and then a faint cough of someone who’s uncomfortable but determined to keep speaking. “…Are you still there?”
You turn in bed, deliberately rustling the sheets hard enough so you know he’ll hear it on the other end.
“Ah,” Nanami murmurs. “Are you in bed...? I am too, although I can’t say this is a very comfortable one…” His voice keeps falling off, and you think he sounds a little awkward, as though he isn’t sure how to continue.
Nanami doesn’t strike you as the kind who likes to talk for long, but for some reason he hasn’t hung up on you despite the one-sided conversation. “I’m sorry if I worried you. I hope not… I don’t have your number – well, I suppose I do now – so I had no way of letting you know.”
“I–” his voice cuts off again, pausing for longer this time. “Do you… Do you want me to keep talking to you?”
There’s silence as he waits for your response that doesn’t come. You wonder if you might be testing his patience like this.
He takes another slow exhale. When he speaks again, his tone is lighter, almost conversational.
“Well, I could start by telling you about the mission, I suppose. If I’m boring you, feel free to hang up on me. It’s not a big deal, just a couple of low grade curses that the kids were sent to deal with. They needed someone for backup after the last sorcerer that was supposed to go with them got injured, and I was sent to play babysitter. One of the kids, Yuji…”
You put him on speaker, placing the phone by your ear as you curl into your pillow. His voice continues to hum through the quiet, low and steady, filling the empty corners of your darkened room.
For a long time, you only listen, letting the sound of his voice coax you to sleep. But right before your heavy eyelids shut for the night, at the fuzzy fringes of much needed sleep, a certain vulnerability slips out.
Worn down by fatigue, lured out of the intimacy of the quiet night where his voice is the only sound you hear.
Maybe the words come out easier at the dull buzz of static, cloaked in the safety of distance. A raw honesty, unravelling in your relief.
“Nanami,” you mumble.
“I–” He stops instantly at the sound of your voice, drawing a sharp intake of breath. “So it is you. I was beginning to worry I was leaking classified information to a prank caller.”
Then more quietly, he adds, “Yes? What is it?”
(Tender. His voice is always so devastatingly tender.)
You clutch the edge of your blanket tighter, heat searing your cheeks as you stumble over your words. “Nothing… I… just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
There’s a beat of silence on the line. You can almost picture him – sitting up straighter, mouth pursed, searching for the proper response. Always careful, always measured.
“…I see,” he says finally. “Thank you for thinking of me. I’m fine, I assure you… Although I’m not sure my back might be tomorrow.”
His humour – if you can call it that – is delivered so dryly you almost don’t catch it.
“Your back?” you repeat.
You imagine Nanami – stoned-faced, stoic Nanami – lying uncomfortably in a dingy hotel bed, the scene complete with peeling wallpaper, flickering lights, and a suspiciously musky smell to the sheets. The very picture of discomfort. Somehow, the thought makes you stifle a small laugh despite yourself.
“Are you laughing at me?” His voice takes on a suspicious tone, but you can tell he sees the humour in the situation too.
“No,” you lie, quickly biting down on the edges of a faint smile.
“Mm,” he hums. “Your denial came a little too quick.”
(It sounds a little like he’s teasing you.)
You bring the phone to your ear and roll onto your back, suddenly feeling a little more awake. A little lighter, even.
“…I just didn’t know someone like you could make jokes.”
“I don’t,” he replies flatly, which only makes another tiny laugh slip out, hesitantly and almost awkwardly, like you can’t believe you’re finding it in yourself to laugh again.
He chuckles softly on the other end, sounding mildly amused himself.
This is the furthest you’ve come to any sort of proper conversation with him. A friendly one, where soft laughter bubbles out from your chest, easy and unguarded. Something not punctuated by tension in your jaw or eyes that glare at him suspiciously from across the room.
That realisation makes you take pause, the quiet laughter dissolving. For the first time, it feels like the both of you are standing at the edge of something more akin to… friendship, instead of the strangers you had been adamant on being.
“…Are you still there?”
“Mhm,” you swallow, throat suddenly feeling dry. “Still here.”
“You must be tired. I shouldn’t keep you up,” he tells you. “… But I’ll stay on the line. If you want me to.”
There’s a flutter in your chest you can’t quite place. Your lips part before you can think better of it.
“I’m… glad to hear your voice.”
Silence falls again, and you immediately start regretting having opened your mouth. Maybe it was the wrong thing to say, maybe he’ll misunderstand, maybe you should have said nothing at all.
But after a moment, his voice cuts through the static yet again.
“I’m glad to hear yours.”
You aren’t alert enough to pay notice to the softened cadence of his voice, the tell-tale sign of a smile spreading across his face. You also aren’t there to see how he finally eases back into the mattress, the tension in his shoulders falling away at last.
Nanami keeps talking to you, even as the steady rhythm of your breathing tells him you’ve drifted off. He fills the silence with whatever comes to mind – recalling insignificant details from past missions, even resorting to giving you a careful review of his favourite bread shop in the city when he had run out of things to say.
You’re fast asleep by now, but he can’t bring himself to hang up.
(Tonight, it feels like you reached for him for the very first time. He finds himself wanting to hold on just a little longer.)
Nanami’s voice is the last thing you hear before sleep takes you, rolling over you in a slow, heavy wave.
It’s the same nightmare you’re trapped in.
The rose petals, the flicker of candlelight, his smile, boyish and familiar.
Hayate’s touch is rough and hurried, pressing rushed kisses to your skin as your fingers tangle in his hair. It’s the exact same sequence you’re forced to watch like a helpless spectator of your own torment.
Your robe pools against your feet, and when your knees hit the edge of the bed, you shut your eyes and brace yourself for the moment the air changes and leaves you anguished.
But then, something shifts.
The petals blur to shadow, the hands on your body holding you steady as your back comes down on the mattress. The movements slow to something more tender, laced with gentleness in every touch as your thighs fall open for him and his fingers trace the line of your heat.
A single finger parts you, steady and reverent as your body tenses at the sensation. You hear yourself – a soft gasp escaping from the back of your throat as your back arches up to chase his touch.
Nothing about this matches your memory. It doesn’t fit the script – the hollow ache hasn’t come, that echo of his voice doesn’t reverberate in your ears.
Instead, deft fingers find you where you’re the most sensitive, and pleasure builds in your stomach like a fire stroked by wind, tight and heavy as your hands fist the sheets.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to go at all.
You blink, and when you dare to look, the details blur. Hayate’s hair, but not his hands. His mouth, but not his gaze.
Hazel eyes, the colour of darkened autumn leaves, and not blue like the boundless sky. This time, they look straight at you, as if capturing the details of your face, and not past you.
For a heartbeat, you freeze, unable to tell who it is leaning over your bare body. It’s blurred, half-formed, familiar at the edges but foreign in the centre.
Your breath hitches when his mouth lowers to yours, ghosting over your lips like he’s waiting for permission.
Then, it details sharpen.
Nanami.
You wake with a violent jolt, heart hammering against your ribs, sweat damp at your temples. For a long moment you stare at the ceiling, engulfed by shame, horror, mortification, your pulse still caught in that false rhythm, every detail of his touch scorched into your nerves.
a/n: we've finally reached a turning point for their relationship. look at these guys lowkey flirting over the phone wtf. btw please don’t misunderstand her first dream! “it was always going to end this way” refers to the way their relationship ended, it’s not an allusion to SA.
thank you to everyone for reading!! especially to those that comment and have sent me asks encouraging me <3 i was feeling very discouraged and didn’t plan on updating this week — without that support this chapter would have taken much longer to write. i appreciate you 🫵🏻🤍
as always, comments and reblogs are appreciated :) my inbox is open, please don't be shy to let me know your thoughts/questions blah blah (i say that whilst being shy myself). oh and just comment on the series masterlist if you would like to be added to the taglist!
nanami x reader ─ arranged marriage, enemies to lovers au
you didn't choose to marry nanami kento. the marriage was arranged, the love absent, and your heart still clung onto another man who was everything your husband wasn’t - wild, untethered, and free. you thought it would be the end of you. instead, it’s where everything begins.
─ love doesn’t happen all at once, but nanami is nothing if not patient.
content: arranged marriage, reader is a sorcerer, enemies to lovers but it's entirely one sided, tw: archaic marriage practices, period-typical sexism, lots of sexual tension, references to reader's past lover, past heartbreak and healing, explicit content, non-explicit mentions of violence and suicidal ideation, past domestic abuse, loss of virginity, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, inexperienced reader, link to ao3
word count: 3k
a/n: we're finally getting into nanami's pov! honestly, this chapter was a bitch to write and trying to capture all his emotional nuances was taking me out. but we got there eventually with a timely update. yippee
series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter
You don’t protest at all when Nanami guides you out of the kitchen and down the hall. He never touches you, only moving with you at a patience pace until you both finally reach the doorway of your bedroom. You haven’t uttered a word, only sniffling quietly, rubbing at your eyes occasionally.
Your shoulders slump forward, head hanging low, the defeated shuffle of your feet dragging against the boards. It’s the same way he saw you move through the house during the first few weeks of the marriage – a body drained of its will to go on, eyes stripped of their spark.
He eases the door open, holding it for you as you step inside without hesitation. Without lifting your gaze towards him, you move past him and slip beneath the covers, curling into your side quietly. You don’t even pull the blanket up past your hips, leaving yourself half exposed to the chill of the night.
His fingers twitch faintly with restrained urge – an instinct to step forward, to reach down and draw the covers over you. But he stays where he is. Instead, he smothers that impulse with a tightening fist and the knowledge that his gesture, however gentle, would not be welcome.
“Rest,” he tells you softly, although he doubts you hear him.
Nanami watches you for a moment longer than he should, but you barely seem cognisant of his presence at all. The covers shift faintly with the slow rise and fall of your breath, a steady sound, though uneven at times as if grief punctuates even your sleeping moments. He stays by the door, only turning to leave when he’s certain that you’ve fallen asleep.
He’s in the midst of pulling the door handle gently shut when he catches the faintest whisper leaving your lips.
It’s broken and half-formed, but the small sound gives him pause. He lingers for a moment, almost unsure if he’s imagined it.
But then it comes again, a little clearer this time.
It’s still barely audible, a soft sigh drenched in a sob, carried on the fraying edges of sleep, but clear enough to cut through the quiet room.
…Hayate.
The sound halts him where he stands.
A boy’s name.
Drawn out of you even in sleep, drifting on a trembling breath in a way that sounded wistful, almost pleading.
A part of him bubbles with unbidden curiosity he knows he doesn’t deserve to feel. Whoever your unconscious reaches to when your guard is down and made vulnerable by exhaustion should be none of his business. Whoever this Hayate is – that story belongs to you alone.
And yet his mind wanders despite himself – a lover, perhaps?
Someone you might have wanted to marry before you were tied to him?
The urge to linger, to stand there long enough to see if you’ll say it again, to see if it might offer glimpses into your past, pushes against his restraint, but he resists the temptation, tightening his grip on the handle instead.
It’s not his right to know.
Not his right to collect the fragmented details of your grief and try to piece them together as though they belong to him.
The thought is completely stilled when the weight of his intrusion settles heavy in his chest. He’s already caught a glimpse of something far too intimate to belong to him, something not meant for his ears.
Swallowing around the tightness building in his throat, Nanami forces his hands to move before he trespasses on another stolen moment.
He pulls the door the rest of the way closed, shutting it as gently as possible. It’s only when he steps outside that he finally allows himself to release a heavy breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding in.
On the day of your wedding, he’d felt sick to the stomach at the look on your face, the way your gaze kept shifting towards him with a desperate plea hidden behind glassy eyes.
His stomach had twisted in knots when he slipped the ring on your finger, and he felt pushed to the point of nausea when he walked into the bedroom and saw you there, already waiting.
(You can have the bed, he told you, voice stiff as he turned towards the bathroom. The grimace on his face matched yours, though you’d never know it. He quietly shut the door behind him and leaned against the sink, trying to push down the feeling of guilt that coiled tight in his abdomen.
He wondered how he could possibly be the lesser evil and still feel so monstrous for it.)
Now, standing outside your door, he feels that same sickness twist through him, rising up in his throat and coating his tongue with bitterness.
He asked to share in your sorrow despite being aware of all the ways he falls short of being deserving of it. He reached out to touch you, despite knowing his mere presence wounds you. And he keeps trying, in spite of everything, because he doesn’t know what else to do but hold you with arms that will always feel flimsy against the weight of your grief.
You asked Nanami multiple times if it was pity that drove him to accept the marriage. Every single time, he felt the explanation escape him, rising to his throat and then dying out when it was exposed to air.
What would he say, anyway?
That he admired your fire, even when it burned him?
That he saw it coming close to being snuffed out and felt an instinctive urge to protect it?
That the wilfulness in your eyes – so violently at odds with a world that seemed determined to beat it out of you – took him by surprise and compelled him in ways he could not explain, in ways he dared not?
He wasn’t driven to do this because he fancied himself your saviour. You didn’t need his pity, and he knew that well. More than a fragile or broken thing to be looked at with sad eyes, he thought that maybe what you needed most was a friend. Just a presence that provided company, and not consolation.
And maybe… Maybe he had seen it before. That same sort of light, shining out of someone else, until it was stolen from them far too soon. Taken under different circumstances, but extinguished all the same. Maybe he wanted to guard it just as much as he respected it. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he couldn’t bring himself to stand by and watch it happen again.
But those are truths he can’t offer you. He has nothing to give you but himself. Nothing except two hands that would never raise against you, and words that always seem to fall short.
And so what remains is a quiet, unspoken promise that whatever else this union has taken from you, whatever agency it has stripped you of, it will never take your dignity, nor your safety.
He would make sure of it.
So here he is, standing outside your bedroom door at four in the morning, finding himself struggling to navigate his guilt and your grief with an almost foolish sort of audacity, asking the question that remains unspoken in his chest.
May I stand beside you, even if you hate me for it?
May I shoulder what little I can, even if it may never be enough?
(Nanami remembers the afternoon he had crossed paths with Zenin Naoya at the gates of your family estate. The man had arrived with his usual entourage, striding through the courtyard with the kind of arrogance of a man who was no stranger to using force to bend things, people, to his will.
Frankly, he wasn’t sure what he was doing there at all. Nanami preferred to keep his nose out of the rubbish that was clan politics. He was born a nobody, and for that he remained extremely grateful.
But there had been an invitation extended to him, and the head of a clan as powerful as this one asking to meet with him was something he could not turn down, no matter how much he wanted to. And when someone who wields such immense power in his hands gives you an order dressed up as a request, polite refusal is never an option.
His eyes narrowed at the sight of the other man. The Zenin hardly deserved to call themselves a clan, for all their barbaric practices and archaic rituals masquerading as tradition.
They were animals, through and through. They inbred like animals, clawed at each other like animals, engaged in displays so lacking in human decency that he simply couldn’t bring himself to feign a shred of respect for them.
And out of all the animals he’s ever had the displeasure of crossing paths with, very few came close to the lesser being that was Naoya himself.
“Ah, Nanami,” the animal in question drawled, striding up and clapping him on the back hard enough to sting. “Good to see you. I was just leaving.”
“Zenin,” he reluctantly acknowledged with the barest nod. I can’t say it’s good to see you.
“Got to say, I never took you for the marriage type.” Naoya barks a laugh. “Especially not an arrangement like this.”
Then, he leaned in, smugness plastered all over his features and dripping from his grating voice. “Bet she caught your eye, didn’t she? I knew even someone like you can never resist a whore with a pretty face.”
Naoya didn’t wait for a reply, too enamoured by the sound of his own voice, as always. “I’d act quick if you want to bed her. I’ve had other offers brought to me, but this one…” his mouth curled into an ugly snarl, “this one caught my attention. You’ll see what I mean when you meet her. She’ll be fun to break.”
“You’re disgusting,” he spat, jaw clenched, but Naoya only barked out a vulgar laugh as though it were a compliment, shoving past him and making his way towards the gates.
The foul taste of the exchange lingered even as he watched Naoya disappear from sight.
Nanami had never felt more compelled to throw a punch, but the rational part of him knew it would be nothing but wasted effort. So instead, he swallowed hard against the bile creeping up in his throat and straightened his tie for the umpteenth time, before turning toward the house with a sigh.
Just as he’d expected, the presence inside within was nowhere less suffocating than the presence he had encountered at the gates.
“Nanami-san,” your father greeted warmly. “I think highly of you. It is an honour to receive a man of your skill here.” He offered Nanami a smile so courteous that one could have nearly forgotten he had been given little choice in being here.
Your father spoke with a level of politeness he clearly didn’t extend to the women in his household. When your father bowed, your mother would only bend lower, and Nanami didn’t miss the way she had entered the room, trailing three steps behind him as he walked. Even now, she sat obediently by his side, her gaze lowered to the floor.
For several minutes, the conversation was filled with meaningless pleasantries. His back was ramrod straight, struggling to keep his expression neutral despite the disgust he felt about the entire affair.
Your father praised him endlessly, speaking highly of his accomplishments as a sorcerer, but the compliments were undercut by opinions about the jujutsu world so outdated that Nanami had to resist the urge to grimace.
“Occasionally, strong sorcerers like yourself do come by,” your father mused. The man seemed unconcerned that his guest had been offering nothing more than polite, curt nods in response, almost as if he preferred to conduct a lecture more than an actual conversation.
“There can be miracles born out of non-sorcerer families. Just look at Geto Suguru – his technique is truly a marvel. But men like that, like you, are exceptions, not the rule. The strength of the Jujutsu world lies in maintaining bloodlines. Power must be cultivated, maintained through lineage, not left to chance. Dilute it, and you weaken us all.”
Nanami forced his face to remain impassive, but the corners of his mouth were pulling into a frown that had become difficult to conceal entirely.
He understood why your father seemed so keen on a match with the Zenin clan – for he echoed the same poisonous rhetoric they did – the same obsession with traditionalism, with upholding the sanctity of “bloodlines” to hoard power and justify cruelty.
“…Women especially,” your father went on, reaching for another cup of sake your mother had been diligently refilling. “They muddy their role when they think they can stand beside men in the field. Sorcery is no easy job. One better left to men. Let the women manage the house, give birth to heirs. You see, I am quite serious about leaving behind a legacy…”
Nanami’s attention shifted briefly toward you. You sat apart from them, at the far end of the room, back straight, hands twisting in the silk of your dress. Swollen, tearful eyes widened as they looked at him, and amidst the sorrow he caught a glimpse of the shaky defiance in your gaze. Your chin lifted high enough in a display of stubbornness, a sign of someone refusing to go down without a fight.
It was faint and it was fading. But it was there.
Your father rattled on – another man who liked hearing the sound of his own voice, it seemed. “It is a shame she has not inherited any useful techniques,” and then in a statement directed more at you than Nanami himself, he said, “Pitiful, for someone so insistent on working as a sorcerer. I told her countless times it was foolish. Better a housewife instead.”
Nanami’s jaw tensed, his hands folded too tightly in his lap as your father carried on. He lowered his head and stared at the wooden table in front of him instead, focusing his eyes on the pattern of the wood grain that swirled like endless circles.
Vaguely, he felt his eye twitch, every knot in the grain pulling his gaze deeper as though his growing temper could possibly be buried there.
“But she is presentable, and of suitable age. A wife capable of fulfilling her role. I’ve always believed in the value of these qualities over cheap sentiments, won’t you agree?”
“How–” he felt his voice waver and stopped to clear this throat. Asking any question at all made he feel complicit in the sordid transaction. “How old is she? Your daughter.”
Nanami watched as his inquiry made your father falter. He appeared perplexed for a second – brows knitting together, mouth ajar in surprise, or maybe confusion. Then, your mother picked her head up, leaning in towards him to whisper in his ear.
“She’s twenty-one,” your father supplied at last, waving his hand dismissively. “Of age.”
Twenty-one, and being spoken of like your worth was expiring and had to be quickly bartered away before the next season.
“…She is to be married off before the autumn. It has been long enough,” your father’s words were clipped and absolute. He turned to you, eyes narrowed in warning, before shifting back to Nanami. “Either to Zenin Naoya or to you, should you like to accept my offer.”
The atmosphere in the room instantly felt heavier, weighed down by the sound of your father’s decree.
Nanami was starting to think it would be inappropriate to call this man your father. He was more of a salesman, speaking of you in a manner that was entirely devoid of familial sentiment. Parading you about like a car he wanted to let go for cheap, an eyesore in his garage.
He glanced at you once more, and your eyes met his, surveying him with the desperation of someone trying to figure out if he were a friend or foe. It was as though you were trying to measure him, to judge whether he would also be there to join in the bartering, or if by some chance he might prove himself to be something different.
Nanami did not come to intervene. In fact, a polite refusal had been rehearsed and sitting on the back of his tongue the entire meeting, waiting for an opportune moment to be voiced.
But as he listened to your father speak of you, listing off your attributes like you were a mere marketplace commodity he wanted to be rid of, a voice of indifference driving in every word, Nanami was struck by the cold, hard realisation that his silence would also be an answer that would seal your fate.
He should have known, really.
His complicity in the arrangement had been set in stone the moment he stepped foot in this place and made himself witness to your father’s cruelty and your mother’s resignation. His refusal, however carefully phrased, would only hand you over to Naoya or into the grasp of whoever your father chose next.
From the moment Naoya sauntered over and his heavy hand met the hardness of his back, Nanami should have known he was always going to be forced to make a choice today, whether he spoke or not.
You would pay the price, no matter what he did.
And so, in what was probably the most emotional, the most irrational decision he’s ever made in his life, he opened his mouth and betrayed his initial intentions with a heavy breath. He uttered four words that would bind you to him, and him to you, for the rest of your lives.
“I accept the arrangement.”
In front of him, your father smiled, pleased at last. The sudden nature of Nanami’s agreement did not seem to surprise him, only reassure him that all was falling into place. Your mother simply nodded along, offering no resistance.
But Nanami’s gaze never left you.
He watched as the hope in your eyes died out as soon as those words were spoken.
Friend or foe?
The look on your face told him you had decided in that single moment.
Foe.
The words were reckless – a display of uncharacteristic impulsivity that had left his mouth before he could think better of it. But they were also utterly sincere in their conviction.
Nanami Kento made a vow that day he intended to keep for the rest of his life.
It was probably as cruel as it was kind. But he’d just have to live with that.)
a/n: personally, i don't think it would sit right with me if his decision was motivated by a desire to play her saviour or white knight. what is eternally more valuable than pity is empathy, especially for someone as isolated as reader.
also, did you guys catch the very subtle haibara mention? i don't want to get into too much detail but i imagine his guilt over haibara's death is somewhat part of the very complicated and tangled web of reasons why he agreed to the marriage.
omfg i can't stop yapping BUT. if you want some insight about hayate and nanami's names and their roles in reader's life, you can check my ao3 note for the chapter.
if you liked this, comments and reblogs are really appreciated. as always, it’s nice to hear your thoughts! if you want to be in the taglist, just comment and let me know <3
nanami x reader ─ arranged marriage, enemies to lovers au
you didn't choose to marry nanami kento. the marriage was arranged, the love absent, and your heart still clung onto another man who was everything your husband wasn’t - wild, untethered, and free. you thought it would be the end of you. instead, it’s where everything begins.
─ love doesn’t happen all at once, but nanami is nothing if not patient.
content: arranged marriage, reader is a sorcerer, enemies to lovers but it's entirely one sided, tw: archaic marriage practices, period-typical sexism, lots of sexual tension, references to reader's past lover, past heartbreak and healing, explicit content, non-explicit mentions of violence and suicidal ideation, past domestic abuse, loss of virginity, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, inexperienced reader, link to ao3
series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter
a/n: wow we have an important chapter today! that’s all i shall say for now, lmao. happy reading! chapter tw: brief, non explicit mentions of domestic violence, vaguely implied sexual violence
(You hate Tuesdays.
Your mother is dolled up, her lips painted red, dressed in her best kimono, the obi pulled tight around her waist. Like always, her hands are clasped in front of her, her head bowed. She’s always pretty, but on Tuesdays her smile is a little wider, plastered on her face despite the brittle edges, and her hands tremble when she pours tea.
She’s always been a small woman – not in stature, but in the way she was so adept at folding into herself, as though her very existence, and yours by extension, were a favour to be repaid by living in silence. She spoke softly, moved very quietly, and was beautiful – beautiful like wallpaper, a pleasing enough thing to look at that simply blended into the background.
When he arrives, it’s with the slamming of a door that announces his entrance, heavy footsteps down the hall, and the faint reek of sake clinging to him like a second skin. You never call him father, at least not in your head. He’s simply the man who comes on Tuesdays.
Don’t fathers live with their families? Your friends in school have fathers that do. They call their fathers “daddy” or “papa”, and they speak of their father like something warm. From what you’ve heard, their fathers read bedtime stories and have broad shoulders to ride on. They’re warm like laughter during dinner or a big hand to hold on the walk back home from school. They boast about their fathers as if they could be a hero.
It makes you wonder if you really have a father. Often, you like to think your real one must be out there looking for you. He probably loves you more than this one does. He knows your favourite colour and all of your favourite sweets. He even knows your birthday, and that you’re turning eight soon. You think he must be desperate in his search for you.
Your Tuesday visitor is no hero. He is an intruding presence that comes and goes, never staying, never once asking about you. His hands are for slamming doors and setting cups down so hard your mother flinches.
His presence carries authority like a weapon, and he brings silence to an already quiet house, returning here only when it suits him, then leaving when he’s done with his business with your mother.
Today, you sit on the tatami with your knees tucked to your chest, pretending to be doing your homework. Your mother will be proud when you show her what you’ve done so far, her eyes crinkling gently at the edges. You like the look on her face when she tells you that she’s proud of you.
You’ll just have to wait until your father leaves so he doesn’t say girls like you don’t need to go to school, like he did the last time you made the mistake of showing him. You remember the way his mouth curled, the way he barked out a laugh that didn’t really sound like a laugh at all.
“A waste of time,” he said, shoving the paper aside without even looking at it. “You’ll marry, and that’s all you’re good for.”
So tonight, you sit in your room, choosing to keep your workbook away from him. The characters blur together anyway; your hand shakes too much. The both of them are in your mother’s room, and from the hall you hear the door slide shut. You press your pencil harder to the page, scratch-scratch-scratch, but the walls are thin.
There’s the low rumble of his voice. Sharp, and mean and scary, like the way a dog growls before it bites. You hear your mother – small as ever. She’s trying to be the wallpaper again. Then, there’s shuffling, and a sound. A table being pushed, feet skidding against the floor.
You hold your breath.
Then, the sounds change. A sharp tug of something soft. Then something – or somebody – hitting against the wall with a dull thud. You continue with your homework – scratch-scratch-scratch – louder and louder until your pencil pokes a hole through the page.
And so you hate Tuesdays. They always end the same way, with your mother emerging from her room, her hair coming undone, the bright red on her lips smudged at the corners. With the brittle smile on her face entirely collapsed, her voice soft and faraway when she asks if you want something to eat.
On Tuesdays, you learn what men are.)
It’s been a week. On the surface, nothing about the rhythm of your days has shifted. Meals, outside your door, three times a day. The lacquered trays placed so quietly that you’ve yet to catch him coming or going. You still avoid the dining room, drifting through the house like a shadow, only slipping into hallways when you’re sure he isn’t there.
It’s not too difficult to evade Nanami during the day, especially when you know he’s likely to be away for missions, but when your paths do cross, it’s always in passing – in doorways, at the edge of the engawa, and then once by the garden gate. A curt nod is all you offer him, though even that seems like too much, and he returns the gesture, before you move past each other like strangers once again.
It's good, you think. It’s better this way. When you’re around Nanami, he leaves you confused. You try to fit him into something familiar, but he never quite stays put. His steady gaze and those eyes that reveal nothing – except for that singular moment in his room where they briefly flashed with something akin to tenderness – they refuse to be categorised into anything you’ve ever known.
Hayate was easy to read. You recognised all his tells. He was a terrible liar, the way his nose would twitch and his eyes would dart away from you when he was about to say something he didn’t really mean.
His words stung sometimes, and he was often brash and impulsive, but like all the other men in your life, he was easy to understand. Prone to carelessness and even cruelty at times, without ever really meaning it. He was wildfire personified, and you knew how to brace yourself against his heat – reckless, consuming, and never at all subtle.
Nanami is nothing like that. He doesn’t even have to say anything; you hear his voice often enough. I’m on your side. His words run through your head, creeping into your mind in the late hours of the night, overlayed with memories of Hayate’s laughter in the tall grass, and evenings spent splashing by the river.
His voice isn’t loud or bright like Hayate’s. Instead , it’s quiet, patient, and… maddeningly inescapable.
Now, it’s the tenth night, and as usual, sleep doesn’t come easily. The silence always stretches on, thin, sharp, and lonely. You’re restless, listless – tossing and turning in bed, the air too heavy and hot around you.
Every day, you will yourself to stop thinking about the one boy who’s been the centre of your focus since you were seventeen. But he lingers all the same. A spot in your heart somehow more enduring than his presence in your life – in the whistle of wind carried over the garden trees, in the dull ache of everything he ever promised you.
It gets worse at night, of course it does. The reminiscing is most dangerous when the darkness provides a perfect background for your thoughts to run free. Except now, you can’t ignore another steadier voice that invades your waking moments, competing for your attention, pulling at your heart just the same.
Of course I do. But not like this.
These days, you can’t even tell which of them keeps you awake longer.
You tell yourself it means nothing. Men lie, they sweeten you up until they get what they want from you, and then they leave you in the dust when they’re done. It’s what happened to your mother, so you know the story well. Hell, it happened to you. And yet, the way Nanami looked at you refuses to let go.
Pushing back the covers with a frustrated sigh, you slip into the hallway, the cool bite of the wooden floor under your feet grounds you, but only just barely. What you need is water. Some air. To not be in a space where it feels like the four walls are closing in on you.
You walk slowly, feeling the ghosts of the past dragging at your heels with every step. It pulls you back into another time – another memory – perhaps the most painful one of all. The desperation you had carried, the last shred of hope you were holding onto, the way your hands shook as they reached for his wrist.
(Your parents are still sitting behind closed doors when you slip away, discussing your marriage arrangements like you’re cattle being bartered away. Well, your father is, at least. Your mother sits obediently by his side, making small hums in agreement, never once daring to speak against him. You wonder if, once upon a time, she'd ever dreamed of something more before she learned how to bow her head and resign herself to subservience.
Today, it’s with Nanami Kento, and yesterday it was with the Zenin clan. Your father will not notice that you’re gone. Why would he? The discussion does not involve you, and your opinion is irrelevant no matter how much you’ve begged and cried at his feet.
You run barefoot across the courtyard, wet streaks trailing down your face, and find Hayate waiting where he always is, half-hidden behind the stone walls. The only person who makes you feel alive. Who could possibly save you from the nightmare you’ve been trapped in.
“Please,” you beg, one hand curled around his wrist. “Please, you have to help me. You can’t leave.”
You’re not even pleading with him as a lover anymore, just as someone who’s about to have her life cut out from under her feet.
“They want–” you’re choking back sobs now, breath hitching as your chest seizes. “They want– They want me to marry the Zenin boy. Naoya.”
Raising an arm to wipe at your face, you take in another shuddering breath. “I’ll be his wife, Hayate. His fourth wife,” you choke out.
Belonging to one of the four great sorcerer families, Naoya is not known to be kind nor merciful. It is an open secret that he mistreats the women in his household, but your father is more than willing to trade you into a life of cruelty to align himself with the Zenin name. He would finally make good on his promise to marry you off once and for all.
That thought alone is enough to rip another sob out of you.
You only want to be Hayate’s wife.
“And if not him,” you rasp, voice cracking, “Then Nanami Kento. My father decides.”
Despite not being born into a sorcerer family, Nanami Kento’s name is well recognised and respected. His accomplishments as a first-grade sorcerer have not gone unnoticed, and although his family name carries no weight compared to the Zenin’s, his own merits alone deem him a desirable enough match for your father’s most unwanted daughter, you.
Why isn’t he saying anything? He hasn’t said a word since you’d started crying. Hayate will help, won’t he? He loves you, like he always says.
“Please, say something,” you keep tugging helplessly on his arm. Why isn’t he looking at you? His eyes are trained on the ground, at the gravel beneath his feet. “If you asked for me, if you said you wanted me, maybe– maybe we could stop this.”
You call his name again desperately. “Say you’ll take me away,” you try again. There’s a sinking feeling in your chest, like falling into a river and realising you can’t swim, and you wipe your tears again just in time to see the look on his face when he finally says,
“I can’t.”
Hayate’s eyes soften when he looks at you. Wild eyes, always blazing with fire and spirit, now look scared when they’re illuminated by the pale of the moonlight. Cowardly.
“I love you,” he says. But it sounds like an apology, not a promise. He’s never kept his promises. He’s already slowly backing away from you. One step at a time. Gravel crunching under his foot. “But I can’t be caged.”
Just like that, the illusion shatters. No one is coming to save you.)
You halt mid-step as you turn the corner. Light spills across the threshold ahead, a pale glow cutting into the dark corridor. The sight jars you, snapping you back into the present. The lights are usually kept off, you know that from your previous trips to the kitchen in the dead of night. Someone must be there.
The very person you’ve been avoiding.
You pause, hand hovering over the frame of the door, half-ready to retreat back to your room. But curiosity, or something harder to name, keeps you moving forward. Sliding the door open, you find Nanami seated at the low table, sleeves rolled up, a stack of papers beside him. You can’t help but notice the way they’re neatly sorted into three different stacks, not a single page out of place.
If he’s surprised to see you, it certainly doesn’t show on his features.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
You bite your lip. For a second, you consider turning back, heels already lifting off the floor.
“Something like that.”
Nanami studies you for a beat, then he reaches for the teapot on the tray beside him. Steam curls through the air, and the pleasing notes of something fragrant reach your nose as you watch him carefully pour a cup of tea.
“Here,” he says, sliding the cup across the table towards you. “It’s chamomile tea. Helps me sleep.”
Nanami must see the hesitation in your features, the way your fingers twitch like you don’t quite know what to do with them, when he adds, “I made a little extra. It would be a waste not to share it,” nodding towards the teacup.
Your fingers uncurl from the door frame, and you shuffle forward to reach for it, cautiously. For a brief moment as you stare down at the cup, the same anger, that same bitterness flares inside of you. It’s the same way with the food outside your door – a kindness that comes without explanation – the same one that mocks you – because salt rubbed into the wound with gentle hands stings all the same.
You never asked for pity, or whatever kind of mercy he keeps extending towards you. And yet he offers it up all the same.
But as the heat of the porcelain seeps through your palms, something unexplainable in you falters when the warmth of it spreads across your skin. It’s not your preferred choice of beverage, but resigned, you give him a nod and push the drink to your lips. When you meet his eyes as you swallow, you think he looks a little relieved.
You clear your throat, setting the cup down. “What are you… What are you doing up so late?” It’s a little unsteady, the way your voice comes out. You don’t quite know how to have a conversation with him that doesn’t involve grimacing and gritting your teeth.
“I’ve had to finish up some mission reports,” Nanami says absentmindedly, sighing as he runs a hand through his hair. You try not to feel bitter about that. You hated mission reports back then, but now you would do anything to write one again. “Is it good?” he asks, peering up at you.
Nodding, you take another sip. It’s mellow and smooth as it goes down. Not too bad.
“It’s not… terrible,” you concede, and it’s the closest thing to a compliment that you can manage.
The corner of his mouth – it almost, just barely – tips into a smile. “I’ll take that as high praise.”
Nanami doesn’t push for conversation after that, and you’re grateful for it. He simply sits there, occasionally taking a sip of tea, and there’s else nothing but the rustling sound of him turning through pages and the scribbling of his fountain pen. Eventually, he looks up, eyes flickering over to where you empty teacup rests.
“If you like,” he murmurs, voice soft, “I’ll make more tomorrow.”
You want to scoff, to tell him not to bother. That he can take his tea, his patience, his confusing words that repeat endlessly in your mind, and be gone. But blame it on the weariness of the late night, how the sleepless nights have left you feeling entirely defeated, the words don’t come. Instead, you find yourself giving him the smallest nod.
“Whatever,” you mutter, shoulders dropping. “Do what you want.”
The next night, you linger in your room longer than you should, restless with indecision. Part of whispers you shouldn’t go – that the night before was a fluke, a moment that shouldn’t be repeated. The silence yesterday had been tense and tight, and you have absolutely nothing to gain from sitting there again, pretending to like the tea he pours you.
But then again, another part of you throbs with that quiet, traitorous need to know if Nanami had really meant it when he said he’d be there. You spend so long pacing around your room, then another few minutes with your head pressed to the wall, fingers curling and uncurling around the doorknob, that by the time you finally give in, it’s already long past midnight. The house is steeped in a quiet hush that renders the creak of floorboards under your foot eerily loud.
Your steps are slow and hesitant, fingers trailing across the walls leading towards the kitchen. You aren’t sure what you’re expecting, really. For Nanami to be waiting there, sitting quietly with a pot of tea prepared as he waits for you even into the long hours of the night? There’s no way he could still be working on reports at this time. Or for him to have gone to sleep, his offer from yesterday forgotten as easily as it was spoken?Which one will make you feel more relieved? Which one will make you more disappointed?
When you finally turn the corner, your breath stutters.
The light is already on, just like yesterday. Except this time, the sliding door is half-open, and as you step closer, you can see Nanami sitting at the table, leaning back into the chair with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. There are no papers on the table this time, just that same teapot from yesterday, and two teacups stacked on top of each other.
No reports. He’s simply been waiting.
You still, for a moment wondering if he fell asleep, but then his lashes flutter open, and his eyes find you.
“I thought I might have heard you in the hallway,” Nanami straightens, uncrossing his arms. His eyes are heavy-lidded, blinking slowly, but they don’t waver from you. His voice is rough at the edges, like he hasn’t spoken in hours.
You shift uncomfortably. “I said I would be here,” you mutter, pushing aside the shimmer of guilt from seeing the obvious signs of fatigue written across his face.
At that, a faint trace of a tired smile tugs at his mouth. “Yes, I suppose you did... Would you like to sit down?”
For a long moment, you can’t seem to move. Your chest tight, your throat dry, mind clawing for an excuse not to step further in. But in the end, it’s the patient way he waits for you and the soft steam curling up from the teapot, that has your feet carrying you forward and pulling out the chair across him.
He slides one of the cups toward you.
You hesitate, fingers hovering just above the patterned porcelain. “…You always make this much tea for yourself?”
Nanami’s mouth curves faintly. “No. I just thought it might be easier, leaving a second cup ready. In case you came.”
“You shouldn’t have waited up for me. You didn’t even know if I would come,” you mutter, averting your gaze.
“It doesn’t trouble me,” he says simply. That same, easy, patient tone threads through his voice.
(Infuriating.)
“You’re exhausted,” you shoot back, voice coming out sharper than you had meant to. “I can see it on your face.”
“I’ve had worse nights,” he answers, almost gently. A beat passes before he adds, “Besides, I meant it when I said I’ll make you more tea.”
“Why?” you demand, finding yourself frustrated all of a sudden. “Why are you doing this for me? You said it wasn’t pity, so just tell me why.”
You’re asking about more than just tonight, more than just the stupid tea. It’s the kindness he keeps showing you that started on the first night, from the blood on the sheets to the food outside your door, it’s the way his eyes never lingered on your bare skin, the way his voice never rises even when yours does.
His brows draw together. Then, he looks down, exhaling through his nose.
"...I'm sorry."
Your breath hitches, and you open your mouth to speak, when he continues.
"I know this isn't what you wanted. And I…," Nanami trails off, pressing his lips into a thin line. “…I should have said this earlier, but I didn’t know what to say to you. Or how to say it to you. For what it's worth, and I know it's not worth very much, but I am sorry.”
You stare at him, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and confusion. The silence lingers long enough that you think he’s done, that he’ll opt to let the conversation dissolve into nothing. But Nanami has always seemed determined to defy your expectations.
“I know a cup of tea and food won’t change anything,” he continues, still not meeting your eyes, instead fixing them on the kitchen tiles as he mutters, “And that night… when you came to my room… I could have phrased things better. Words aren’t exactly my forte. I don’t want to make this harder for you. I know that you’re grieving. I can’t change that, and I wouldn’t presume to try. But…” his eyes soften, just barely. “If you’ll allow it, I’d like to at least share in the weight of it. So you don’t have to carry it alone–”
You cut him off, setting the cup down with so much force that the tea sloshes over the rim, scalding your fingers. The sting only makes the tears burn sharper behind your eyes.
“–Stop it,” you finally swallow the lump in your throat to whisper, although your voice cracks pathetically, every word coming out strangled. “Stop it. Stop it. I don’t want to be friends with you. I don’t want you, I never– I never asked for this–”
The tears swelling in your eyes overflow when you blink, tracking down your cheeks in hot trails. Every syllable that leaves your mouth is saturated with the sound of wet tears as you sob, “Why… why are you telling me this now? It’s too late to change anything. I don’t want you to be kind, I don’t want anything from you, so please, please just stop–”
Simple truths undo you in that moment. How the kitchen tiles are not the same colour as the one in your house. How your bedsheets here don’t smell the same. How this house – much bigger than the one you grew up in, much better than anything you could have been afforded for a child of your background, with no Tuesday intruder that slams doors loud enough to rattle the frames on the walls – still feels unbearably hollow.
But the thing most absent in this house? A boy with wild eyes and a mischievous grin, waiting to whisk you away for the day. Here, there is no boy. Only this man you’re supposed to call your husband. He apologises to you when no other man has, he extends friendship to you that don’t wish to accept.
And now, as the chair legs scrape softly against the floor, as he slowly rises and moves to kneel down in front of where you’re sitting, one hand hovering carefully over your shoulder, the simple act itself offers you such overwhelming gentleness that you can’t help the sobs that escape you. Small and ragged, spilling past your bitten lip, your heart cracking open on the kitchen floor.
It is this very tenderness that is a knife to your heart. And he only twists the knife further when his hand finally settles on your shoulder, steady and careful, palm hot against your collarbone and fingers curling against your back. Tears run unchecked at the heat of his touch, blurring your vision and running down your neck.
If simple truths undo you, then the heaviest truth shatters you completely:
You do not hate Nanami Kento.
What you do hate is everything he represents.
The vows you were forced to make. The life you were pushed into. The indifference of a world that left you backed into a corner with no other choice but this one. A world that’s only been filled with men that do nothing but take, demand, and dictate – leaving you with no option but to endure.
Nanami Kento is not the source of your rage. He is simply the proof of your ruin. Whether wrapped in silk or bundled in the softest wool – his warmth is a reminder of how you were freezing in the first place.
You want to shove him away, to reject this unbearable kindness he seems intent on showing you. But instead, it’s the raw need to be held and loved, for something – anything – to fill the empty spaces and make a new home there that causes your trembling fingers to reach out, clutching at his sleeve, nails digging into the fabric.
If anger is a shield for everything broken about you that lies underneath, it falls apart the instant Nanami’s arm slides around you, pulling you towards his chest. Warmth envelops you, and you break against him, ugly and unrestrained, sounding more akin to wounded animal than anything human.
“I hate this,” you choke, your words muffled against him. “I hate this– I just– I just hate this–”
“I know,” he breathes. “I know, I know.”
“This isn’t fair, this isn’t fair at all–” You sob, pushing at him weakly, grief bleeding out into every ragged breath you take.
“No,” he says quietly. “It isn’t.” His arm tightens around you, and you bury your head in his chest, collapsing your weight into him until you have nothing left to give.
The sobs that follow shake you until you feel emptied, the sound tearing through your throat until you’re left with only hoarse breaths and damp fabric beneath your cheek.
You don’t know how much time passes as you cry against his chest, his hands never once letting go of you, rubbing circles at your back that you’re barely able to register in the state you’re in.
“I don’t want your kindness,” you rasp, rubbing at your eyes with your palms. It’s useless, the tears keep falling.
“I know.” He says it again, whispered so quietly it leaves his mouth in a soft breath. “I’m sorry.”
He presses his sleeves to your eyes, the fabric brushing against the apples of your cheeks as he blots away the dampness. Then, with his index finger, he traces the line of your lashes, catching more tears before they fall.
You can’t find the strength in you to push him away. Not today. You bite down on your lip hard, hating the way it quivers, hating the way he remains kneeling beside you, hating the way his wedding ring catches the light, glistening.
He exhales slowly, and when your eyes meet his, you see it again.
(The undercurrent of something sorrowful, something excruciating tender, pooling in his eyes. He’s about to say something that knocks against the door of your guarded heart once again.)
“...Would it be unforgivable… if I kept trying anyway?”
You suck in a sharp breath, your reply stuck in the recesses of your throat, caught between outright refusal and a quiet, desperate yes.
You resent him for asking so gently.
But you resent yourself more for what you say next.
“…Do what you want.”
(The door rattles. It’s bolted shut, but the wood groans, a hairline crack splintering against its surface.)
a/n: hopefully this chapter illuminates reader’s feelings towards nanami. its important to keep in mind that she’s dealing with a lot of resentment and grief right now, so she might not always be the most reliable narrator of their interactions (especially on their wedding night, and the night in his room)!!!! i like to think of her as a little feral kitten or something. i mean, he’s literally luring her out with food.
anywayyyy, thanks for reading alldat. if you liked this, comments and reblogs are really appreciated. it’s so nice to hear your thoughts on the chapter or on the characters etc., and really does motivate me to keep writing! your comments mean a lot more than you think <3
up next chapter: an appearance from the zenin bastard himself, and most importantly, we'll be diving into nanami’s pov! what exactly do you think he feels towards her?
nanami x reader - arranged marriage, enemies to lovers au
you didn't choose to marry nanami kento. the marriage was arranged, the love absent, and your heart still clung onto another man who was everything your husband wasn’t - wild, untethered, and free. you thought it would be the end of you. instead, it’s where everything begins.
─ love doesn’t happen all at once, but nanami is nothing if not patient.
content: arranged marriage, reader is a sorcerer, enemies to lovers but it's entirely one sided, nanami is the epitome of quiet devotion that never asks for anything in return, truly a good man, tw: archaic marriage practices, period-typical sexism, lots of sexual tension, references to reader's past lover, past heartbreak and healing, explicit content, non-explicit mentions of violence and suicidal ideation, past domestic abuse, loss of virginity, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, inexperienced reader, MDNI (word count: 5.2k) read on ao3 here!
a/n: my last nanami fic me realise just how many people want to see this man hopelessly yearning, so here it is again, but in a slightly different flavour this time. i kind of put half my soul into this, so i hope you'll like it and follow along for the ride <3 this is essentially a love letter written in appreciation of some of nanami's best traits: his steadiness, his devotion, and his enduring dedication (to you).
main masterlist | series masterlist | chapter 2
chapter tw: vague allusions to SA that could have happened, but did not
(Your life ends when you meet Nanami Kento.)
The first night of your marriage feels nothing like a beginning and everything like an execution.
You sit quietly on the edge of the bed, the silk robe clinging to bare skin, thin as breath. Red rose petals are scattered all around your supposed marital bed, like dark crimson stains mocking you of what's to come. The lace set you’re wearing is sheer and flimsy and just like this marriage, it’s one you didn’t choose. You might as well be naked.
Your fingers twitch in your lap as you listen to the soft click of the door behind him as he enters.
“You’re younger than I expected,” you say flatly, not looking up. Your mother says you should consider yourself lucky. She says he’s handsome, young, and a first grade sorcerer at that. You should be thanking the Gods.
“So are you,” he replies. His voice is low and monotonous, each word clipped with the precision of someone who doesn’t waste breath on the unnecessary. You’re supposed to share a room, a marital bed – your whole life – with a stranger, and the sharpness of his tone is a biting enough reminder of that.
(“That boy you hung out with, the one you liked so much? He couldn’t possibly compare,” she’d said. He’s a window, as they call it. As powerless as they come.)
It’s the first real exchange between you, though you’d stood side by side earlier this morning. A ceremony lined with cold tradition and stifling silk. You hadn’t spoken – not during the tea offering, not during the bows. Not even when the gold band was slipped onto your finger like a shackle.
You don’t even know what his hands feel like.
But here he is. Nanami Kento. Your new husband.
“How are we doing this?” you ask quietly, staring at the ground. How do you want me? Tell me what I must do. You’re a man I’ve only met twice, but I’m supposed to share this bed with you for the rest of our lives. You promised yourself you wouldn’t cry – not in front of him, and certainty not tonight. Still, you can’t summon the courage needed to dispel the shakiness laced in your voice.
“I’m not here to take anything,” he says carefully. His voice gets louder as he walks closer to you, footsteps tentative. “We don’t have to do this.”
Your chest tightens. Of course he’d say that only now, when it was too late to change anything. Of course he’d make it harder.
You rise to your feet. Close the distance between you, just short of touching. The moonlight filters in through the windows and bathes you in a bluish glow, a sombre hue to match the look on your face. The robe falls open loosely – the sheer fabric underneath doing little to hide you. It clings to the curve of your body in the faint light, outlining skin no man has ever seen, but his eyes never leave your face. Not even once.
It’s now that you finally allow yourself a good look at his face. Your new husband is dull and stoic, the sharp lines of his facial features almost cutting in the low light. He simply looks at you with an unwavering gaze and a mouth that doesn’t betray what he’s thinking.
Up close, he feels more like an inevitable ending rather than a person. A stranger bound to you by law, tradition, and circumstance. He is the shackle, the cage, the lock without a key. You are his, not because he won your heart, not because you had any choice in the matter at all, but because he was given the right to claim you.
“I’m your wife,” you say bitterly. That title leaves your lips like it’s a curse. Your only sin was being born a woman. And a sorcerer, no less. “Isn’t this what people expect?”
“I don’t care about what people expect,” he’s pulling your robe shut around you and tying the knot before you can react. ‘You don’t owe me anything.”
His fingers skim against the skin of your waist as he does so, but his gaze never travels downwards. There’s nothing lecherous in his stare, nothing demanding. He hasn’t looked at your body once.
(You think of him. His hands were rough, his hair wild; and when he laughed it was free and unrestrained. You’ll remember him with the wind in his face, his brown hair golden under the sun, dirt scuffed into his shoes. He’s chaos and motion, untamed and untethered. Nothing like your husband – serious and straight-faced – you think he’s never known how to have fun like Hayate does.
“You’re always chasing after me!” Hayate teased, looking back at you with a boyish grin that made your heart stumble. The tall grass rippled around him as he ran fast and barefoot.
“That’s because I like you!” you shouted back, chasing after him, breathless with the effort. That just made him laugh harder. “Wait for me!”
“Slowpoke,” he jested, sticking his tongue out at you in an especially childish manner. “You’ll never catch up.”
That part was true.)
You swallow, squeezing your eyes shut. “They’ll want proof. Just do what you have to do.”
“There are ways to fake that,” he says plainly.
You eyes open, uncomprehending for a moment. And then, when you see the sincere look on his face, something in you unravels in relief – the part that was braced for violation tonight. For the inevitable. For sheets to be stained red, for skin to bruise, for him to take. It loosens in a rush of dizzy relief.
There are worse men to be married off to, and you know that. Your mother was right. If you’d been betrothed to that Zenin brute, your robe would be in shreds right now. He’d surely take what he wants from you – he’d push you down on the bed and not away like Nanami does. You wouldn’t have the option to stand here, still clothed, breathing without the weight of someone crushing the air out of you.
But Nanami Kento is kind. He does not seem to want to touch you. He does not push. And somehow?
You resent him even more for it. You’re here, standing in front of the inevitable, his hazel eyes boring into you. No amount of mercy will change that.
You turn away before the burn behind your eyes spill over. “I don’t want your pity,” you manage, low and sharp.
“This isn’t pity,” he says simply. “Get some sleep. You can have the bed.”
He’s already walking off towards the bathroom like this isn’t supposed to be his wedding night. He doesn’t act like it, but he’s entitled to something in the eyes of others. Entitled to you. How can he be so casual about this? Act so normal?
You look around the room. There isn’t a couch, nowhere else for him to rest but the bed that’s been deliberately prepared for the two of you.
He sleeps on the floor that night.
The next morning, Nanami Kento pricks his thumb with a needle. Quietly, and without fanfare. You’ve been up all night, tangled in restless thoughts of wild hair and honeyed eyes, fighting back tears you refuse to shed in front of him. So you stir immediately when he approaches the bed, a drop of blood already trickling down his finger.
He saves you from a humiliating tradition with a soft press of his thumb on the white cotton sheets. You watch quietly as he drags his finger down to leave a smudge of crimson; blood that should have been yours.
“There,” he wipes his thumb on a scrap of tissue. “None the wiser.”
You don’t say anything. You wish you’d been born a man instead, then you could easily spill a drop of blood from your thumb and treat it as mercy. You want him gone.
Nanami collects the sheets in his hands, puts fresh ones on the bed, and simply tells you that you can have this bedroom to yourself.
“I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom going forward,” he says gently, then, he leaves the room without saying another word, the stained sheets in hand.
You have to try really hard not to curse at him as he disappears out the door. Why does his gentleness feel like a weapon?
It gets quiet when he leaves, and you finally allow yourself to cry. You weep for Hayate, for yourself, and the life you’d dared to dream you’ll have despite knowing otherwise, past the point of caring if Nanami overhears your sobbing from outside.
It’s bitterness that floods you. Bitter like the green tea you drank during the marriage ceremony, bitter like the past twenty years of your life so far, made sweeter only by one boy with wild hair and wilder eyes.
(“Hey, Hayate,” you say his name softly, head resting on his shoulder. The two of you lie beneath the wide canopy of the old oak tree by the river, watching the sun come down. The cicadas hum lazily in the summer heat, the sky melting into orange and rose as it slips beyond the horizon. It's time for you to go home; they’ll be looking for you soon. Your mother hates when you hang out with him.
But you just have one question for him before you go.
“What do you think about marriage?”
You already know the answer, but you thought you’d ask again.
Just in case he’d changed his mind.
He pulls a face instantly. His nose scrunches up, and he exhales the word like it’s bitter on his tongue. “Not for me. Thought I told you,” he bumps your shoulder affectionately. “Traps and stupid paperwork.”
Even if it’s with me?
“I see,” you say quietly. The same answer as last time. And the time before that. Hayate doesn’t change his mind; it’s what you both love and hate about him.
He reaches over to take your hand. Warm and rough and a little wet from splashing in the water earlier. “We have something more real, don’t we?”
You perk up a little when you hear that. It’s not quite a promise, not quite the words you want to hear most, but it’s still something precious. It’ll just have to be enough.
“Yeah,” you reply, staring down at where your hands are touching; your feet muddy and bare, bumping into each other in the grass.
You’ll ask him about this again, maybe at a better time.
For now, you’ll just take what he can give.)
An hour later, you crack open the bedroom door and peer outside. Your eyes are swollen from your earlier meltdown, and to your relief, your new husband is nowhere in sight to witness more of your misery.
But there it is – a plate of food left just outside your door. Miso soup, a piece of grilled salmon, and a bowl of steaming white rice. Arranged neatly on a lacquered tray.
You stare at it for a beat too long. The urge to flip it over is immense, but Nanami Kento has not deserved such a level of ire. If it’d been your blood on those sheets, then maybe.
Without a word, you shut the door.
It’s been two months. 67 days, to be exact.
The first month, you cry until your throat is raw and your eyes burn. You confine yourself within the four corners of your room, pressing your face into the thin pillow so it muffles the sound of your despair, curling in on yourself like it might help you disappear.
With every miserable, hollowed night that passes, the hope that anyone will come to save you is snuffed out completely – even Hayate isn't there, hiding behind the stone walls of your house, a mischievous grin and an outstretched hand, waiting to sneak you away like he used to when you were kids.
No one is coming for you.
Especially not Hayate.
Loneliness carves a permanent home in your bones and bitterness settles in your chest like a heavy stone. You wonder why you ever clung onto Hayate so much – perhaps you admired the freedom he seemed to embody so effortlessly, perhaps you were jealous of it.
Perhaps you thought that by being close enough to the sky, you too, could fly free as a bird, losing yourself to the vast blueness you were always destined to admire only from the ground.
Maybe you believed that he could really have saved you. That if you just kept reaching for him, he would sweep you up – the gust of wind that he was – and carry you far away from every shackle, every anchor hellbent on dragging you down until you drowned.
The second month is quieter.
You stop crying, not because the ache lessens, but because even grief has its limits. Your tears dry out, your throat stops burning, and the bitterness that fills the empty space where hope had died out settles into your bones so deeply it no longer feels raw or foreign. That's how the quiet rebellion begins.
You don’t kick up a fuss, you don’t break plates or slam doors, but you stop eating. This is protest in the only form you know how. You may be a girl who grew up in an empty house where laughter never echoed through the hallways, expected to be quieter than the shadows themselves, but you’ll never play the role of a soft-spoken wife they want you to be, with her hands folded demurely at her front and her eyes cast low.
Your husband will never be your master; he will never own you.
You rarely leave your room. You don’t look him in the eye. You move like a ghost through your own house – drifting from bed to bath to bed again. Occasionally creeping out at night to watch the starless sky. No one ever visits. No one says anything. Why would they? They married you off to erase you, to forget about the shame your existence brings.
But three times a day without fail, you find a red lacquered tray in front of your door. Miso soup and salmon at times, pancakes and syrup at others, soft-boiled eggs with steamed greens, fresh fruit carved into delicate slices. You only eat one meal a day, just enough so you don’t wither away.
Still, the trays keep coming.
You never hear him set it down. Never catch him in the act. But you know it has to be him, instead of one of the servants in the house. The dishes had started off looking a little rough at the edges, the salmon burnt, the rice wet and runny. They were shaped by clumsy, hesitant hands; evident in the overcooked meat, the eggs with a piece of shell stuck in them.
Then, against your will, you noticed that they slowly started getting better.
The rice firmed up. The miso soup made with just the right amount of dashi and fresh cut tofu and scallions. Nanami Kento was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, raised with soft linens, pressed collars, and servants at his beck and call. The same life all your siblings lived, with the exception of you, the bastard child. So it’s clear to you these meals aren’t the work of the servants.
You start to think it would have been easier if he’d just taken you the first night. If he’d just proven your brother right when he said that all men were the same. Easily seduced. Easily predictable.
You would be able to openly hate him then, cleanly and without guilt, and without this quiet resentment that festers in the pit of your stomach with nowhere else to go. You want to break plates and slam doors.
Instead, he looked at you with unreadable eyes and said “you don’t owe me anything”.
He’d let you have the bed, whilst he used his arm as a pillow and slept on the cold hardwood floor. He’d lent his own blood and spared yours. He prepares meals for you every day even though it goes cold and untouched. He let you have the bedroom you were supposed to share, quietly retreating to the guest one.
That’s the truth, isn’t it? You resent how kind he was. How patient he’s been. He never argued, never did anything to make you feel justified in hating him. You didn’t want someone like Nanami Kento.
But most of all, you resent how Nanami never fought the marriage, how he’d sat there like a stone statue through it all, whilst you stood beside him with glassy eyes trying to find one scrap of anger or resistance in his amber ones, some sort of shared misery you could cling onto.
The day you were informed about the arrangement, you’d clawed and resisted and screamed till your throat was raw, refusing to go down without a fight. You’d hoped to find some kind of solidarity in Nanami – hoped he’d hate it too, that he’d push back just as you had. That in his eyes you'd somehow find a shred of resistance that mirrored yours, at least some level of accord that might ease your suffocating sense of isolation.
One word from him would probably have been worth more than a lifetime of yours, and it sure as hell would have gone further than your own fruitless efforts. But he’d simply said yes, stoic and composed as he read his vows, silent as he slipped the ring on your finger.
It cost him nothing, because he’s a man.
He’s a man who will never understand what it is like to be a woman, a bastard child raised behind closed doors like a dirty secret and married off the moment you came of age, moulded into their definition of an ideal wife your whole life. His life would remain the same, he was free to seek comfort in other women, free to work as a sorcerer, free to move and say as he pleases.
You had known freedom once – it was brief as it was sweet – on the field as a sorcerer with energy crackling and bubbling in your hands, and lazy afternoons by the river with Hayate by your side, unshackled and so, so free.
Maybe that’s why you decide to go to Nanami again. Not out of desire. But because you want him to fail you. You want him to prove you right. You want him to be the kind of man you can hate. Openly and cleanly.
So one night, you shower and slip on that same robe from the night of your wedding. You’d fished it out from the depths of your closet, then put it on with nothing else underneath. It smells like old cedar and a hint of laundry power, cool and silky on your skin.
You find Nanami in his room – he’s seated on the low futon bed, back resting against the wooden headboard, a book in one hand. The room is dimly lit, two shoji lanterns in each corner casting warm pools of light across the floor.
He looks up as the door slides open with a creak, startled for a second before his eyes land on you – bare legs, that same white silk robe from your wedding night, and a grimace you’re trying to conceal with a defiant look on your face.
“What are you doing?” he asks as he straightens up, voice low and cautious. “I told you, you owe me nothing.”
“It’s been long enough,” you reply, jaw set tight.
“This isn’t about time.” He frowns, closing his book and setting it aside, rubbing his temples like you’re a child giving him trouble.
You swallow, standing your ground despite the tremor in your voice. “I want to.”
“No, you don’t,” he mutters, almost wearily. “That’s enough. I expect nothing from you. Just get some sleep.” It’s almost dismissive, the way he says it, like he’s waving you off with a flick of his wrist. Your eyes narrow.
You shake your head, defiant. “I want this,” you lie.
This is your first time in his bedroom since getting married almost two months ago. The air feels heavy, too quiet, and you move through it like thick fog as you step closer to him. You see the faint crease of his brow as he watches you, but he doesn't move – not even when you reach for the sash of your robe.
Slowly, deliberately, you pull the knot loose, watching his face for his reaction. The sound of fabric slipping against itself seems louder than it should be. Your part the robe, inch by inch, baring skin in the cold air. No man has ever seen you like this, skin bare and unhidden, and still you hold his gaze as if daring him to call your bluff.
The fabric slips off your shoulders, just enough to reveal the angular lines of your collarbones, the soft dip between your breasts. “I want this,” you repeat, softer now, but no less insistent.
You take another step forward, and the robe slips lower.
Nanami’s eyes flicker, briefly, down your body before returning to your face. “You’re the most stubborn woman I’ve met.” A quiet breath of exasperation leaves him and he swallows, jaw clenching.
You almost smile, thinking you’ve proved your brother right – he really is just a man. Easily tempted, after all. But then he continues, voice flatter now. “You don’t want this. You want me to take from you, so you have permission to hate.”
Ah. You frown, irritated. Of course he sees right through you. You didn’t come here to offer yourself to him, belly up and vulnerable. You came here for a fight, the same one you had been denied on the day you were informed of your betrothal to him. To push his limits until he lashes out, so you have a reason to get your claws out.
“Oh yeah?” you sneer. “And you’ve met many women, husband?"
The men in your family would have slapped you across your face if you dared speak to them like this. Your father has, for much less, and you don’t doubt that had you married that bastard Zenin like he wanted, you would find your cheek burning before the words even left your mouth. But Nanami doesn’t take the bait. Just shakes his head and glances away.
When he doesn’t respond, you press further. “You don’t want me because you’ve already sought comfort in other women.”
And he would be justified in doing so, you know that full well. A loveless marriage with a wife like you would drive any man elsewhere. God knows men with loving wives have done the same, if not worse. You wouldn’t blame him, and you don’t even care. All the better for you, in fact. But his reply takes you aback.
“What kind of man do you think I am?” His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t raise his voice at your accusation. “I made a vow to you, didn’t I?” he says evenly.
You cross your arms over your chest, scoffing. “You didn’t even want this. Those vows mean nothing.”
A pause.
Then, comes a maddeningly simple response. “I said yes.”
You roll your eyes. This man is infuriating. “That’s not what I said.”
“…No one forced me,” Nanami answers. “And I’ve never said yes to something I didn’t mean.”
“I see,” you breathe. “This is pity, isn’t it? Poor girl, married off against her will, sulking in her room. Think you can be the knight in shining armour?”
“I don’t pity you,” he says, in that same endlessly patient tone. “I respect you.”
He’s not giving you the fight you want. Not even close. You laugh, sharp and mean. “Don’t insult me.”
“I’m not,” Nanami says pointedly, but still calm as ever. “You’re angry. You’re grieving. And I won’t touch you just to prove a point." His eyes flit down to where your arms are still crossed over your chest, "you think I don't see your hands shaking?"
You swallow hard and look away. Instinctively, you glance down and grip the fabric tight in your fists, as if it could still the trembling he's called out so plainly.
"Look," Nanami sighs as he stands now, rising slowly from the bed like he’s trying not to startle you. "I do not wish to see you miserable."
And just like he did on the first night – he reaches for your robe. His fingers brush against your skin as he does so, gathering the fabric gently in the centre and tying the sash. Your breath hitches when his knuckles graze the hollow of your stomach, and you shudder despite yourself.
“Well,” you bite, heat rising sharp and hot in your cheeks. “I am.”
“I’m not your enemy,” he continues quietly, eyes softening as they rake over the hardened look in your features. “I know you don't believe that… but I'm on your side. I'm doing what I can to prove that to you."
Your gaze flickers down to where his fingers still linger on the belt of your robe, and he looks down too, silent for a moment before slowly dropping his hands. The two ends of your belt fall like wings being cut, fluttering softly down to your sides.
"And… at the very least… I hope for us to be friends," he finishes.
Jaw tensed and tight, you look away. “You don’t even want me.”
You don’t know why you said it. You don’t want him either. You want none of this. Want nothing to do with him.
There’s a long pause. With only the sound of both of your breathing filling the empty space in the room. Then, Nanami’s gaze meets yours, and you can't comprehend why there’s something tender, something sad, hidden in his warm brown eyes. It disarms you for a moment, and the scowl you’d been clinging onto melts away like ice under the sun.
“Of course I do,” Nanami murmurs. Like it’s the most obvious truth. “But not like this.”
Your breath catches.
For a moment, you almost laugh. Because this… This is absurd. Nanami doesn’t know you, he only knows the sorrowful, angry woman that you’ve become in the last few months, with her jaw clenched tight enough to ache, her eyes red and raw from crying.
And he can’t possibly want you; not even the man who said he loved you did. Certainly not in a marriage like this, not after weeks of silence, of meals outside your door going ignored, of him never once even looking at you like a husband should.
You’ve never looked at him like a wife should.
Eyes wide, you back away from him, like a cornered animal would. “You’re lying,” you say shakily, defensively. “Stop that."
Before he can get another word in, you turn around to leave, sharp and quick, before he can see the raw confusion twisting inside of you, or perhaps see through the way your heart thuds hard against your ribs. You rush out of the door, not sparing him another glance, and your footsteps echo throughout the quiet hallway as you hastily make your way to your room.
When you reach, you slam the door shut behind you, immediately pressing your back against the wood like it might keep him out – not that Nanami would ever follow you here. You've learnt that about him by now; he simply doesn't push.
Pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes, you recall his words.
"I'm on your side."
"Of course I do. But not like this."
The words refuse to leave you. They circle in your chest, the same way you've started to pace around the room now, back and forth, and it alarms you how sincere they sounded like coming out of his mouth; as if they belonged to someone who really meant them. Someone who didn't want to hurt you.
All you can see is him; the way he stood there, hands gentle where every other man's would have been demanding, his voice quiet when it could have been sharp.
As a bastard child of an affair that was never spoken of but never forgotten, you grew up in a small, isolated compound away from the sprawling estate that belonged to your father, the clan head. You saw the man only in passing, and his steely gaze would slide over you like you were worth nothing.
You would often wonder, as a young child, why you were never allowed to eat with the rest of your siblings, the way they gathered at the large dining hall every night whilst the clinking of your chopsticks would almost seem to echo in the quiet between you and your mother as you ate opposite each other, eating on a small wooden table in silence.
And yet, you and your mother were allowed to stay. Expected to live quietly with your heads down, like shadows in the night. Spared some pity solely for the fact that one day, when you came of age, you would be useful. As a bargaining chip to be traded, swiftly married off for political gain, so your father could finally be rid of the shame that your very existence carved into the clan’s name.
You’ve seen your whole life that men only take. They take, they demand, they dictate – and women like you, like your mother, and all the women before her? They endure. Stuck in loveless marriages, as second or third wives, or as clandestine meetings confined to the night, slipping in and out of the rooms of men who could never love them in the daylight.
Nanami Kento keeps proving that he isn’t that kind of man. Why has he not taken, even when you have offered yourself up to him, for the second time now? Completely bare, hands shaking and cold as ice when you pulled your robe open in front of him.
If he had decided he wanted you there and then, you wouldn’t have put up a fight. You laid out a carefully planned trap in front of him, hoping that he'll grab you, claim you, ruin you, so you can say there, see? You're just like the rest.
But he hasn’t demanded. If anything, he has only made space for your anger, even though your rage could raze entire buildings to the ground. And he has not dictated. Never once.
You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. His words repeat in your mind, over and over again. He said he wanted to be friends. His voice soft, careful, unassuming as he regarded you. Eyes that conveyed only a certain kind of hope, but not an expectation.
Friends. That word goes against every single bitter instinct you've built to protect yourself, strange and foreign in a way that makes your chest ache.
But the thought has already begun taking root in your head:
If Nanami isn't anything like the kind of men you've known, not cruel nor cold, but patient and steady, then what does that make him?
And if you find some small, treacherous part of yourself wanting to believe him, wanting to see if he can keep proving you wrong, where does that leave you?
a/n: not gonna lie, i feel really anxious posting this as a series and not a one shot. i tried thinking of ways to make the story shorter, but ultimately i decided to go with what i felt was best, since i really want to do justice to the plot. i hope you’ll follow along to witness their love grow! my inbox is open and i would love to hear your thoughts <3 nanami is truly such a good man i wish he was real because writing him this way is tugging at my poor heartstrings T^T
comments and reblogs are appreciated ^_^ u will get…. a kiss? is that enough….
summary - what happens when you ask eddie to buy your pads during the red month?
contents - fluff, period talking, suggestive, dramatic eddie, playful banters, established relationship.
words count - 1493 words
zayn's note - heii guys!! sorry for not posting regularly. I just finished my final exams and yippee I'm glad to be back!! hope you guys will enjoy this and more fics will come soon!! <3
Eddie Alden wasn't supposed to be the kind of man who settles down.
He was the punchline to half of your stories. You've heard the stories—hell, you knew some of the firsthand when you two were just workmates. He was the man your coworkers warned you about: silver-tongued, the coworker who never turned down a party, always five seconds from convincing someone into bed. The man who gave advice no one should follow and got away with it because he looked like that and smiled like sin.
But somewhere along the line—maybe during one of those late nights when you were both tipsy and tired of pretending—Eddie stopped looking at other people the way he looked at you.
And he never looked back.
He's still dramatic. Still flirty. Still hopelessly, Eddie. But the late-night phone calls are only ever for you now. His toothbrush lives beside yours. And when he makes coffee in the morning, he doesn't even ask anymore—he just adds a splash of vanilla creamer, two sugars, and kisses your shoulder as he hands it to you.
The infamous womanizer Eddie Alden is someone's else.
Rain taps gently at the window as you lie curled up on the couch, wrapped in your thickest blanket. A heating pad hums on your stomach, the cramps coming in steady waves. You've given up trying to move. Even scrolling on your phone feels like too much.
Then, your screen lights up.
Eddie: On my way home. Need anything, gorgeous?
You smile, even through the discomfort. Your uterus is staging a mutiny and the pad stash under the sink is depressingly empty.
You type back: Can you grab some pads? Overnight ones with wings pls :3
Three dots bubble on the screen and you could swear it takes him only THREE seconds to reply.
Eddie: OH NO. THAT MEANS WE CAN'T FUCK?!
You choke out a laugh so hard you nearly dislodge the heating pad. Immediately, you hit the call button.
He picks up on the first ring with a gasp. “Sweetheart,” he says, like he's delivering a eulogy. “Say it ain’t so.”
“Hi to you too,” you say, already laughing.
“Tell me I misread that text. Say it was a typo. Say you meant ‘peach wine’ and autocorrect betrayed us.”
“I meant pads.”
He groans. “I had plans tonight. And not just plans, babe. Schemes. Elaborate, x-rated choreography. And now… ruined.”
“They were never confirmed plans,” you say through your giggles.
“They were spiritual plans,” he argues, “plans of the soul. I was going to light candles, touch your thighs like a gentleman, and do that thing with my tongue—”
“Eddie!”
“—and now, because of your cruel and vengeful uterus, I must live in sorrow. And buy pads.”
You press your face into the pillow, shaking with laughter. The fact that you could actually imagine his reaction through the phone call is hilarious.
“Do you know what it's like to walk into the feminine hygiene aisle with an erection and a broken heart? I'm a man on the edge.”
“You're a man getting pads for his girlfriend. Be brave. Plus, I'm not dying, you know,” you say once you can breathe again. “It's just my period.”
“Exactly!” he replies. “It's the just that hurts the most.”
You groan playfully.
A pause. Then his voice softens just a little. “The same purple pack, right? Overnight. Wings.”
“Yeah,” you say. “Thanks, baby.”
You're still smiling long after the call ends. The cramps are annoying, your body is betraying you, and the weather sucks—but Eddie's coming home. With pads. And probably way too many snacks.
That's enough.
You must doze off, because the next thing you hear is the soft clicks of the front door and the familiar sound of Eddie kicking his boots.
“Sleeping Beauty,” he calls, voice low and fond. “Your knight returns. Armed with provisions.”
You stir, blinking blearily, as he steps into the living room with the dramatic flair of a man who has never entered quietly in his life. Rain clings to his jacket, and his hair is damp, pushed back like he just stepped out of a rom-com poster.
He pulls out the purple pack like he's unsheathing Excalibur. “Ta-da!”
You squint at the package. “You really got the right ones?”
“Do you doubt me?” he asks, mock-offended. “I walked into that aisle with the confidence of a man who once had a threesome in the office stairwell and came out reborn as your humble pad-bearer.”
You laugh but your arms are already stretching open. It's automatic now—whenever Eddie's around, you want him close. Touch is like oxygen these days.
He notices. Of course he does.
“Ohhh, look at that,” he says, pointing with dramatic flair. “Cling activated. Look at you. Just a little puddle of neediness.”
“Shut up and hug me.”
“Needy,” he whispers, shaking his head like you've disappointed him deeply. “Desperate. Pathetic.”
But he's already walking over. Already dropping the bag on the floor and crouching down to your level. He slides an arm around your waist and pulls you in like he was born for it—like every cell in his body exists just to do this.
His scent hits you instantly. Rain. Leather. The lingering trace of his cologne.
“God, you're cold,” you murmur against his shoulder.
“God, you're clingy,” he retorts, but his hand is already at the back of your head, cradling it like he's soothing something fragile.
“You love it.”
“I do,” he admits easily. “Sick little koala.”
You breathe him in. He holds you tighter and neither of you moves for a while.
A soft, tired sigh leaves your lips. “Ugh, my stomach's killing me.”
Immediately, Eddie's hand rubs slow, calming circles against your back.
“I know, baby,” he says, quieter now. “I got you. We're gonna make it better, alright?”
His voice is warm and low, almost reverent. He presses a kiss to the top of your head and stays for a long beat before whispering, “Stay here. I'm getting your chamomile tea and snacks.”
Then he disappears into the kitchen.
You hear rustling, the fridge opening, and the kettle clicking on. When he returns, it's with a mug of chamomile tea, a snack bag full of chocolate, and—God help you—a duck-shaped heat pack.
“Why is it a duck?” you ask, your eyebrows raised.
“Because love makes you stupid,” he says. “Now take it. Don't say I never spoil you.”
You trade the old heating pad for the duck and the moment your hand wraps around the tea, you sigh. “You're being very sweet today.”
“I'm always sweet,” he says, sitting beside you and pulling you gently against his chest. “You just usually notice it after orgasms.”
You snort. “So noble. So selfless.”
“I know,” he whispers into your hair. “I should get a medal for being denied sex and still being this amazing.”
“You're so brave.”
“I am.”
Hours later, the sky darkened. The rain is softer now, a hush over the city. You’ve migrated to bed in slow, sleepy steps, your body still heavy with cramps, your heart just a little lighter.
Eddie slips under the covers first, stretching out with a content sigh, then opens his arms in invitation. “Come here, you bleeding goddess.”
You groan and crawl into his arms, finding your place against his bare chest like muscle memory. His skin is warm, his touch soft as he runs his fingers down your spine.
“Better?” he asks.
“Mm. A little.”
“I’d offer a back massage, but I fear I’d get too turned on.”
“Jesus, Eddie."
He grins against your hair. “I’m suffering, baby. I can’t even lie. But I’m being good.”
You tilt your head up to look at him. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad?” He cups your cheek. “Of course not. I mean, am I aroused to the point of spiritual crisis? Yes. But you’re bleeding. And in pain. And you still let me hold you like this. That’s more than enough.”
You blink. His voice is quieter now, the playfulness dialed down to something real.
“Seriously,” he adds. “I used to wake up alone next to people I didn’t even like. And now I get to wake up beside the love of my life. Period or not. That’s a win.”
You swallow the lump in your throat and press your face into his chest.
He lets a beat of silence pass, then says, “Still gonna write tragic poetry in my Notes app about it.”
You groan. “I knew you couldn’t help yourself.”
“It’s called ‘Red Tide of My Despair’—”
You squeak, pushing at him. “No.”
“A River of Lust, A Dam of Sadness—”
“No, Eddie—”
“The Crimson Abyss of Blue Balls—”
“Good. Night.”
He chuckles, then settles down again, arms locked tight around you, mouth brushing your temple.
You feel him relax as you drift. Safe. Warm. Held.
Even with the cramps. Even with the inconvenience. Even with the duck-shaped heat pack between you.
He’s here.
And he's yours.
reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!!
dividers by: @dollywons
tags!! @princessanglophile @themareverine @wchswift @dimlylittorch @mcrdvcks @briseroyawritingsblog @howlettsangel @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks @loganismybodyguard [lmk if you wanna be added or removed!!]
pairing - dad!leopold mountbatten ft. reader's daughter
summary - who would expect that even a Duke can become a Prince in his princess' eyes?
contents - fluff, soft and domestic, brief Disney-like storyline, humorous
words count - 1450 words
zayn's note - hii! first of all, I'm so sorry for being inactive these past few days, things were a bit rough for me, but all good now! soooo yepp!! this is my gift for y'all and I hope you enjoy <3
The clock ticked softly in the hallway, marking the late afternoon with unhurried grace. The day had wound down gently, as it often did in your household—dinner cleared away, toys scattered like colorful confetti across the living room rug, and the scent of soap and warm towels lingering in the air from your daughter's evening bath.
Upstairs, in the nursery, all was quiet—until a muffled giggle broke the stillness.
You padded barefoot across the floorboards, drawn by the familiar sound: a little girl's laughter, high-pitched and bubbly, like sunshine captured in a sound. As you peeked around the doorway, you had to press a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing too loud yourself.
There, seated with a kind of noble composure on the soft cream carpet, was Leopold—your Leopold—legs crossed, waistcoat off, sleeves rolled to the elbows of his linen shirt. His golden-brown hair, usually so carefully combed, was now being overtaken by a miniature stylist.
Your four-year-old daughter stood behind him, tongue poking out in concentration, holding a mint green bow in one hand and a comb in the other. Her curls bounced with every movement, and her small brow furrowed in the exact same way her father's did when deep in thought.
She was unmistakably his.
From the proud tilt of her chin to the deliberate, meticulous way she chose each hair clip from tin beside her—she was every bit a miniature Leopold. Precise. Focused. Entirely unaware of how disarming that seriousness was when it came in such a tiny package.
"Hold still, Papa," she whispered dramatically, pushing his head slightly to the left.
Leopold, for all his impeccable standards and old-world elegance, did not resist. He sat perfectly still, like a statue under royal command—his back straight, his hands folded primly in his lap as if he were awaiting a portrait.
"I remain at your service, m'lady," he replied, his voice deep and warm, tinged with amusement and boundless patience that only surfaced in moments like this.
You leaned against the doorframe, heart blooming quietly at the sight.
This was the man who once hesitated to hold her, afraid of doing it wrong. The same man who read parenting manuals by candlelight and took notes like a university student studying for final exams. And now—here he was, allowing his daughter to turn him into a living doll, complete with tiny pigtails and butterfly clips.
He glanced up, and caught your eyes. And you swore there was a bit of sparkle in his eyes—a kind of soft surrender that had taken root since fatherhood entered his life.
"She's very committed to her craft," he said with mock-seriousness.
"She gets it from her father," you said with a smile, walking in slowly and sinking onto the edge of the rocking chair near the window. "You make a very graceful subject."
"She said I'm being made into a fairy prince," he added, raising one brow. "Apparently that comes with... hair accessories."
Your daughter huffed behind him. "You said I could pick any kind of prince."
"And I stand by that promise," he replied, bowing his head slightly under her comb.
A quiet hush followed—the good kind, the kind only a peaceful home can carry. Outside the windows, the sun drooped low behind the trees, painting the nursery walls in gold. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting it all soak in—the quiet hum of a sleepy house, the gentle clink of metal hair clips, your daughter's voice humming as she worked.
Leopold didn't move once, not even when she tugged gently at his hair to fasten another bow in place. He let her take her time, let her create her masterpiece on the canvas of his patience.
It wasn't just sweet. It was sacred.
And when she finally finished, she scrambled around to face him, clapping her hands with a proud nod. "Done!"
Leopold blinked with exaggerated seriousness. "May I see the result of your artistry?"
She handed him the small hand mirror from her dresser and he turned it over with care. His reflection looked back at him—pastel bows, a lopsided center part, and a single bright yellow butterfly clip dangling precariously over one temple.
"I must say," he said, adjusting the mirror slightly, "this is the most... whimsical hairstyle I've ever worn."
“You're magical, Papa! You look beautiful.” She insisted, climbing onto his lap and resting her small hands on his shoulders. “You look like a prince from the woods.”
Leopold wrapped his arms around her, a slow, secure gesture, not daring to deny her little princess, not when she looked so bright like this. “Then I am honored to serve in your court, my dear.”
You watched from the side, heart full. This man—once so reserved, unsure how to navigate the messy, bright chaos of parenthood—now allowed himself to be covered in glitter bows without blinking.
She nestled into his chest, thumb going into her mouth, her eyes starting to droop. “I think that's the last one,” she murmured sleepily.
“Then,” Leopold said, brushing a curl from her face. “I am complete.”
You rose and crossed the room, kneeling beside them to press a gentle hand over your daughter's back. “Ready for a story?”
She shook her head sleepily. “Papa tells better ones.”
Your smile faltered for the briefest moment.
You hadn't expected it to sting quite so much.
It was silly—she was four, and he was her favorite playmate, her protector, her prince. But for years now, storytime has been your quiet magic with her: your voice guiding her gently into dreams, your stories laced with love and softness. You'd woven fairy tales with her curled on your chest, just like this.
And now… she wanted him instead.
You let out a quiet breath, brushing a hand over her back, the ache blooming gently, playfully in your chest. “Oh,” you said, feigning a small gasp. “I've been replaced.”
Leopold looked up, the corner of his mouth twitched. “I believe this is a temporary coup. I'm sure the rightful queen of bedtime stories will reclaim the throne tomorrow.”
You shook your head and chuckled softly, letting Leopold take over for tonight. Leopold smiled at you. “Shall I attempt another original tale? Or would the Royal Highness prefer our sixth retelling of The Honey Moon Princess?”
“Sixth,” you whispered and he chuckled.
And so he began—right there on the nursery rug, in a crown of mismatched bows and the arms of a sleepy little girl. His voice dropped into the cadence of storytelling, rich and rolling, spinning a whimsical tale of a woodland prince, an unicorn friend, and a very brave little girl—a fairy tale he'd invented just for her.
As the story wound down, her eyelids drooped. You reached over and took her gently from his lap, cradling her close. She was heavy with sleep now, head tucked beneath your chin, her curls smelling faintly of apple shampoo and childhood.
Leopold stood carefully, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers. “Shall I… remove the adornments?”
“No,” you said with a grin. “You should leave them in.”
“You find this amusing, I gather.”
“I find it beautiful.”
He paused, something unspoken softening behind his eyes. Then he bent down, pressing a kiss to your daughter's forehead and another to your temple.
“She has your will,” he murmured.
“She has your heart,” you replied.
And with that, you carried her to her bed, tucking her on beneath the quilt she insisted kept nightmares away. Leopold straightened the stuffed animals at the foot of the bed, an old habit of his, precise and sweet.
After she was asleep, you both stood at the door for a moment longer, watching her chest rise and fall in that perfect rhythm of peace.
Then, quietly, he took your hand and led you back down the hallway.
You both ended up in the living room—a single lamp casting soft light over the furniture. You curled up on the couch while he poured two cups of tea, his hair still scattered with pastel bows.
“You're not taking them off?” you asked, amused.
He looked over his shoulder with an air of false dignity. “A prince must wear his crown.”
You laughed, head falling back against the cushion, warmth blooming in your chest. He joined you on the couch and passed you a cup, then leaned back beside you, one arm slipping easily around your shoulders. You rested your head against him, your fingers finding his, weaving together the way you always did.
Outside, the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. Inside, the warmth stayed. For a long time, you said nothing.
There was no need to.
You had everything you needed—right here.
tags!! @princessanglophile @themareverine @mcrdvcks @wchswift @briseroyawritingsblog @howlettsangel @dimlylittorch @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks @loganismybodyguard [lmk if you wanna be added or removed!!]
summary - Logan finds himself haunted by the memory of the one person he walked away from—but never stopped loving.
contents - angst! angst!! angst!!! no aftercare, sorry. heavily inspired from ‘I miss you, I'm sorry’ by Gracie Abrams, post-Logan storyline (good men don't perish in this household), brief flashbacks of arguments, breakups, Logan-Laura dynamics, Laura is slightly older than she was in Logan.
words count - 1846 words
The motel room is quiet, save for the low hum of the neon sign outside, its flickering red glow slipping through the slats of the blinds like a slow heartbeat. The air smells faintly of old smoke and worn-out fabric. Laura's curled up on the second bed, small and still, her breath a steady rhythm in the hush.
Logan sits on the edge of his own bed, elbows resting on his knees, one hand inside the battered lining of his jacket. His fingers close around the familiar slip of paper like it might disappear if he hesitates.
The photo's edges are soft, curled like petals. Faded from years of folding and unfolding. He doesn't look at it often—only when the silence starts to press against his ribs, squeezing the air out.
Tonight is one of those nights.
He lets his gaze linger.
You're laughing in the photo, eyes crinkled, head tipped back against his chest. His arms are wrapped around you, and you're wearing that stolen flannel—three sizes too big, sleeves swallowing your hands. He can almost hear your voice again, teasing: “Grumpy with a gooey center.”
You always saw right through him. Past the snarls and silence. Past the adamantium. Right to the part he never let anyone touch.
A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth, but it doesn't last.
“I miss you,” he breathes, so quietly it's barely a sound. Like if he says it too loud, it might echo.
Well, it does because behind him, the sheets rustle. Laura sits up, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Her voice is soft, almost cautious.
“Couldn't sleep?” Logan asks without looking.
“Bad dream,” she answers. Then, after a pause, “Heard you were talking.”
His jaw tightens. He slides the photo back into the pocket, ready to tuck it away—but she catches the motion.
“Who's that?” she asks, scooting closer beside Logan.
He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at the photo like he might fall into it. Then, finally, he holds it out to her.
Laura looks down at the worn image in his hands—eyes instantly softening at the sight. She's never seen Logan in a photo like this—unguarded, real. There's a warmth in his eyes, a light she's never known him to carry.
“She looks… kind,” she finally says, but her voice is a bit quieter this time. Like she's realizing the woman beside Logan wasn't just someone. She was the someone.
“She… was.” His voice catches at the edges, cracked and gravel-thin. Was? Is? Even he couldn't comprehend the right terms to describe you.
Laura doesn't ask again. Just wait—patient, like she's learned that silence is sometimes how you earn trust. She studies the photo like she's trying to see the version of him that belonged to that life.
“What happened?” she finally asks.
Logan leans back, head hitting the wall with a soft thud. He exhales like it hurts. “I left,” he says, staring at the ceiling. “Thought it was the right thing. I told myself… I was protecting her.”
He swallows hard.
“I said forever,” he adds, voice rough now. “And she believed me. Hell, she always has.”
Laura doesn't say anything. She just looks at him with that quiet, perceptive expression she gets when she's trying to understand the parts of him he never talks about. The parts that hurt too much to name.
The silence stretches, thick with the weight of things unsaid.
Then she passes the photo back, careful as if it's fragile. And maybe it is.
“You still love her,” she says simply. Like the matter of a fact.
He nods once, jaw tight. Doesn't trust himself to speak.
FLASHBACK
Your apartment was small, cluttered, and warm. Plants in the window, books stacked in corners, his flannel tossed over the back of a chair like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.
But Logan had that look in his eyes, again—distant, stormy. You could feel it before he even said anything. The way his shoulders were pulled tight. The way he didn't touch you when he walked in.
“You're leaving again,” you said, not as a question. Just a tired truth.
He winced. “It's not safe. Not with the kind of people after me.”
You stood, arms crossed, voice soft. “It's never been safe, Logan. But, I'm still here.”
He wouldn't meet your eyes. “You shouldn't have to be.”
You stepped forward, slower now. Like approaching something skittish. “Is that what you really think? Or is it just easier to disappear than to stay and risk being loved?”
The silence between you stretched.
“Do you remember happy together? I do, don't you?”
You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “God, I bet you do. You'll remember the good parts, right? That way you don't have to feel bad about walking away.”
And that hit him. You saw it—the flinch in his jaw, the clench of his fists. But he didn't move. Didn't make the effort to fix it.
“You said forever, Logan,” you whispered. “And I almost bought it.”
He looked at you then, really looked. Eyes full of all the things he wasn't saying. The ache, the fear. The love. But he still turned away.
“I never should've dragged you into this,” he said.
You stepped back, arms falling to your sides. “You didn't drag me. I ran toward you. And you let me.”
He didn't answer. The door shut behind him a moment later. No goodbye.
The motel smells faintly of old coffee and dust when Laura wakes up.
Sunlight spills through the blinds, painting gold lines across the floor. Logan's already up, sitting on the edge of the bed, brooding, silent as ever.
Laura stretches, then watches him for a second. Like Logan, she's never been great with people. But something about the photo last night has stayed with her—heavy and unfinished.
“You ever think about going back?” she asks, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.
Logan looks over. “To what?”
“To her.”
Logan's shoulders tense. A pause.
Laura presses, not unkindly. “She looks like someone who deserved an explanation.”
He doesn't meet her eyes.
“I could come with you,” she adds. “You could take her something. I don't know. Flowers. Or… just words.”
For a moment, something cracks in his face—just for a second.
He swallows hard. Stares at the floor.
“I can't,” Logan replies quietly.
Laura frowns. “Why not?”
A long, aching silence. Then, with a voice raw enough to bleed, he says, “because she's gone.”
Laura doesn't say anything. Just stares at him—eyes wide, mouth parted.
“Oh,” she says, barely audible. And then again, softer: “Oh.”
He nods. Once. Like it's the only thing he can manage.
Laura lowers her gaze to her lap, hands twisting in the fabric of her shirt. Silence falls between them, but now it feels like mourning.
“I'm sorry,” Laura says.
Logan nods again, and this time it's like the weight of it folds him in half.
“I kept telling myself I was keeping her safe by staying gone. That I was poison.” He scoffs. “Turns out, leaving didn't save her either.”
Somewhere inside him, something breaks.
“She died thinking I didn't love her enough to stay.” His voice cracks.
“You don't have to tell me…” Laura interrupts before Logan shakes his head.
“I have to. I want to. I need to let it out.”
“I wasn't there. I didn't find out until a week later. A neighbor called. She'd been sick. Didn't tell anyone. Not even… me. Maybe she thought I'd come running if I knew. Maybe she wanted to spare me.”
Laura stares. “But she loved you.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “That's what makes it worse.”
“I loved her too much to stay… and not enough to say it.”
And in that breaking, he finally lets it in—not just the grief. The guilt. The years he could've had. The mornings you would've danced barefoot in the kitchen. The chance to say “I'm sorry” when it could've mattered.
He pulls out a folded scrap of paper. The ink is faded, the writing familiar. He opens it, lays it on the sheets like a confession.
Laura leans closer. It's a letter. Unfinished. From you.
“If you ever come back, I hope you find this. I hope you still remember how to be loved. I never stopped—not even when it hurts.”
At the bottom, scrawled in his handwriting: “I'm sorry I didn't come back in time.”
The truck rolls to a stop on the edge of a forgotten patch of desert. The sky stretches endless above them, washed pale by the sun. There's nothing around but scrub brush and silence—except for one crooked wooden cross nestled between a pair of weather-worn stones.
Laura climbs out slowly, her boots crunching the dry earth. Logan doesn't move right away. Just sits behind the wheel, fingers tight around it.
“You okay?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
He gives her a short nod. “Go ahead. I'll catch up.”
Laura hesitates, then walks the short distance to the grave. The cross is simple. No name, no date—just a weathered photo tucked into the edge, kept safe behind a cracked bit of plastic. Your smile stares up at her.
Laura kneels beside it.
“You were really pretty,” she says softly. “And you must've been something special… ‘cause he still looks at you like you never left.”
She glances back at the truck. Logan hasn't moved.
Laura turns back to the grave. “I didn't know you. Not really. But I think I get it now. Why he's like that. Why he doesn't let people close.”
Her fingers skim the edge of a stone.
“He misses you,” she adds. “A lot. And I think he's truly sorry for all the things he didn't say.”
A moment later, she hears footsteps behind her. Heavy. Hesitant. Logan stops just short of the grave, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff.
Laura stands and steps aside. Logan crouches slowly, fingers brushing the earth before setting a wild flower at the base of the stone.
“You should've yelled at me more. Slammed a door. Something. But you never did. You just… kept loving me.” His voice is thick. “Even when I didn't give you much to hold onto.”
The wind moves around them, soft and warm.
“I should've stayed,” he says, voice low and cracked. “I thought I was protecting you. But really… I was just scared.”
He reaches into his jacket, pulling out the letter.
“I read this every night. Until the words started blurring with my own.”
He looks up to the sky. “I still miss you,” he says. Then, softer: “And I'm still sorry.”
He rests a hand on the earth like it's your shoulder. “I'll come again later. I promise.”
Then, he stands.
Laura too, stands beside Logan in silence. She doesn't say it out loud, but something about this place—about the stillness—feels like the goodbye he never got to give.
And maybe, that's what love really is. Not always staying, not always surviving—but remembering. Carrying what's left, even when it hurts.
feedback and reblogs are appreciated!!
divider by: @elleisdesigning
tags!! @themareverine @princessanglophile @wchswift @dimlylittorch @flowersforbucky @briseroyawritingsblog @loganismybodyguard @tezooks @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @howlettsangel @sweetverine @sidkneeeee @lubdubology (lmk if you wanna get added or removed!!)
summary - Logan finds himself haunted by the memory of the one person he walked away from—but never stopped loving.
contents - angst! angst!! angst!!! no aftercare, sorry. heavily inspired from ‘I miss you, I'm sorry’ by Gracie Abrams, post-Logan storyline (good men don't perish in this household), brief flashbacks of arguments, breakups, Logan-Laura dynamics, Laura is slightly older than she was in Logan.
words count - 1846 words
The motel room is quiet, save for the low hum of the neon sign outside, its flickering red glow slipping through the slats of the blinds like a slow heartbeat. The air smells faintly of old smoke and worn-out fabric. Laura's curled up on the second bed, small and still, her breath a steady rhythm in the hush.
Logan sits on the edge of his own bed, elbows resting on his knees, one hand inside the battered lining of his jacket. His fingers close around the familiar slip of paper like it might disappear if he hesitates.
The photo's edges are soft, curled like petals. Faded from years of folding and unfolding. He doesn't look at it often—only when the silence starts to press against his ribs, squeezing the air out.
Tonight is one of those nights.
He lets his gaze linger.
You're laughing in the photo, eyes crinkled, head tipped back against his chest. His arms are wrapped around you, and you're wearing that stolen flannel—three sizes too big, sleeves swallowing your hands. He can almost hear your voice again, teasing: “Grumpy with a gooey center.”
You always saw right through him. Past the snarls and silence. Past the adamantium. Right to the part he never let anyone touch.
A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth, but it doesn't last.
“I miss you,” he breathes, so quietly it's barely a sound. Like if he says it too loud, it might echo.
Well, it does because behind him, the sheets rustle. Laura sits up, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Her voice is soft, almost cautious.
“Couldn't sleep?” Logan asks without looking.
“Bad dream,” she answers. Then, after a pause, “Heard you were talking.”
His jaw tightens. He slides the photo back into the pocket, ready to tuck it away—but she catches the motion.
“Who's that?” she asks, scooting closer beside Logan.
He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at the photo like he might fall into it. Then, finally, he holds it out to her.
Laura looks down at the worn image in his hands—eyes instantly softening at the sight. She's never seen Logan in a photo like this—unguarded, real. There's a warmth in his eyes, a light she's never known him to carry.
“She looks… kind,” she finally says, but her voice is a bit quieter this time. Like she's realizing the woman beside Logan wasn't just someone. She was the someone.
“She… was.” His voice catches at the edges, cracked and gravel-thin. Was? Is? Even he couldn't comprehend the right terms to describe you.
Laura doesn't ask again. Just wait—patient, like she's learned that silence is sometimes how you earn trust. She studies the photo like she's trying to see the version of him that belonged to that life.
“What happened?” she finally asks.
Logan leans back, head hitting the wall with a soft thud. He exhales like it hurts. “I left,” he says, staring at the ceiling. “Thought it was the right thing. I told myself… I was protecting her.”
He swallows hard.
“I said forever,” he adds, voice rough now. “And she believed me. Hell, she always has.”
Laura doesn't say anything. She just looks at him with that quiet, perceptive expression she gets when she's trying to understand the parts of him he never talks about. The parts that hurt too much to name.
The silence stretches, thick with the weight of things unsaid.
Then she passes the photo back, careful as if it's fragile. And maybe it is.
“You still love her,” she says simply. Like the matter of a fact.
He nods once, jaw tight. Doesn't trust himself to speak.
FLASHBACK
Your apartment was small, cluttered, and warm. Plants in the window, books stacked in corners, his flannel tossed over the back of a chair like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.
But Logan had that look in his eyes, again—distant, stormy. You could feel it before he even said anything. The way his shoulders were pulled tight. The way he didn't touch you when he walked in.
“You're leaving again,” you said, not as a question. Just a tired truth.
He winced. “It's not safe. Not with the kind of people after me.”
You stood, arms crossed, voice soft. “It's never been safe, Logan. But, I'm still here.”
He wouldn't meet your eyes. “You shouldn't have to be.”
You stepped forward, slower now. Like approaching something skittish. “Is that what you really think? Or is it just easier to disappear than to stay and risk being loved?”
The silence between you stretched.
“Do you remember happy together? I do, don't you?”
You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “God, I bet you do. You'll remember the good parts, right? That way you don't have to feel bad about walking away.”
And that hit him. You saw it—the flinch in his jaw, the clench of his fists. But he didn't move. Didn't make the effort to fix it.
“You said forever, Logan,” you whispered. “And I almost bought it.”
He looked at you then, really looked. Eyes full of all the things he wasn't saying. The ache, the fear. The love. But he still turned away.
“I never should've dragged you into this,” he said.
You stepped back, arms falling to your sides. “You didn't drag me. I ran toward you. And you let me.”
He didn't answer. The door shut behind him a moment later. No goodbye.
The motel smells faintly of old coffee and dust when Laura wakes up.
Sunlight spills through the blinds, painting gold lines across the floor. Logan's already up, sitting on the edge of the bed, brooding, silent as ever.
Laura stretches, then watches him for a second. Like Logan, she's never been great with people. But something about the photo last night has stayed with her—heavy and unfinished.
“You ever think about going back?” she asks, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.
Logan looks over. “To what?”
“To her.”
Logan's shoulders tense. A pause.
Laura presses, not unkindly. “She looks like someone who deserved an explanation.”
He doesn't meet her eyes.
“I could come with you,” she adds. “You could take her something. I don't know. Flowers. Or… just words.”
For a moment, something cracks in his face—just for a second.
He swallows hard. Stares at the floor.
“I can't,” Logan replies quietly.
Laura frowns. “Why not?”
A long, aching silence. Then, with a voice raw enough to bleed, he says, “because she's gone.”
Laura doesn't say anything. Just stares at him—eyes wide, mouth parted.
“Oh,” she says, barely audible. And then again, softer: “Oh.”
He nods. Once. Like it's the only thing he can manage.
Laura lowers her gaze to her lap, hands twisting in the fabric of her shirt. Silence falls between them, but now it feels like mourning.
“I'm sorry,” Laura says.
Logan nods again, and this time it's like the weight of it folds him in half.
“I kept telling myself I was keeping her safe by staying gone. That I was poison.” He scoffs. “Turns out, leaving didn't save her either.”
Somewhere inside him, something breaks.
“She died thinking I didn't love her enough to stay.” His voice cracks.
“You don't have to tell me…” Laura interrupts before Logan shakes his head.
“I have to. I want to. I need to let it out.”
“I wasn't there. I didn't find out until a week later. A neighbor called. She'd been sick. Didn't tell anyone. Not even… me. Maybe she thought I'd come running if I knew. Maybe she wanted to spare me.”
Laura stares. “But she loved you.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “That's what makes it worse.”
“I loved her too much to stay… and not enough to say it.”
And in that breaking, he finally lets it in—not just the grief. The guilt. The years he could've had. The mornings you would've danced barefoot in the kitchen. The chance to say “I'm sorry” when it could've mattered.
He pulls out a folded scrap of paper. The ink is faded, the writing familiar. He opens it, lays it on the sheets like a confession.
Laura leans closer. It's a letter. Unfinished. From you.
“If you ever come back, I hope you find this. I hope you still remember how to be loved. I never stopped—not even when it hurts.”
At the bottom, scrawled in his handwriting: “I'm sorry I didn't come back in time.”
The truck rolls to a stop on the edge of a forgotten patch of desert. The sky stretches endless above them, washed pale by the sun. There's nothing around but scrub brush and silence—except for one crooked wooden cross nestled between a pair of weather-worn stones.
Laura climbs out slowly, her boots crunching the dry earth. Logan doesn't move right away. Just sits behind the wheel, fingers tight around it.
“You okay?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
He gives her a short nod. “Go ahead. I'll catch up.”
Laura hesitates, then walks the short distance to the grave. The cross is simple. No name, no date—just a weathered photo tucked into the edge, kept safe behind a cracked bit of plastic. Your smile stares up at her.
Laura kneels beside it.
“You were really pretty,” she says softly. “And you must've been something special… ‘cause he still looks at you like you never left.”
She glances back at the truck. Logan hasn't moved.
Laura turns back to the grave. “I didn't know you. Not really. But I think I get it now. Why he's like that. Why he doesn't let people close.”
Her fingers skim the edge of a stone.
“He misses you,” she adds. “A lot. And I think he's truly sorry for all the things he didn't say.”
A moment later, she hears footsteps behind her. Heavy. Hesitant. Logan stops just short of the grave, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff.
Laura stands and steps aside. Logan crouches slowly, fingers brushing the earth before setting a wild flower at the base of the stone.
“You should've yelled at me more. Slammed a door. Something. But you never did. You just… kept loving me.” His voice is thick. “Even when I didn't give you much to hold onto.”
The wind moves around them, soft and warm.
“I should've stayed,” he says, voice low and cracked. “I thought I was protecting you. But really… I was just scared.”
He reaches into his jacket, pulling out the letter.
“I read this every night. Until the words started blurring with my own.”
He looks up to the sky. “I still miss you,” he says. Then, softer: “And I'm still sorry.”
He rests a hand on the earth like it's your shoulder. “I'll come again later. I promise.”
Then, he stands.
Laura too, stands beside Logan in silence. She doesn't say it out loud, but something about this place—about the stillness—feels like the goodbye he never got to give.
And maybe, that's what love really is. Not always staying, not always surviving—but remembering. Carrying what's left, even when it hurts.
feedback and reblogs are appreciated!!
divider by: @elleisdesigning
tags!! @themareverine @princessanglophile @wchswift @dimlylittorch @flowersforbucky @briseroyawritingsblog @loganismybodyguard @tezooks @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @howlettsangel @sweetverine @sidkneeeee @lubdubology (lmk if you wanna get added or removed!!)
summary - Logan finds himself haunted by the memory of the one person he walked away from—but never stopped loving.
contents - angst! angst!! angst!!! no aftercare, sorry. heavily inspired from ‘I miss you, I'm sorry’ by Gracie Abrams, post-Logan storyline (good men don't perish in this household), brief flashbacks of arguments, breakups, Logan-Laura dynamics, Laura is slightly older than she was in Logan.
words count - 1846 words
The motel room is quiet, save for the low hum of the neon sign outside, its flickering red glow slipping through the slats of the blinds like a slow heartbeat. The air smells faintly of old smoke and worn-out fabric. Laura's curled up on the second bed, small and still, her breath a steady rhythm in the hush.
Logan sits on the edge of his own bed, elbows resting on his knees, one hand inside the battered lining of his jacket. His fingers close around the familiar slip of paper like it might disappear if he hesitates.
The photo's edges are soft, curled like petals. Faded from years of folding and unfolding. He doesn't look at it often—only when the silence starts to press against his ribs, squeezing the air out.
Tonight is one of those nights.
He lets his gaze linger.
You're laughing in the photo, eyes crinkled, head tipped back against his chest. His arms are wrapped around you, and you're wearing that stolen flannel—three sizes too big, sleeves swallowing your hands. He can almost hear your voice again, teasing: “Grumpy with a gooey center.”
You always saw right through him. Past the snarls and silence. Past the adamantium. Right to the part he never let anyone touch.
A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth, but it doesn't last.
“I miss you,” he breathes, so quietly it's barely a sound. Like if he says it too loud, it might echo.
Well, it does because behind him, the sheets rustle. Laura sits up, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Her voice is soft, almost cautious.
“Couldn't sleep?” Logan asks without looking.
“Bad dream,” she answers. Then, after a pause, “Heard you were talking.”
His jaw tightens. He slides the photo back into the pocket, ready to tuck it away—but she catches the motion.
“Who's that?” she asks, scooting closer beside Logan.
He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at the photo like he might fall into it. Then, finally, he holds it out to her.
Laura looks down at the worn image in his hands—eyes instantly softening at the sight. She's never seen Logan in a photo like this—unguarded, real. There's a warmth in his eyes, a light she's never known him to carry.
“She looks… kind,” she finally says, but her voice is a bit quieter this time. Like she's realizing the woman beside Logan wasn't just someone. She was the someone.
“She… was.” His voice catches at the edges, cracked and gravel-thin. Was? Is? Even he couldn't comprehend the right terms to describe you.
Laura doesn't ask again. Just wait—patient, like she's learned that silence is sometimes how you earn trust. She studies the photo like she's trying to see the version of him that belonged to that life.
“What happened?” she finally asks.
Logan leans back, head hitting the wall with a soft thud. He exhales like it hurts. “I left,” he says, staring at the ceiling. “Thought it was the right thing. I told myself… I was protecting her.”
He swallows hard.
“I said forever,” he adds, voice rough now. “And she believed me. Hell, she always has.”
Laura doesn't say anything. She just looks at him with that quiet, perceptive expression she gets when she's trying to understand the parts of him he never talks about. The parts that hurt too much to name.
The silence stretches, thick with the weight of things unsaid.
Then she passes the photo back, careful as if it's fragile. And maybe it is.
“You still love her,” she says simply. Like the matter of a fact.
He nods once, jaw tight. Doesn't trust himself to speak.
FLASHBACK
Your apartment was small, cluttered, and warm. Plants in the window, books stacked in corners, his flannel tossed over the back of a chair like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.
But Logan had that look in his eyes, again—distant, stormy. You could feel it before he even said anything. The way his shoulders were pulled tight. The way he didn't touch you when he walked in.
“You're leaving again,” you said, not as a question. Just a tired truth.
He winced. “It's not safe. Not with the kind of people after me.”
You stood, arms crossed, voice soft. “It's never been safe, Logan. But, I'm still here.”
He wouldn't meet your eyes. “You shouldn't have to be.”
You stepped forward, slower now. Like approaching something skittish. “Is that what you really think? Or is it just easier to disappear than to stay and risk being loved?”
The silence between you stretched.
“Do you remember happy together? I do, don't you?”
You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “God, I bet you do. You'll remember the good parts, right? That way you don't have to feel bad about walking away.”
And that hit him. You saw it—the flinch in his jaw, the clench of his fists. But he didn't move. Didn't make the effort to fix it.
“You said forever, Logan,” you whispered. “And I almost bought it.”
He looked at you then, really looked. Eyes full of all the things he wasn't saying. The ache, the fear. The love. But he still turned away.
“I never should've dragged you into this,” he said.
You stepped back, arms falling to your sides. “You didn't drag me. I ran toward you. And you let me.”
He didn't answer. The door shut behind him a moment later. No goodbye.
The motel smells faintly of old coffee and dust when Laura wakes up.
Sunlight spills through the blinds, painting gold lines across the floor. Logan's already up, sitting on the edge of the bed, brooding, silent as ever.
Laura stretches, then watches him for a second. Like Logan, she's never been great with people. But something about the photo last night has stayed with her—heavy and unfinished.
“You ever think about going back?” she asks, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.
Logan looks over. “To what?”
“To her.”
Logan's shoulders tense. A pause.
Laura presses, not unkindly. “She looks like someone who deserved an explanation.”
He doesn't meet her eyes.
“I could come with you,” she adds. “You could take her something. I don't know. Flowers. Or… just words.”
For a moment, something cracks in his face—just for a second.
He swallows hard. Stares at the floor.
“I can't,” Logan replies quietly.
Laura frowns. “Why not?”
A long, aching silence. Then, with a voice raw enough to bleed, he says, “because she's gone.”
Laura doesn't say anything. Just stares at him—eyes wide, mouth parted.
“Oh,” she says, barely audible. And then again, softer: “Oh.”
He nods. Once. Like it's the only thing he can manage.
Laura lowers her gaze to her lap, hands twisting in the fabric of her shirt. Silence falls between them, but now it feels like mourning.
“I'm sorry,” Laura says.
Logan nods again, and this time it's like the weight of it folds him in half.
“I kept telling myself I was keeping her safe by staying gone. That I was poison.” He scoffs. “Turns out, leaving didn't save her either.”
Somewhere inside him, something breaks.
“She died thinking I didn't love her enough to stay.” His voice cracks.
“You don't have to tell me…” Laura interrupts before Logan shakes his head.
“I have to. I want to. I need to let it out.”
“I wasn't there. I didn't find out until a week later. A neighbor called. She'd been sick. Didn't tell anyone. Not even… me. Maybe she thought I'd come running if I knew. Maybe she wanted to spare me.”
Laura stares. “But she loved you.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “That's what makes it worse.”
“I loved her too much to stay… and not enough to say it.”
And in that breaking, he finally lets it in—not just the grief. The guilt. The years he could've had. The mornings you would've danced barefoot in the kitchen. The chance to say “I'm sorry” when it could've mattered.
He pulls out a folded scrap of paper. The ink is faded, the writing familiar. He opens it, lays it on the sheets like a confession.
Laura leans closer. It's a letter. Unfinished. From you.
“If you ever come back, I hope you find this. I hope you still remember how to be loved. I never stopped—not even when it hurts.”
At the bottom, scrawled in his handwriting: “I'm sorry I didn't come back in time.”
The truck rolls to a stop on the edge of a forgotten patch of desert. The sky stretches endless above them, washed pale by the sun. There's nothing around but scrub brush and silence—except for one crooked wooden cross nestled between a pair of weather-worn stones.
Laura climbs out slowly, her boots crunching the dry earth. Logan doesn't move right away. Just sits behind the wheel, fingers tight around it.
“You okay?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
He gives her a short nod. “Go ahead. I'll catch up.”
Laura hesitates, then walks the short distance to the grave. The cross is simple. No name, no date—just a weathered photo tucked into the edge, kept safe behind a cracked bit of plastic. Your smile stares up at her.
Laura kneels beside it.
“You were really pretty,” she says softly. “And you must've been something special… ‘cause he still looks at you like you never left.”
She glances back at the truck. Logan hasn't moved.
Laura turns back to the grave. “I didn't know you. Not really. But I think I get it now. Why he's like that. Why he doesn't let people close.”
Her fingers skim the edge of a stone.
“He misses you,” she adds. “A lot. And I think he's truly sorry for all the things he didn't say.”
A moment later, she hears footsteps behind her. Heavy. Hesitant. Logan stops just short of the grave, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff.
Laura stands and steps aside. Logan crouches slowly, fingers brushing the earth before setting a wild flower at the base of the stone.
“You should've yelled at me more. Slammed a door. Something. But you never did. You just… kept loving me.” His voice is thick. “Even when I didn't give you much to hold onto.”
The wind moves around them, soft and warm.
“I should've stayed,” he says, voice low and cracked. “I thought I was protecting you. But really… I was just scared.”
He reaches into his jacket, pulling out the letter.
“I read this every night. Until the words started blurring with my own.”
He looks up to the sky. “I still miss you,” he says. Then, softer: “And I'm still sorry.”
He rests a hand on the earth like it's your shoulder. “I'll come again later. I promise.”
Then, he stands.
Laura too, stands beside Logan in silence. She doesn't say it out loud, but something about this place—about the stillness—feels like the goodbye he never got to give.
And maybe, that's what love really is. Not always staying, not always surviving—but remembering. Carrying what's left, even when it hurts.
feedback and reblogs are appreciated!!
divider by: @elleisdesigning
tags!! @themareverine @princessanglophile @wchswift @dimlylittorch @flowersforbucky @briseroyawritingsblog @loganismybodyguard @tezooks @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @howlettsangel @sweetverine @sidkneeeee @lubdubology (lmk if you wanna get added or removed!!)
This post doesn’t get enough appreciation it definitely deserves. It’s just so beautiful and poetic, the concept of love that reaches beyond the physical realm… Just pure passion and dedication. Extraordinary.
summary - Logan finds himself haunted by the memory of the one person he walked away from—but never stopped loving.
contents - angst! angst!! angst!!! no aftercare, sorry. heavily inspired from ‘I miss you, I'm sorry’ by Gracie Abrams, post-Logan storyline (good men don't perish in this household), brief flashbacks of arguments, breakups, Logan-Laura dynamics, Laura is slightly older than she was in Logan.
words count - 1846 words
The motel room is quiet, save for the low hum of the neon sign outside, its flickering red glow slipping through the slats of the blinds like a slow heartbeat. The air smells faintly of old smoke and worn-out fabric. Laura's curled up on the second bed, small and still, her breath a steady rhythm in the hush.
Logan sits on the edge of his own bed, elbows resting on his knees, one hand inside the battered lining of his jacket. His fingers close around the familiar slip of paper like it might disappear if he hesitates.
The photo's edges are soft, curled like petals. Faded from years of folding and unfolding. He doesn't look at it often—only when the silence starts to press against his ribs, squeezing the air out.
Tonight is one of those nights.
He lets his gaze linger.
You're laughing in the photo, eyes crinkled, head tipped back against his chest. His arms are wrapped around you, and you're wearing that stolen flannel—three sizes too big, sleeves swallowing your hands. He can almost hear your voice again, teasing: “Grumpy with a gooey center.”
You always saw right through him. Past the snarls and silence. Past the adamantium. Right to the part he never let anyone touch.
A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth, but it doesn't last.
“I miss you,” he breathes, so quietly it's barely a sound. Like if he says it too loud, it might echo.
Well, it does because behind him, the sheets rustle. Laura sits up, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Her voice is soft, almost cautious.
“Couldn't sleep?” Logan asks without looking.
“Bad dream,” she answers. Then, after a pause, “Heard you were talking.”
His jaw tightens. He slides the photo back into the pocket, ready to tuck it away—but she catches the motion.
“Who's that?” she asks, scooting closer beside Logan.
He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at the photo like he might fall into it. Then, finally, he holds it out to her.
Laura looks down at the worn image in his hands—eyes instantly softening at the sight. She's never seen Logan in a photo like this—unguarded, real. There's a warmth in his eyes, a light she's never known him to carry.
“She looks… kind,” she finally says, but her voice is a bit quieter this time. Like she's realizing the woman beside Logan wasn't just someone. She was the someone.
“She… was.” His voice catches at the edges, cracked and gravel-thin. Was? Is? Even he couldn't comprehend the right terms to describe you.
Laura doesn't ask again. Just wait—patient, like she's learned that silence is sometimes how you earn trust. She studies the photo like she's trying to see the version of him that belonged to that life.
“What happened?” she finally asks.
Logan leans back, head hitting the wall with a soft thud. He exhales like it hurts. “I left,” he says, staring at the ceiling. “Thought it was the right thing. I told myself… I was protecting her.”
He swallows hard.
“I said forever,” he adds, voice rough now. “And she believed me. Hell, she always has.”
Laura doesn't say anything. She just looks at him with that quiet, perceptive expression she gets when she's trying to understand the parts of him he never talks about. The parts that hurt too much to name.
The silence stretches, thick with the weight of things unsaid.
Then she passes the photo back, careful as if it's fragile. And maybe it is.
“You still love her,” she says simply. Like the matter of a fact.
He nods once, jaw tight. Doesn't trust himself to speak.
FLASHBACK
Your apartment was small, cluttered, and warm. Plants in the window, books stacked in corners, his flannel tossed over the back of a chair like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.
But Logan had that look in his eyes, again—distant, stormy. You could feel it before he even said anything. The way his shoulders were pulled tight. The way he didn't touch you when he walked in.
“You're leaving again,” you said, not as a question. Just a tired truth.
He winced. “It's not safe. Not with the kind of people after me.”
You stood, arms crossed, voice soft. “It's never been safe, Logan. But, I'm still here.”
He wouldn't meet your eyes. “You shouldn't have to be.”
You stepped forward, slower now. Like approaching something skittish. “Is that what you really think? Or is it just easier to disappear than to stay and risk being loved?”
The silence between you stretched.
“Do you remember happy together? I do, don't you?”
You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “God, I bet you do. You'll remember the good parts, right? That way you don't have to feel bad about walking away.”
And that hit him. You saw it—the flinch in his jaw, the clench of his fists. But he didn't move. Didn't make the effort to fix it.
“You said forever, Logan,” you whispered. “And I almost bought it.”
He looked at you then, really looked. Eyes full of all the things he wasn't saying. The ache, the fear. The love. But he still turned away.
“I never should've dragged you into this,” he said.
You stepped back, arms falling to your sides. “You didn't drag me. I ran toward you. And you let me.”
He didn't answer. The door shut behind him a moment later. No goodbye.
The motel smells faintly of old coffee and dust when Laura wakes up.
Sunlight spills through the blinds, painting gold lines across the floor. Logan's already up, sitting on the edge of the bed, brooding, silent as ever.
Laura stretches, then watches him for a second. Like Logan, she's never been great with people. But something about the photo last night has stayed with her—heavy and unfinished.
“You ever think about going back?” she asks, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.
Logan looks over. “To what?”
“To her.”
Logan's shoulders tense. A pause.
Laura presses, not unkindly. “She looks like someone who deserved an explanation.”
He doesn't meet her eyes.
“I could come with you,” she adds. “You could take her something. I don't know. Flowers. Or… just words.”
For a moment, something cracks in his face—just for a second.
He swallows hard. Stares at the floor.
“I can't,” Logan replies quietly.
Laura frowns. “Why not?”
A long, aching silence. Then, with a voice raw enough to bleed, he says, “because she's gone.”
Laura doesn't say anything. Just stares at him—eyes wide, mouth parted.
“Oh,” she says, barely audible. And then again, softer: “Oh.”
He nods. Once. Like it's the only thing he can manage.
Laura lowers her gaze to her lap, hands twisting in the fabric of her shirt. Silence falls between them, but now it feels like mourning.
“I'm sorry,” Laura says.
Logan nods again, and this time it's like the weight of it folds him in half.
“I kept telling myself I was keeping her safe by staying gone. That I was poison.” He scoffs. “Turns out, leaving didn't save her either.”
Somewhere inside him, something breaks.
“She died thinking I didn't love her enough to stay.” His voice cracks.
“You don't have to tell me…” Laura interrupts before Logan shakes his head.
“I have to. I want to. I need to let it out.”
“I wasn't there. I didn't find out until a week later. A neighbor called. She'd been sick. Didn't tell anyone. Not even… me. Maybe she thought I'd come running if I knew. Maybe she wanted to spare me.”
Laura stares. “But she loved you.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “That's what makes it worse.”
“I loved her too much to stay… and not enough to say it.”
And in that breaking, he finally lets it in—not just the grief. The guilt. The years he could've had. The mornings you would've danced barefoot in the kitchen. The chance to say “I'm sorry” when it could've mattered.
He pulls out a folded scrap of paper. The ink is faded, the writing familiar. He opens it, lays it on the sheets like a confession.
Laura leans closer. It's a letter. Unfinished. From you.
“If you ever come back, I hope you find this. I hope you still remember how to be loved. I never stopped—not even when it hurts.”
At the bottom, scrawled in his handwriting: “I'm sorry I didn't come back in time.”
The truck rolls to a stop on the edge of a forgotten patch of desert. The sky stretches endless above them, washed pale by the sun. There's nothing around but scrub brush and silence—except for one crooked wooden cross nestled between a pair of weather-worn stones.
Laura climbs out slowly, her boots crunching the dry earth. Logan doesn't move right away. Just sits behind the wheel, fingers tight around it.
“You okay?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
He gives her a short nod. “Go ahead. I'll catch up.”
Laura hesitates, then walks the short distance to the grave. The cross is simple. No name, no date—just a weathered photo tucked into the edge, kept safe behind a cracked bit of plastic. Your smile stares up at her.
Laura kneels beside it.
“You were really pretty,” she says softly. “And you must've been something special… ‘cause he still looks at you like you never left.”
She glances back at the truck. Logan hasn't moved.
Laura turns back to the grave. “I didn't know you. Not really. But I think I get it now. Why he's like that. Why he doesn't let people close.”
Her fingers skim the edge of a stone.
“He misses you,” she adds. “A lot. And I think he's truly sorry for all the things he didn't say.”
A moment later, she hears footsteps behind her. Heavy. Hesitant. Logan stops just short of the grave, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff.
Laura stands and steps aside. Logan crouches slowly, fingers brushing the earth before setting a wild flower at the base of the stone.
“You should've yelled at me more. Slammed a door. Something. But you never did. You just… kept loving me.” His voice is thick. “Even when I didn't give you much to hold onto.”
The wind moves around them, soft and warm.
“I should've stayed,” he says, voice low and cracked. “I thought I was protecting you. But really… I was just scared.”
He reaches into his jacket, pulling out the letter.
“I read this every night. Until the words started blurring with my own.”
He looks up to the sky. “I still miss you,” he says. Then, softer: “And I'm still sorry.”
He rests a hand on the earth like it's your shoulder. “I'll come again later. I promise.”
Then, he stands.
Laura too, stands beside Logan in silence. She doesn't say it out loud, but something about this place—about the stillness—feels like the goodbye he never got to give.
And maybe, that's what love really is. Not always staying, not always surviving—but remembering. Carrying what's left, even when it hurts.
feedback and reblogs are appreciated!!
divider by: @elleisdesigning
tags!! @themareverine @princessanglophile @wchswift @dimlylittorch @flowersforbucky @briseroyawritingsblog @loganismybodyguard @tezooks @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @howlettsangel @sweetverine @sidkneeeee @lubdubology (lmk if you wanna get added or removed!!)
i'm a sucker for angst, and this definitely hit the spot😭
i don't know why this line hit the hardest for me:
He rests a hand on the earth like it's your shoulder. “I'll come again later. I promise.”
maybe it's because it's after logan and he doesn't die, so he didn't get to join you, but maybe part of him still wants to die because of everything, but now he has laura and—okay, i'll stop rambling
summary - Logan finds himself haunted by the memory of the one person he walked away from—but never stopped loving.
contents - angst! angst!! angst!!! no aftercare, sorry. heavily inspired from ‘I miss you, I'm sorry’ by Gracie Abrams, post-Logan storyline (good men don't perish in this household), brief flashbacks of arguments, breakups, Logan-Laura dynamics, Laura is slightly older than she was in Logan.
words count - 1846 words
The motel room is quiet, save for the low hum of the neon sign outside, its flickering red glow slipping through the slats of the blinds like a slow heartbeat. The air smells faintly of old smoke and worn-out fabric. Laura's curled up on the second bed, small and still, her breath a steady rhythm in the hush.
Logan sits on the edge of his own bed, elbows resting on his knees, one hand inside the battered lining of his jacket. His fingers close around the familiar slip of paper like it might disappear if he hesitates.
The photo's edges are soft, curled like petals. Faded from years of folding and unfolding. He doesn't look at it often—only when the silence starts to press against his ribs, squeezing the air out.
Tonight is one of those nights.
He lets his gaze linger.
You're laughing in the photo, eyes crinkled, head tipped back against his chest. His arms are wrapped around you, and you're wearing that stolen flannel—three sizes too big, sleeves swallowing your hands. He can almost hear your voice again, teasing: “Grumpy with a gooey center.”
You always saw right through him. Past the snarls and silence. Past the adamantium. Right to the part he never let anyone touch.
A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth, but it doesn't last.
“I miss you,” he breathes, so quietly it's barely a sound. Like if he says it too loud, it might echo.
Well, it does because behind him, the sheets rustle. Laura sits up, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Her voice is soft, almost cautious.
“Couldn't sleep?” Logan asks without looking.
“Bad dream,” she answers. Then, after a pause, “Heard you were talking.”
His jaw tightens. He slides the photo back into the pocket, ready to tuck it away—but she catches the motion.
“Who's that?” she asks, scooting closer beside Logan.
He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at the photo like he might fall into it. Then, finally, he holds it out to her.
Laura looks down at the worn image in his hands—eyes instantly softening at the sight. She's never seen Logan in a photo like this—unguarded, real. There's a warmth in his eyes, a light she's never known him to carry.
“She looks… kind,” she finally says, but her voice is a bit quieter this time. Like she's realizing the woman beside Logan wasn't just someone. She was the someone.
“She… was.” His voice catches at the edges, cracked and gravel-thin. Was? Is? Even he couldn't comprehend the right terms to describe you.
Laura doesn't ask again. Just wait—patient, like she's learned that silence is sometimes how you earn trust. She studies the photo like she's trying to see the version of him that belonged to that life.
“What happened?” she finally asks.
Logan leans back, head hitting the wall with a soft thud. He exhales like it hurts. “I left,” he says, staring at the ceiling. “Thought it was the right thing. I told myself… I was protecting her.”
He swallows hard.
“I said forever,” he adds, voice rough now. “And she believed me. Hell, she always has.”
Laura doesn't say anything. She just looks at him with that quiet, perceptive expression she gets when she's trying to understand the parts of him he never talks about. The parts that hurt too much to name.
The silence stretches, thick with the weight of things unsaid.
Then she passes the photo back, careful as if it's fragile. And maybe it is.
“You still love her,” she says simply. Like the matter of a fact.
He nods once, jaw tight. Doesn't trust himself to speak.
FLASHBACK
Your apartment was small, cluttered, and warm. Plants in the window, books stacked in corners, his flannel tossed over the back of a chair like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.
But Logan had that look in his eyes, again—distant, stormy. You could feel it before he even said anything. The way his shoulders were pulled tight. The way he didn't touch you when he walked in.
“You're leaving again,” you said, not as a question. Just a tired truth.
He winced. “It's not safe. Not with the kind of people after me.”
You stood, arms crossed, voice soft. “It's never been safe, Logan. But, I'm still here.”
He wouldn't meet your eyes. “You shouldn't have to be.”
You stepped forward, slower now. Like approaching something skittish. “Is that what you really think? Or is it just easier to disappear than to stay and risk being loved?”
The silence between you stretched.
“Do you remember happy together? I do, don't you?”
You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “God, I bet you do. You'll remember the good parts, right? That way you don't have to feel bad about walking away.”
And that hit him. You saw it—the flinch in his jaw, the clench of his fists. But he didn't move. Didn't make the effort to fix it.
“You said forever, Logan,” you whispered. “And I almost bought it.”
He looked at you then, really looked. Eyes full of all the things he wasn't saying. The ache, the fear. The love. But he still turned away.
“I never should've dragged you into this,” he said.
You stepped back, arms falling to your sides. “You didn't drag me. I ran toward you. And you let me.”
He didn't answer. The door shut behind him a moment later. No goodbye.
The motel smells faintly of old coffee and dust when Laura wakes up.
Sunlight spills through the blinds, painting gold lines across the floor. Logan's already up, sitting on the edge of the bed, brooding, silent as ever.
Laura stretches, then watches him for a second. Like Logan, she's never been great with people. But something about the photo last night has stayed with her—heavy and unfinished.
“You ever think about going back?” she asks, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.
Logan looks over. “To what?”
“To her.”
Logan's shoulders tense. A pause.
Laura presses, not unkindly. “She looks like someone who deserved an explanation.”
He doesn't meet her eyes.
“I could come with you,” she adds. “You could take her something. I don't know. Flowers. Or… just words.”
For a moment, something cracks in his face—just for a second.
He swallows hard. Stares at the floor.
“I can't,” Logan replies quietly.
Laura frowns. “Why not?”
A long, aching silence. Then, with a voice raw enough to bleed, he says, “because she's gone.”
Laura doesn't say anything. Just stares at him—eyes wide, mouth parted.
“Oh,” she says, barely audible. And then again, softer: “Oh.”
He nods. Once. Like it's the only thing he can manage.
Laura lowers her gaze to her lap, hands twisting in the fabric of her shirt. Silence falls between them, but now it feels like mourning.
“I'm sorry,” Laura says.
Logan nods again, and this time it's like the weight of it folds him in half.
“I kept telling myself I was keeping her safe by staying gone. That I was poison.” He scoffs. “Turns out, leaving didn't save her either.”
Somewhere inside him, something breaks.
“She died thinking I didn't love her enough to stay.” His voice cracks.
“You don't have to tell me…” Laura interrupts before Logan shakes his head.
“I have to. I want to. I need to let it out.”
“I wasn't there. I didn't find out until a week later. A neighbor called. She'd been sick. Didn't tell anyone. Not even… me. Maybe she thought I'd come running if I knew. Maybe she wanted to spare me.”
Laura stares. “But she loved you.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “That's what makes it worse.”
“I loved her too much to stay… and not enough to say it.”
And in that breaking, he finally lets it in—not just the grief. The guilt. The years he could've had. The mornings you would've danced barefoot in the kitchen. The chance to say “I'm sorry” when it could've mattered.
He pulls out a folded scrap of paper. The ink is faded, the writing familiar. He opens it, lays it on the sheets like a confession.
Laura leans closer. It's a letter. Unfinished. From you.
“If you ever come back, I hope you find this. I hope you still remember how to be loved. I never stopped—not even when it hurts.”
At the bottom, scrawled in his handwriting: “I'm sorry I didn't come back in time.”
The truck rolls to a stop on the edge of a forgotten patch of desert. The sky stretches endless above them, washed pale by the sun. There's nothing around but scrub brush and silence—except for one crooked wooden cross nestled between a pair of weather-worn stones.
Laura climbs out slowly, her boots crunching the dry earth. Logan doesn't move right away. Just sits behind the wheel, fingers tight around it.
“You okay?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
He gives her a short nod. “Go ahead. I'll catch up.”
Laura hesitates, then walks the short distance to the grave. The cross is simple. No name, no date—just a weathered photo tucked into the edge, kept safe behind a cracked bit of plastic. Your smile stares up at her.
Laura kneels beside it.
“You were really pretty,” she says softly. “And you must've been something special… ‘cause he still looks at you like you never left.”
She glances back at the truck. Logan hasn't moved.
Laura turns back to the grave. “I didn't know you. Not really. But I think I get it now. Why he's like that. Why he doesn't let people close.”
Her fingers skim the edge of a stone.
“He misses you,” she adds. “A lot. And I think he's truly sorry for all the things he didn't say.”
A moment later, she hears footsteps behind her. Heavy. Hesitant. Logan stops just short of the grave, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff.
Laura stands and steps aside. Logan crouches slowly, fingers brushing the earth before setting a wild flower at the base of the stone.
“You should've yelled at me more. Slammed a door. Something. But you never did. You just… kept loving me.” His voice is thick. “Even when I didn't give you much to hold onto.”
The wind moves around them, soft and warm.
“I should've stayed,” he says, voice low and cracked. “I thought I was protecting you. But really… I was just scared.”
He reaches into his jacket, pulling out the letter.
“I read this every night. Until the words started blurring with my own.”
He looks up to the sky. “I still miss you,” he says. Then, softer: “And I'm still sorry.”
He rests a hand on the earth like it's your shoulder. “I'll come again later. I promise.”
Then, he stands.
Laura too, stands beside Logan in silence. She doesn't say it out loud, but something about this place—about the stillness—feels like the goodbye he never got to give.
And maybe, that's what love really is. Not always staying, not always surviving—but remembering. Carrying what's left, even when it hurts.
feedback and reblogs are appreciated!!
divider by: @elleisdesigning
tags!! @themareverine @princessanglophile @wchswift @dimlylittorch @flowersforbucky @briseroyawritingsblog @loganismybodyguard @tezooks @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @howlettsangel @sweetverine @sidkneeeee @lubdubology (lmk if you wanna get added or removed!!)
summary - he says he doesn't deserve you, you remind him he doesn't get to decide that.
contents - protective!logan, a bit angst (typical logan), hurt & comfort, fluff, established relationship, brief mention of harassment.
words count - 1279 words
zayn's note - just wanna try writing angst a bit, well it's not fully angst but it's there. enjoy your reading lovelies!! <3
It was raining sideways the first time he saw you.
Some no-name town off a backroad in Texas. He'd stopped for gas, blood dried on his knuckles and too much noise in his head. You were out back behind the diner, hunched beside a busted-down car, cussing it out like it'd personally betrayed you.
He would've kept walking. He usually did. But something made him pause. Maybe it was the way you didn't flinch when he approached—just glanced up, squinted at him through the rain.
"Got a stare problem or are you gonna help?"
He didn't say anything, just shrugged off his coat, crouched beside you, and wordlessly started to work. Hands covered in grease, rain dipping from his nose, he expected silence.
Instead, you talked. Not about the car, but about music. Weather. How thankful you are for stumbling onto him in the rain. The kind of small, easy things no one asked him about anymore.
"You a mechanic?" you asked at one point.
He shook his head. "No," he replied gruffly, voice husky and deep.
"You're good with your hands."
And that made him look up. You didn't say it like a flirt. Just a fact and that threw him more than it should've.
The engine turned over ten minutes later. You grinned, all teeth and rain and relief.
"Guess I owe you a drink. The bar is alredy closed but I would make an excepton for you."
He should've said no. But he didn't.
That night, he followed you to the bar, silence and awkward. You slid him a beer and didn't ask questions. Not about the scars. The limp. The name he didn't offer.
You just sat there. Two ghosts passing time.
He left afterwards. But a week later, he came back.
Didn't know why then.
He did now.
The place was already buzzing when Logan slipped in.
He never liked the crowds—too loud, too many smells, too many hands reaching for things they didn't need. But he came anyway. Sat in the far corner, nursing a beer that'd long since gone warm. Watching you behind the bar, moving fast, smiling soft. That smile wasn't for him tonight—but he didn't mind. You were in your element. You always looked good in motion. Like the worlds couldn't touch you when you were working. Like you belonged there, even if he never felt like he belonged anywhere.
Until they showed up.
Three men—local drunks, loud and handsy. The kind who thought a tip gave them permission to linger, leer and make you uncomfortable. You dealt with it most nights. You were tough. Handled creeps like breathing. But tonight... they pushed it.
The tall one leaned over the bar, eyes too slick, voice slurred. "C'mon, sweetheart. Don't act like you don't like the attention."
You gave a tight smile. "I like respect. Think you got any of that back in your truck?"
His buddies cackled. He didn't. Instead, his hand slid over the bar—aiming for your wrist.
That's when you saw Logan stand.
You tried to wave him off, just a small shake of your head, but it was too late. The drunk grabbed your arm.
"Let go," you said, voice steel beneath the honey.
"Make me," he sneered.
And Logan moved.
One second he was across the room. The next he had the guy's arm twisted behind his back, face shoved into the sticky wood of the bar. The other two barely had time to register before Logan's claws snikted out, gleaming cold and sharp by the man's throat.
"Touch her again and you'll lose more than your drink."
His voice wasn't loud but the bar went silent. One of those silences that rang like a church bells in your chest.
The man whimpered. His friends scrambled. And Logan let him go—barely. You'd never seen a man soil himself out of fear until that night.
And you never looked away from Logan. His hands trembled. Like he wasn't actually aware of his reactions just now.
Later, Logan drove back in silence, jaw tight, knuckles white on the wheel. You didn't dare to say anything. You knew that look. Not rage. Not exactly. Just the old, heavy kind of guilt that sat in his bones like rust.
Now, he sat at the edge of the bed, brooding himself. You knelt in front of him, gently tugging his hands into yours. He flinched at first, but didn't pull away.
“Logan,” you said softly. “They started it.”
“I finished it like an animal,” he muttered. “You saw how they looked at me. Like I was a damn freak.”
You squeezed his hands, gently but hard enough to feel his presence. “You stopped them before they hurt me. That's not being a freak. That's being good.”
“Good,” he echoed, bitterly. “I don't even know what that means anymore. I scare people, sweetheart. I lose control. I've killed more men than you've met in your life.”
“And every time you've laid a hand on me? You've been gentle.” You looked up at him, hands cupping his face, forcing him to look at you. “Every time I've needed you, you showed up. Even when you didn't want to.”
He went quiet. His eyes looked too old, too tired. Like he'd been carrying the world too long and no one had offered to take even an ounce of the weight.
“You're not a monster to me, Logan. Not tonight. Not ever. You're the man that I fell in love with.”
That broke something in him. Not loud. Not messy. Just a quiet, unraveling breath as he leaned into your touch. He didn't move at first. Just stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, like breathing near you helped keep the darkness at bay. His hands rested on your waist, tentative, unsure—like he was afraid even now he'd break something.
You didn't pull away either.
“You okay?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“Am I ever?” he replied, half a smirk, half truth.
You gave him a look. “Be serious.”
“I am.” He let out a breath. “You ever think I'm just too damn far gone for this? For… for us?”
You shook your head instantly, thumbs rubbing his cheek. “No. Not once.”
His brows knitted, guilt sinking deeper into his eyes. “You saw me tonight. What I'm capable of. That didn't scare you?”
“What scares me the most is the idea of a world where you didn't come for me.”
He stared at you, unmoving. Torn between self-loathing and something that looked like love—raw, old, too big for a man like him. Like it didn't know how to live inside him without tearing him apart.
So, you kissed him.
Soft. Familiar. Gentle in the way people only kiss when they already know each other—when it isn't about proving anything, just being with someone who makes the darkness feel less heavy.
He breathed into it, forehead resting against yours once again when you pulled back.
“I don't deserve you,” he whispered. Like always, like that was the only thing he had known to say whenever you were here.
“Good thing you don't get to decide that. I chose you back then and I will always choose you.”
And for the first time that night, he let out a soft laugh—hoarse and rough, but real. Like it hurts to let it out. But it healed something anyway.
Later, you lay curled up together under the thin blanket. Logan didn’t sleep much. He never did. But he held you close, one hand resting against your back, your steady breathing lulling the storm in his chest.
You didn't need to fix him. You just needed to be there.
And you were.
that's it guys!! i hope you enjoy your reading!! give me your thoughts, feedbacks on this!! reblogs are appreciated too <3 till we meet again, then!
tags!! @princessanglophile @wchswift @briseroyawritingsblog @howlettsangel @dimlylittorch @themareverine @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks @loganismybodyguard [lmk if you wanna be added or removed from the taglist!!]
hey i love ur logan pregnancy fics, can i request one with trilogy logan. just like fluffy him and the reader r having a baby plzzz
𖤐 — a pie promise
pairing - trilogy!Logan ft. pregnant!reader
summary - It wasn't just a pie. And Logan? He knew that. So he made a promise—and a mess.
contents - fluff!! just Logan being a good and domestic partner, light humor, brief cameo of Storm and Kurt, baker!Logan?? reader being fussy about a slice of pie (hormones guys, cut some slack!)
words count - 2280 words
zayn's note - hiii nonniee!! thank you for sending me the request because honestly I want to write this for trilogy!Logan but somehow ended up with old man Logan 😭 alsoooo, not me doing a whole research on types of pie!! just because of this fic LMAO therefore, I'm sorry if there are mistakes about the baking things here. can't you see that he's so domestic coded ( ◜‿◝ ) you can apply to any trilogy!Logan though I prefer X2 Logan. enjoy your reading!!
The scent of cinnamon still lingered in the kitchen when you passed through, one hand cradling the small of your back. You were heavier these days, slower too—your belly rounded and firm beneath the soft fabric of Logan's old T-shirt, which you had permanently claimed as your own. The fabric stretched over your bump now, worn thin and warm with his scent, like comfort stitched into cotton.
You hadn't meant to cry today. You'd promised yourself you wouldn't.
But it had been one of those days. The kind where your ankles felt swollen and sore before noon, where no position was comfortable long enough to matter. The kind where the baby rolled and kicked like they were doing gymnastics under your ribs, and everything—not just your body, but your mind—felt worn thin.
Still, you’d pushed through. You hummed while folding the laundry. You answered Logan's check-in call with a cheerful tone, even if it was a little forced. And every time something felt a little too heavy, too much, you whispered the same thing to yourself: just make it to the evening. Pie will make it better.
Storm had brought it over that morning—apple cinnamon, still warm when she arrived. She'd smiled and said something kind about how you deserved a treat. And she was right. You'd only had one slice and saved the rest, imagining how you'd curl up with it tonight like it was a reward for making it through the chaos.
So when your eyes landed on the pie dish now, and it was empty—only stray crumbs clinging to the plate like a bad joke—you didn't move for a long moment.
You just stood there. Blinking once.
Then again.
Your lips parted, but no sound came. Just the tight little knot that climbed through your throat and refused to budge.
You tried to breathe around it. It's just a pie, you told yourself. It's fine. It's stupid.
But it wasn't stupid. It had been the one good thing. The one thing you'd clung to like a soft place to land at the end of a long, aching day. And now it was gone.
And somehow, that felt like too much.
Quietly, you turned off the kitchen light and walked to your room.
The hallway was still when Logan opened the door to your shared room, hair damp from a post-mission shower. It hadn’t been anything major—just enough to keep his muscles sore and his patience thin. He was looking forward to collapsing beside you, stealing a few peaceful minutes wrapped around the life you were building together.
But the moment his eyes landed on you, his instinct tugged.
You were curled up in bed, your back to the door, the blankets bunched around your body in a way that didn't quite look like sleep. The lamp beside the bed was on, casting a soft glow across the room, and yet the air felt heavy.
Something tightened in his chest.
“You still up, sweetheart?” he asked gently, his voice low and a little gruff.
There was a pause—barely a beat longer than usual—but long enough for him to notice.
“Yeah,” came your reply. Muffled. Dull. Not angry, but not right either.
Logan stepped further into the room, drying his hair with the towel slung around his shoulders. His eyes lingered on you—your posture, the way your shoulders curled slightly inward, the way your hand rested on your belly like it needed comfort.
He knew that shape. Not physical pain. Emotional. Quiet disappointment wrapped in fatigue. And it hit him hard—how often he missed moments like these, too tangled in his own thoughts or distracted by the next damn missions.
He slid under the covers and settled next to you, careful not to jostle you too much, his hand reaching to brush along your hip. Slow. Gentle. Like coaxing the truth from someone afraid to speak it.
“You okay?” he asked.
You mumbled into the pillow, “Yeah.”
Then, after a breath— “No.”
Logan's brows knit together. “What happened, my darlin’?”
There was a long silence. The kind that made his stomach twist.
And then you whispered, “Someone ate the last piece of pie.”
Logan blinked. “Sorry?”
You sighed, rolling over to face him. Your eyes were glassy, your voice cracking. “Someone ate the last piece of pie Storm made me. And today was awful, and my back hurts, and my bra feels like it's trying to assassinate me from the inside out, and that pie was the one good thing I had going and—”
Your voice broke into a tiny sob. “—and I just really wanted it.”
Logan's expression softened immediately. The mission tension in his shoulders drained away as he propped up on one elbow.
“C'mere,” he murmured, voice low and rough but gentle.
You curled up toward him without hesitation, cheeks flushed with heat and emotion. He wrapped an arm around you, one under your head, the other protectively draped over your bump.
“I'm sorry, darlin’,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “It's just a pie. But it wasn't just pie to you, was it?”
You shook your head. “I feel so dramatic.”
He smiled against your hair. “You're carrying’ a whole other human. I figure you're allowed a meltdown or two.”
You hiccupped a laugh and tucked your face into his neck, his scent grounding you—clean soap, leather, something faintly wild beneath it all, something uniquely his’.
“It's not that I'm mad. I'm just…” You sighed. “This pregnancy making me feel everything so hard. I cried over a baby sock earlier.”
“Was it a sad sock?”
“It was wrinkled.”
“Damn. Those'll get you.”
You pulled back just enough to see his smirk. “You're not helping.”
“Didn't say I was tryin’ to.” He chuckled, then kissed your forehead. His thumb brushed along your arm as silence settled again—comfortable, safe.
After a while, he murmured, “I'll bake you another pie tomorrow.”
You raised a brow. “You can't bake.”
“I'll learn.”
“Of course you will.” You smiled, eyes half-lidded.
“For you and this little monster in here? I'd do just about anything. You name it.”
Your heart swelled, full and aching with love. Logan might be rough around the edges, might grumble and scowl his way through most days—but in moments like this? He was pure warmth.
You pressed a hand to your belly, where the baby kicked softly against his palm.
He stilled, then smiled. “Think they're excited about the pie too?”
You laughed sleepily and closed your eyes. “Definitely.”
The afternoon light drifted lazily through the kitchen the next day. Logan stood by the counter, arms crossed, frowning down at the open cookbook like it had personally insulted him.
“I don't get it,” he muttered, holding up the measuring cup and squinting at the numbers. “What the hell's a ‘scant cup’?”
Kurt leaned over his shoulder, tail flicking as he peered curiously at the cookbook. “It means almost a cup. Not quite full.”
Logan glared at the cup with an annoyed frown. “That's stupid. Just say ‘not a cup’. Damn thing already makin’ this complicated.”
The kitchen looked like a war zone. Flour coated nearly every surface—like a soft dusting of snow after a blizzard—with ghostly handprints trailing along the edge of the counter. A sticky mixture of butter and sugar clung to a wooden spoon like it had given up on being stirred. The cookbook lay open, pages smudged with fingerprints and faint cinnamon streaks. Apples rolled across the counter like tiny rebels with a soft thump, unnoticed.
Storm walked in, took one look, and blinked. “Is this… a midlife crisis? What's going on here?”
Logan glared. “I'm baking, can't you see?” He let out a frustrated grunt and then threw his arms wide, hands caked in flour and dough like a living exhibit of “man vs. baking.”
“This,” he grumbled, “is what happens when you try to make a damn pie from scratch.”
Storm lifted a brow as she stepped into the kitchen. “Why, exactly, are you trying to make a pie?”
Kurt leaned closer, stage-whispering behind a barely concealed grin, “Someone ate the last one. He promised to bake a new one.”
Storm's expression shifted. The tease softened into something warmer. She crossed her arms gently. “Oh.”
Logan didn't look up, but his jaw tightened. “She was real quiet yesterday. One damn slice of pie and she looked like the world ended.”
“I know it did,” he said, softer now. “So, I'm fixin’ it.”
“She's pregnant, Logan. That pie probably meant more than you think.”
It took longer than Logan wanted to admit. The dough was a nightmare. Sticky one moment, cracking the next. Storm guided his hands with practiced patience, showing him how to work the butter into the flour with his fingers until it resembled coarse crumbs. Kurt teleported around slicing apples with dramatic bamfs and flair—until Logan threatened to throw the rolling pin if he kept startling the bowl.
At one point, Logan knocked his knuckles so hard against the counter trying to knead the crust that a chip splintered off the edge of the cutting board. He grunted, shaking his hand out. “This better be the best damn pie in history.”
Storm chuckled softly. “It doesn't have to be perfect. Just made with love is all that matters.”
The scent in the kitchen shifted slowly—first sharp and sugary, then warm and golden. Cinnamon swirled with caramelized apple, rich and cozy. By the time Logan slid the pie into the oven, the space had transformed into something else entirely.
He leaned against the counter, arms folded, sweat at his brow and flour in his hair, and for the first time all afternoon, he smiled—just a little.
You were nestled in the middle of the bed, swaddled in what Logan always called “the nest,” a loose page of your book resting half-forgotten on your belly. The room was dim and warm, lit only by the amber glow through the blinds. Everything felt still. Quiet. You had been dozing in and out, floating between sleep and thought.
Then, you heard him.
Heavy footsteps in the hallway. The familiar, careful kind he reserved for when he didn't want to wake you—or when he was nervous. The door creaked open a second later, and you blinked your eyes open.
There he was, standing in the doorway like a man caught holding a secret. His hair was a little tousled, and there was a faint smudge of flour still clinging to his ‘kitty’ hair.
In his hands: a pie.
The crust was uneven in places, one edge darker than the other, and a bit of cinnamon trailed like a thumbprint along the side—but it smelled right. Warm and sweet and full of care. Like brown sugar and redemption.
He hovered for a second. Cleared his throat.
“I, uh… made you somethin’.”
Your brows lifted, and you slowly pushed yourself up, resting back against the pillows. “Is that…?”
“Pie,” he said gruffly, stepping inside and holding it like it was sacred. “Might not look like much, but—figured it might make up for yesterday.”
You stared at him, lips parting. “You baked?”
“I had help,” he admitted, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, still holding the pie. “Storm made sure I didn't light anything on fire. Kurt sliced the apples. I did the rest.”
You looked at the pie. Then at him. Your chest ached in that full, tender way that always came when he did something quietly extraordinary.
“You really didn't have to go through all that.”
“I wanted to.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes flicking toward your bump before settling on you again. “You've been carryin’ our kid—deal with sore backs, swollen ankles, cryin’ over socks—I promised you I'd make a new one, right?”
Your throat tightened. Tears blurred your vision, again, and you let out a watery laugh. “You're really kind of amazing, y'know that?”
His smile turned lopsided, crooked in that soft Logan kind of way. He put the pie on the side table and turned his attention to you. His world. He thumbed away the tears like a gentleman.
“Come on, don't cry. I thought that pie would make your day better, hm?” He said, with a light teasing tone.
“Pregnancy hormones,” you huffed out through the last of your tears.
He chuckled and kissed your temple—slow and sure.
“Want a slice?”
“Only if you share it with me.”
Logan's smile widened as he nodded, slicing into the pie like it was a holy rite. Two uneven pieces on one plate. You fed him the first bite. He watched you with quiet hope as you tasted yours.
“... Logan.”
He held his breath, heart pumping wildly.
“This actually tastes so good.”
Relief flooded his face, and you could've sworn his shoulders dropped two inches. “Thank God.”
As you chewed, your gaze dropped to the pie and tears pricked again. “You baked for me.”
“I said I would.”
“And you didn't burn the kitchen down.”
He looked smug. “Close call.”
You giggled, wiping your eyes. “So, this whole pie is mine?”
“All yours. I'm lockin’ the door too, so no one steals the last damn piece.”
You kissed his cheek, heart full. “Thank you, Logan.”
He smiled, rough thumb brushing your cheek. “Anything for you and our baby.”
You smiled back, sat together, warm pie in your hands, the baby kicking gently beneath your dress.
And even with flour in his hair and burnt sugar lingering in the air—
It was perfect.
and, that's it!! ayo, this is so fun to write MY. HEART. MELTS. thank youuu once again nonnie for the request!! I hope you'll like it! give me your feedback!! reblogs are appreciated too <3 have a nice day loveliess!
summary - you want him—badly, but Logan is holding the line… for now.
contents - suggestive!! PG-13, fluff, reader being a bit whiny, domestic!Logan, a slight continuation from past fic (everything good I got left).
words count - 961 words
zayn's note - writing this is so fun!! I did research about pregnancy and was totally amazed when I found out that pregnant women tend to be a bit horny (but I could be wrong). So I thought I'd give it a shot! you can read this as a standalone fic or a continuation from my past fic! enjoy your reading, lovelies!!
It's nearly 2AM when you shift again, dragging the blanket halfway off the bed.
The room is quiet, except for the soft whirr of the old ceiling fan and the occasional rustle of cotton sheets. Moonlight spills in through the blinds, silvering the edge of the dresser and catching on the framed photo by the nightstand—one from your wedding, all crooked ties and windswept hair. He looks younger there. So do you. But, it's still him, still you.
The bed smells like him—cedar and worn flannel, something a little wild tucked into the folds of domesticity. It used to swallow you whole, this old shirt you're wearing. Now, your belly stretches the fabric, buttons holding on for dear life.
You sigh again, pressing a hand to your stomach where your little passenger is doing slow somersaults, apparently wide awake too. Everything's been feeling bigger lately—your body, your emotions, your heart. You try to stay still. Really, you do. But it's hot and to top it off, your brain has decided now—of all godforsaken hours—is the perfect time to get… needy.
You groan softly and roll over again, trying not to disturb him. Again.
Too late.
Because Logan stirs behind you, voice thick with sleep. “You alright, darlin’?”
You pause, biting your lip. The quiet stretches out.
“I can't sleep,” you admit softly, eyes fixed on the dark walls of your room.
He's quiet for a beat. Probably trying to process your words, then—the mattress dips as he scoots in, his warmth wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. One of his arms slides over your side, his hand instinctively settling against your belly. Protective. Familiar.
“You hurtin’? Need me to rub your back or somethin’?”
You make a small noise in your throat, trying to find the right words. You could say your back hurts. Or the sheets feel weird. Or blame it on the baby again.
But instead, you groan softly and mutter into your pillow, “I'm… I'm horny…”
The silence that follows is so complete, you can hear the hum of the fridge down the hall.
Logan blinks—once. Twice.
“Oh,” is all that he says, voice hoarse. Then again, slower: “Oh.”
You bury your face to the pillow, internally screaming. Dying out of embarrassment. “Don't laugh.”
“I'm not.” He's totally laughing, but just under his breath. You feel the bed shift as he turns you over, facing him, one rough hand finding your arm. His eyes are heavy—lidded, still rimmed with sleep, but they're warm—wrinkled at the corners, a little worried, a little amused. The silver in his beard glints in the dim light, and you brush your fingers along his jaw.
“I'm sorry, I'm just…” You trail off, not sure how to say it.
He leans in, presses a slow kiss to your forehead. “It's okay. You don't have to say it. I know.”
You sigh, your fingers toying with the edge of his shirt. Trying to ground yourself while Logan smooths his hand gently over your arm, his touch feather-light, like he's afraid he'll bruise you with too much affection. “I get it,” he says softly. “Believe me, I get it. Darlin’, if I thought for one second I could touch you without makin’ things worse, I'd have you flat on your back and singin’ my name.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “So, why won't you touch me?”
He smiles, a soft one, his hand brushing your hair back from your cheek. “I want to,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “God, I want to. But I won't. Not with the baby right there. Not with how tired you are, how sore you get. I ain't riskin’ it. Not for this.”
Your face softens. He always does this—carries every fear, every ounce of responsibility like it's stitched into his spine.
“But I'm telling you it's okay,” you whisper. “I feel safe with you. I feel like I'm gonna explode,” you continue. “You smell good and you're warm and you keep wearing those sleep pants that do nothing to hide—”
“Alright, alright,” he laughs, pulling you flush against his chest. “Let's not get both of us sufferin’.”
You huff against him, arms wrapped around his middle now. “But, I'm not joking—”
He kisses your forehead again, breathing you in.
“I know, and that means everything, sweetheart. But let me take care of you by not givin’ in. Let me be strong, even when you make it real hard to be.”
You giggle, cheeks flushing. “That's a nice way of saying I'm a menace.”
“You're my menace.” He leans in, presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth—just a whisper of one. “And once this kid's here? I swear I'm gonna ruin you.”
You laugh, muffling it against his chest.
“I'm serious,” he murmurs. “Just give me the green light, and I'll remind you what you married. You'll be beggin’ me to let you sleep.”
You continue to laugh, head tucking under his chin. “You promise?”
“I promise,” he says, hand sliding down your back, warm and solid. “First night you're ready, you ain't getting a lick of sleep.”
“Now that's a promise I'll hold you to.” you murmur, one hand sliding up under his shirt just to feel the warmth of his skin.
As if on cue, there's a soft nudge between you two—a little foot or elbow pressing outward. Logan stills, then smiles against your temple.
“Feisty, just like their mama,” he murmurs.
The room is quiet again, but this time, it feels fuller. Safer.
He tucks you tighter to his chest, his beard brushing your hair. “Get some rest, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Just a little while longer.”
And in the safety of his arms, under moonlight and muscle and promise, you finally let yourself rest.
and that's it!! this baby is too short 😭 i tried to make it better but my brain didn't commit enough. soooo, i need to know your feedback!! <3 enjoy your reading! 🤍
dividers by: @elleisdesigning
tags!! @princessanglophile @wchswift @briseroyawritingsblog @howlettsangel @dimlylittorch @themareverine @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks @loganismybodyguard [lmk if you wanna get added or removed!]
summary - you want him—badly, but Logan is holding the line… for now.
contents - suggestive!! PG-13, fluff, reader being a bit whiny, domestic!Logan, a slight continuation from past fic (everything good I got left).
words count - 961 words
zayn's note - writing this is so fun!! I did research about pregnancy and was totally amazed when I found out that pregnant women tend to be a bit horny (but I could be wrong). So I thought I'd give it a shot! you can read this as a standalone fic or a continuation from my past fic! enjoy your reading, lovelies!!
It's nearly 2AM when you shift again, dragging the blanket halfway off the bed.
The room is quiet, except for the soft whirr of the old ceiling fan and the occasional rustle of cotton sheets. Moonlight spills in through the blinds, silvering the edge of the dresser and catching on the framed photo by the nightstand—one from your wedding, all crooked ties and windswept hair. He looks younger there. So do you. But, it's still him, still you.
The bed smells like him—cedar and worn flannel, something a little wild tucked into the folds of domesticity. It used to swallow you whole, this old shirt you're wearing. Now, your belly stretches the fabric, buttons holding on for dear life.
You sigh again, pressing a hand to your stomach where your little passenger is doing slow somersaults, apparently wide awake too. Everything's been feeling bigger lately—your body, your emotions, your heart. You try to stay still. Really, you do. But it's hot and to top it off, your brain has decided now—of all godforsaken hours—is the perfect time to get… needy.
You groan softly and roll over again, trying not to disturb him. Again.
Too late.
Because Logan stirs behind you, voice thick with sleep. “You alright, darlin’?”
You pause, biting your lip. The quiet stretches out.
“I can't sleep,” you admit softly, eyes fixed on the dark walls of your room.
He's quiet for a beat. Probably trying to process your words, then—the mattress dips as he scoots in, his warmth wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. One of his arms slides over your side, his hand instinctively settling against your belly. Protective. Familiar.
“You hurtin’? Need me to rub your back or somethin’?”
You make a small noise in your throat, trying to find the right words. You could say your back hurts. Or the sheets feel weird. Or blame it on the baby again.
But instead, you groan softly and mutter into your pillow, “I'm… I'm horny…”
The silence that follows is so complete, you can hear the hum of the fridge down the hall.
Logan blinks—once. Twice.
“Oh,” is all that he says, voice hoarse. Then again, slower: “Oh.”
You bury your face to the pillow, internally screaming. Dying out of embarrassment. “Don't laugh.”
“I'm not.” He's totally laughing, but just under his breath. You feel the bed shift as he turns you over, facing him, one rough hand finding your arm. His eyes are heavy—lidded, still rimmed with sleep, but they're warm—wrinkled at the corners, a little worried, a little amused. The silver in his beard glints in the dim light, and you brush your fingers along his jaw.
“I'm sorry, I'm just…” You trail off, not sure how to say it.
He leans in, presses a slow kiss to your forehead. “It's okay. You don't have to say it. I know.”
You sigh, your fingers toying with the edge of his shirt. Trying to ground yourself while Logan smooths his hand gently over your arm, his touch feather-light, like he's afraid he'll bruise you with too much affection. “I get it,” he says softly. “Believe me, I get it. Darlin’, if I thought for one second I could touch you without makin’ things worse, I'd have you flat on your back and singin’ my name.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “So, why won't you touch me?”
He smiles, a soft one, his hand brushing your hair back from your cheek. “I want to,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “God, I want to. But I won't. Not with the baby right there. Not with how tired you are, how sore you get. I ain't riskin’ it. Not for this.”
Your face softens. He always does this—carries every fear, every ounce of responsibility like it's stitched into his spine.
“But I'm telling you it's okay,” you whisper. “I feel safe with you. I feel like I'm gonna explode,” you continue. “You smell good and you're warm and you keep wearing those sleep pants that do nothing to hide—”
“Alright, alright,” he laughs, pulling you flush against his chest. “Let's not get both of us sufferin’.”
You huff against him, arms wrapped around his middle now. “But, I'm not joking—”
He kisses your forehead again, breathing you in.
“I know, and that means everything, sweetheart. But let me take care of you by not givin’ in. Let me be strong, even when you make it real hard to be.”
You giggle, cheeks flushing. “That's a nice way of saying I'm a menace.”
“You're my menace.” He leans in, presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth—just a whisper of one. “And once this kid's here? I swear I'm gonna ruin you.”
You laugh, muffling it against his chest.
“I'm serious,” he murmurs. “Just give me the green light, and I'll remind you what you married. You'll be beggin’ me to let you sleep.”
You continue to laugh, head tucking under his chin. “You promise?”
“I promise,” he says, hand sliding down your back, warm and solid. “First night you're ready, you ain't getting a lick of sleep.”
“Now that's a promise I'll hold you to.” you murmur, one hand sliding up under his shirt just to feel the warmth of his skin.
As if on cue, there's a soft nudge between you two—a little foot or elbow pressing outward. Logan stills, then smiles against your temple.
“Feisty, just like their mama,” he murmurs.
The room is quiet again, but this time, it feels fuller. Safer.
He tucks you tighter to his chest, his beard brushing your hair. “Get some rest, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Just a little while longer.”
And in the safety of his arms, under moonlight and muscle and promise, you finally let yourself rest.
and that's it!! this baby is too short 😭 i tried to make it better but my brain didn't commit enough. soooo, i need to know your feedback!! <3 enjoy your reading! 🤍
dividers by: @elleisdesigning
tags!! @princessanglophile @wchswift @briseroyawritingsblog @howlettsangel @dimlylittorch @themareverine @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @mcrdvcks @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks @loganismybodyguard [lmk if you wanna get added or removed!]
