prompt: gets in trouble so they can be scolded by their crush and "I like the way you say my name."
a/n: okay okay I finally finished omgg im sorry this took so long but this is for @lokinks 250 followers and graduation party!!! Big congrats to them! I picked worst logan bc I love him and I hope you like it!
wc: 1.1k
It was 2 in the morning when you heard a muffled crash come from the other side of your bedroom wall. It jolted you awake, the sleepy haze causes your stumbling footsteps as you get out of bed.
You should probably wait until morning but this is the 10th time this month he's come home like this. He's either drunk (unlikely due to his mutation) or he went and did something stupid again. You wrapped a fluffy blanket around yourself as you leave your apartment and walk right next door. You knock on the door and here a shuffling before more silence.
"Logan open the door." You whisper yell.
A few moments pass before the door slowly opens up. A shirtless Logan covered in dirt and blood stands before you. He's got his shirt which is now ruined in his hand and a sheepish look on his face.
Without a word you push past him and let yourself in to his small apartment. It's quite messy as usual but he has put up a few decorations. Pictures hanging sideways because he couldn't be bothered to straighten them and a lot of mismatched furniture because he picked up most things off the street.
It was just so...Logan.
You walk right over to his bathroom wet a few hand towels. When you come back out he's sitting at the kitchen table. He's got two beers in his hand, one for you and one for him.
"You don't have to be here sweetheart." Logan says as you sit down next to him, the chair scraping against the hardwood as you move it to face him.
"I know." You reply quietly. The blanket falls to your lap as you reach over and start to clean up his face. Logan closes his eyes as the warm towel wets his face. It feels good. It feels nice to be taken care of. He doesn't ask you to do this but you do anyways. It's become addicting.
"So what happened this time? Did you argue with Wade? Get into a bar fight? Fighting evil?" You ask as you focus on getting the blood out of his cheek.
"Fighting evil?" Logan asks with a snort.
"I don't know whatever you superhero's do." You counter.
"It was a bar fight." You glare at him and he raises his hands in defense.
"I didn't start it. Some asshole wouldn't leave this lady alone and I stepped in and he punched first." Logan says flexing his hands.
You sigh tiredly. You hate seeing him like this. Hate seeing him come home covered in blood and with rage behind his eyes.
“How many times is this going to happen Logan?” You ask, hands falling to your side as finish cleaning up his face. This has become a routine you hated. Logan gets into fights and you clean him up.
"It hurts to see you do this to yourself. I know you can't die but that doesn't mean I don't worry." He's a mutant, he doesn't need your help but you do it anyways because you love him.
You love everything about the man but his life has been far from easy and you doubt love is something he even wants to concern himself with. Call it silly but your heart still longs for him so you keep coming back. You need him to know that despite it all, he's still loved.
"I know." He mumbles.
He's never been one to shy away from a fight. He doesn't do it on purpose, sometimes. This temper can get the best of him sometimes and he knows its bad but sometimes he likes knowing that you'll be there to patch him up. He doesn't ask but you're always there. It's so childish but fuck he can't help it. In some odd way he pushes just to see if you'll stay. It brings him comfort to know that you're there. That even if he goes and does something stupid, you'll be there. But he can't keep this up for long.
"How long will you be there to clean up my mess?" He asks and you blink in confusion. It's tiring to deal with a man like him. A man so broken that his only way to keep you around is to get hurt.
Would you even care if he stopped? Would you still be there if he got his life together? He hopes so. He never wants you to leave. So maybe it's time to quit dancing around and finally confront what he's been thinking for a while now. Maybe it's time to find a new reason to get you to stay.
"Logan..."
"God I like the way you say my name." He mumbles.
"You say it like you care, like even when I come home dripping blood on your carpet you still wash my face. You say it without the hatred or without the disappointment." He reaches up and cups your face, his eyes searching yours for a sign. Anything that tells him you feel the same way.
"You say it like you love me and I hope to god that's true because I love you too." His thumb brushes over your lips.
"Oh Logan..." You gasp.
"Of course It's true." He leans in and presses his lips against yours fiercely.
The chair he's sitting on scrapes against the floor as he launches himself towards you. Falling to his knees as his hand slips to the back of your head. His other arm pulls you off the chair and presses you against him. Your hands rest on his bare shoulders, digging your nails into his skin as he his lips roughly move against yours.
"Logan," You groan and he feels a low purr rumble in his chest as he dips his head into your neck.
"Fuck." He moans, his voice slightly muffled by your skin. His sloppy kisses feel so damn good, tingles shooting through your whole body as your hands weave themselves into his hair.
When you finally catch your breath he's got you in his lap. His hair is a mess from your hands tugging at it.
"Never stop saying my name, please." He begs.
"Stop getting into fights then dummy." You cup his face, some wrinkles on his face proving that he can age and with aging comes him getting hurt. You don't think you'll be able to bear the day his wounds don't heal.
"You don't need to get yourself hurt for me to stay." The emotions inside of him bubble into a feeling he just can't explain. He wants to burst with something warm and fuzzy and so unfamiliar.
So he just kisses you again and hope it makes sense. He loves you, he really does and he'll do anything if it keeps you in his life.
Though he can't promise he won't get into fights anymore...he knows he's got you to come home to and that's worth more than anything.
Logan has not had many moments of serenity in his life.
Everything spins, changes, evolves, so fast, and he's caught in the eye of the storm, in the middle of the swirl of time, where things come to a halt. Separated from everything else.
Eventually, he stopped trying to keep up with the others. Got used to the idea of spending his hours alone. They started feeling different once he didn't listen to the ticking of the clock anymore. The value of his time was altered, his days were not structured by plans and expectations, just like his life wasn’t clearly divided. He lost his past, and many wounds should have been the natural end, but now that there isn’t one...
Logan doesn't see the point in pretending to live in time like everyone else.
He acts on his own schedule. That is one of the reasons why most of his nights aren't spent sleeping. Well... that, and the nightmares. Haunted by his pain, Logan gave up on using sleep to escape. Instead, he flees from it, spending the late hours either at bars, outside in the mansions garden near the animals, or in the kitchen, smoking cigars.
This little routine he worked out was a nice way to pass time, watching over the school at night, alone with only the nightsky bearing witness. As of lately though, it's been disturbed... By you, quite surprisingly.
You had never struck Logan as the type of person to be an insomniac. And yet, he was proven wrong every night since that first time you crossed paths in the kitchen.
Originally, he had simply wanted to retrieve a cigar from his secret stash in the top cabinet. Forgot about that quickly at the sight of you, sitting on the windowsill facing the meadow. The empath, huh. You didn't see him at first, he must have made some kind of noise that caused you to jolt, torn out of the dreamy haze that clouded your eyes.
"Logan?" Brows furrowed together, you faced him, surprised at the sight.
"What're you doin' up so late, bub?"
You smiled, then. A little shyly, bashful, even. Brushed it off, mumbling something about not being able to sleep. He just nodded in agreement and fetched himself a glass of water before going back to his room.
It didn't feel right to stay. He didn't want to intrude or anything, and you didn't even know each other that well, so he really had no business spending that evening with you.
Things changed when you crossed paths again a few days later. This time, it was you who stumbled upon Logan. Out by the lake, he was watching the trees swaying in the breeze, listening to the sounds of the night.
"You're out again?" Your voice didn't phase him. His senses had picked up on your footsteps minutes ago.
"Nightmares," he huffed gruffly.
You seemed hesitant at first, caution written over your features, but ultimately decided to join him. That, he didn't expect. Despite initially tensing up as you sat down on the grass next to him, arm brushing against his, he didn't leave. You watched the stars in comfortable silence and he found it to be quite nice to share the lonely night with someone. It felt warmer.
Logan actively searched you out the next evening. Wordlessly plopped down on the couch where you watched TV, the slight nervousness fading as your eyes flickered over to him for a second and you merely smiled before shifting to focus on the show again. Quiet solidarity.
From then on, you spent all the nights together, sometimes in silence, sometimes talking. You'd retreat to your room a few hours after midnight, trying to catch at least a little sleep, leaving him to think about your conversations.
Your words had a way of lingering on his mind. What used to be small talk soon gained depth and melted into introspective confessions. Logan liked that, liked how the moon loosened you up.
Over those weeks he got to know you better than he knew any of the other X-Men. He was aware of your ability to read others emotions and the burden that it had become.
You told him in the safety of your room, back when the bond between you solidified and you began to spend the nights in each others dorms, enjoying the company and the relief of sharing those intimate parts of your identity.
However, what made him feel so comfortable around you was not only the way you always seemed to know what he felt. No… it was the acceptance you bestowed upon his innermost emotions.
Logan let you do most of the talking, at peace with the company alone. His silence seemed to tell you more about him than words ever could, but you never even tried to push it. A welcome change. Made him forget about his troubles for a while as you took him for walks through your colorful mind, full of whimsy and contemplation.
You were so… eager to take his hand and lead him away from the tiredness in his bones. It truly amazed him, because he had learned that deep inside, you were just as drained.
Feeling the whole spectrum of human emotion on a daily basis, unfiltered and increased by every person that crossed your path, sure was exhausting. And you weren't even capable of catching a break at night, deprived of something as essential as sleep!
Made him wish that he didn't carry all this pain inside of him — not because then he wouldn't be plagued by nightmares, but so you wouldn't have to live trough it with him. So innocent, you hadn't done anything to deserve that.
Quietly, Logan did his best to make it easier for you. Got you out of situations at daytime that clearly overwhelmed you even though no one seemed to notice.
By now, with how often he had grabbed your hand and removed you from uncomfortable situations, it must've been pretty obvious that something had developed between the two of you. They knew, from the way you sought him out, from the way he looked at you.
You knew it, too. Allowed yourself to be completely open with him, to trust for once. Without even having to read Logan's heart, you felt everything you needed to understand. His eyes spoke loud enough.
It was such a nice break, as if all the loud noise and the voices were tuned out when he stood next to you. You tended to become anxious if you didn't look into anyones emotional realm for too long. Begun imagining things that probably weren't even there. Gosh, it’s just your imagination, so vivid, so far from the truth— But what if... and then you checked just to be sure.
With Logan, you simply never needed to. He didn't convey his thoughts, open like a book he loudly dared the world to read. A mask, carefully crafted to hide his silent anguish that came with not really knowing all the chapters himself. The truth flickered through the lines everytime his gaze met yours. And his doubt, his suffering put you at ease more than conceiled feelings ever could. It was real.
"Logan?"
He halted in his steps, turning back around to look at you lying on your bed. Had been meaning to leave, just short of reaching the door. It had become a habit for him to go back to his room a few hours before dawn, so you'd get some rest and privacy.
Now however, you longed to feel his presence for a little while longer.
"Yeah?" Bushy brows knitted together, Logan looked almost hesistant. Unsure, as if expecting you to scold him. Had he done something wrong?
Your voice was quiet, a little shy. "Don't leave, please."
He looked up, then, eyes softening at the sight of your timid gaze. You looked vulnerable, lying on the duvet, clutching your pillow to your chest.
"I... I can't fall asleep after you leave. It helps to know you're there. Of course, I completely understand if you'd rather go back to your own room—" Your voice trailed off, lost in a sudden feeling of nervousness. Were you overstepping? Was he—
It didn't take any more convincing. Two strides and he was next to you again, back in his designated spot. The bedsprings creaked as he sat beside you, leaning against the headrest.
"I don't mind."
The vibrations of his voice send flutters through your skin. You felt warm all over, turning your head from where you laid curled up to smile at him. He understood.
“Really? ‘Cause you can go if you w—"
“I don’t. Won’t sleep anyway, doesn’t matter where I pass the time.” He cleared his throat, looking to the ceiling to avoid your gaze. You picked up on the rosy tint of his stubbled cheeks anyway.
“Thank you. Really, it… it means a lot to me.”
“’S alright, bub. Just go to sleep.” He grumbled.
And you did. Slid under the covers, turning your back towards him. Closed your yes, too. ... But your heart still beat a little faster and the giddy smile seemed to be glued to your face. So, you tried breathing evenly. And slowly but surely, the excitement melted into tender elation. Your eyes fell closed.
A few minutes passed like that. Logan hadn’t torn his gaze from your content form, resembling a cat with how you were positioned. Cute.
Hesitation lost the battle to his heart, and the matress dipped as he scooched closer to you, lying down behind you. Not quite spooning you, no, he restrained himself from touching. There’s still time. You won’t run away… That much you’ve proven to him over the nights. If anything, you inched closer and closer. Gently, tending to his neglected feelings. And suddenly, he didn't mind time flowing slowly. Not if it meant the thrill of anticipation.
The last thing you heard before drifting into sleep was his voice. Soft, whispered behind you. For only the moon to listen, but you still heard it, even from the bridge between reality and dreamland.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader
Summary: A quiet, late-night Brooklyn apartment becomes the stage for a slow, aching unraveling between two people who once found comfort in silence but now find only distance.
Prompt requested: “Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter. It matters to me.”
words counts: 4.1k
Warnings/tags: Angst, emotional distance, lingering love that’s fraying, verbal 'tired' fight, leaving, no HEA
A/n: First Bucky angst i write hehehe and requested by anon- whoever you are i hope you are doing well 💙, wrote while listening to Jamie songs always hits the best. i suggest you to listen to this.
bucky masterlist
The silence between you had changed.
It used to be soft. Warm. Comfortable. The kind of silence that meant shared understanding, not absence.
Now it clung to the room like a draft — cold, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He sat across from you, legs slightly parted, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced. Staring at the floor like it owed him answers. You sat on the edge of the couch, hugging your knees to your chest, blinking at the muted television playing reruns neither of you were watching.
You didn’t know when it started. When things began unraveling. Maybe it was gradual. Maybe it was always coming.
“You haven’t looked at me all day,” you said quietly. It wasn’t an accusation. Just a fact.
He exhaled hard through his nose. “I have.”
“No. You looked around me. Through me, even. But not at me.”
Bucky finally glanced up. There was a flicker of something in his eyes — guilt, maybe. Or weariness.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
That stung. You weren’t even asking for much. Just anything. Anything real. Anything that didn’t sound like he was already halfway out the door.
“You used to talk to me,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “You used to let me in.”
He rubbed his metal hand over his face, then leaned back against the chair with a thud. “And what good did it do?”
That made your stomach twist. You swallowed. “So you’re punishing me for trying?”
“No,” he said too quickly. “No, that’s not—fuck, that’s not what I meant.”
“But that’s what it feels like.”
The words hung there. A jagged blade neither of you wanted to pull out.
He didn’t answer. He just sat there, looking tired. Tired in a way that sleep wouldn’t fix.
You stared at him — at the man you loved. The man you still loved. But the space between you had become a chasm. Not one born from betrayal or cruelty — but from erosion.
Slow. Silent. Devastating.
“I don’t think we’re okay,” you said finally. And your voice broke on the last word. You didn’t mean it to. You didn’t want him to know how close your heart was to cracking. But it slipped out.
He looked at you then. Really looked at you. For the first time in what felt like weeks. His jaw clenched, and his eyes — God, his eyes — were full of a thousand things he didn’t know how to say.
“I don’t know how to be... what you need,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it. “I’m trying. But I don’t know if I’ve got anything left to give.”
Your eyes burned, throat closing. You nodded slowly. “And I don’t know how to ask anymore without feeling like I’m begging for scraps.”
There it was. The ache in your chest unfurling. The quiet devastation of realizing you both still cared — maybe even still loved each other — but the connection was fraying. Unsaid things building a wall neither of you knew how to tear down.
And worst of all?
You weren’t breaking up. Not yet.
You were still here.
Still pretending.
Still hoping.
Which, somehow, was even more heartbreaking.
He tried.
For a while.
He left you coffee in the mornings again. Asked if you wanted to go for walks. Even brushed his fingers against yours when no one was looking — like muscle memory, like he still remembered how to reach for you in the dark.
But it didn’t last.
It never lasted.
He forgot dinner plans. Missed your art show opening — said he got caught up.
He tuned out mid-conversations, offering hollow mmhms and yeah, sures while his eyes stared through the wall.
He didn’t see you. Not really. Not like he used to.
You stopped reminding him.
Stopped hoping he'd notice the way your voice faltered when you spoke about your day.
You stopped reaching across the space between you — the one that felt like a canyon now.
So one night, you gave in.
Your friend dragged you out, practically shoved a shot into your hand. Told you to let go, just for tonight.
And for once, you listened.
The music was loud, too loud — just enough to drown out the ache in your chest.
You laughed, but it didn’t reach your eyes.
You danced, but it didn’t feel like you.
You drank until your legs felt numb and your tongue stopped spilling truths.
Your friend watched you crumble in slow motion.
Watched your smile stretch too wide.
Watched your glassy eyes fix on the exit like you were waiting for a ghost to walk through it.
And they had enough.
They stepped outside and called him.
Twice. Then three times.
No answer.
They texted him:
“She’s drunk. She’s hurting. She still wanted you to come. Don’t make her regret that.”
Still nothing.
You were sitting on the curb by then. Shivering in your jacket, fingers gripping your knees like they were the only thing holding you together. Mascara streaked your cheek. Your head tipped to the side.
“He’s not coming, is he?” you asked, voice soft. Empty.
Your friend didn’t answer. They didn’t need to.
Because deep down, you already knew.
You knew the answer wasn’t he’s asleep or he’s busy. the answer was: He didn’t pick up because he chose not to.
And that hurt more than anything else had.
Not the missed dinners.
Not the quiet apologies.
Not the slow forgetting of who you were to each other.
It was this.The moment you were alone in the middle of your undoing — and he let the phone ring out.
You didn’t cry on the ride home.
You didn’t cry when your friend tucked you into bed.
You didn’t even cry when the front door creaked open hours later and footsteps passed your room without pausing.
You just stared at the ceiling.
And something inside you — something quiet and aching and long-suffering — finally went still.
Not out of anger. Not out of rage.
Just the calm that comes when you stop waiting to be loved the way you deserve.
You woke up with a dry mouth and a pounding in your skull — but it wasn’t the alcohol that made your stomach turn.
It was the memory.
The unanswered calls.
The footsteps passing your door without stopping.
The apartment smelled faintly of coffee, but the kitchen was empty when you padded in. He was sitting at the small table, hoodie sleeves pushed up, staring into a mug like it might explain away the night before.
“Morning,” he said, without looking up.
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even warm. Just a word dropped into the space like an obligation.
You leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching him. “You didn’t answer.”
He froze for a fraction of a second, then shrugged. “I didn’t see the call until late.”
“Bullshit.” Your voice didn’t rise — it didn’t need to. It was flat, tired, the kind of tone that meant the truth was already sitting between you. “You ignored it.”
His jaw tightened. “I was… I don’t know. I just—”
“You just what, Bucky?” you cut in, your arms wrapping tighter around yourself. “Just didn’t feel like dealing with me? With your drunk mess of a girlfriend calling for you?”
His eyes finally snapped up to yours, sharp. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“I don’t have to,” you shot back. “You’ve said enough by saying nothing.”
He let out a harsh breath, pushing his chair back. “God, you always do this. Twist everything into proof that I don’t care.”
You laughed once, humorless. “Do you?”
The question landed like a sucker punch. You didn’t say it to be cruel — you said it because you genuinely didn’t know anymore.
He ran a hand over his face, metal fingers tapping the table. “Of course I care.”
“Caring isn’t the same as showing up,” you whispered. “And last night, I needed you to show up.”
He shook his head. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve been trying, okay? I’ve been—”
“You tried,” you interrupted, voice cracking on the word. “For a few weeks. And then you went right back to forgetting. Right back to drifting. Like it’s too much effort to actually hold on to me.”
His face pinched. “Do you think this is easy for me? You think I don’t hate myself for not being enough?”
“Then why—” Your voice broke again, and you had to take a breath before continuing. “Why is it always me pulling you back? Why am I the only one fighting to keep us from falling apart?”
He didn’t answer.
And that, more than anything, was your answer.
You pressed your lips together, nodding slowly. “I’m tired, Bucky.”
“I’m tired too,” he said, almost defensively.
“No,” you said, your voice low and deliberate. “I’m tired of loving you like this. Tired of wondering if the man I’m with still sees me, or if I’m just… background noise.”
His throat worked, but whatever he was about to say died before it reached his mouth.
You turned away, the weight in your chest heavier than any hangover. “I’m done asking. I’m done waiting. You want to keep me? Then do it. But I’m not standing here with my hand out anymore.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
He didn’t call after you.
And you didn’t look back.
You didn’t slam doors. You didn’t pack bags. You didn’t make some dramatic declaration of I’m done.
You just… stepped back.
The morning after that fight, you messaged your old therapist. The one you hadn’t seen in almost two years — not because you were “better,” but because you had convinced yourself you could patch the cracks in your life on your own.
You scheduled a session that afternoon.
It was almost a relief, sitting in that familiar armchair, coffee steaming in your hands, the faint smell of eucalyptus hanging in the air.
Here, you didn’t have to measure your words, or choose which ones might set off another cycle of guilt and defense.
Here, you could tell the truth.
“I feel like I’ve been in a relationship with a ghost,” you said quietly. “One who’s still alive, still sitting across from me at breakfast, but… not really there anymore.”
Your therapist nodded, the kind of slow, patient nod that made space for you to go deeper.
“And when did you start feeling that way?”
You thought about it — about the months of slow erosion. The few weeks of effort. The way his hand stopped finding yours again.
“Long before I admitted it to myself.”
And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t cry when you said it. You just felt… tired.
Back at the apartment, things felt different.
Not to him at first.
He came and went as usual. Made coffee, scrolled on his phone, mumbled “night” before disappearing into the bedroom.
But after a few days, he started noticing the shift.
The way you didn’t tell him about your day anymore.
The way you answered in short sentences instead of giving him the whole story.
The way your smile — the one you used to give him by reflex — seemed reserved for someone else now.
You didn’t ask where he was going when he left.
You didn’t wait up for him.
You didn’t even texts to check in.
And it unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.
One night, he came home to find you on the couch with your laptop open, papers spread out, a mug beside you. You were focused, headphones in, tapping a pen against your knee.
He stood in the doorway for a moment before clearing his throat.
“What’s all that?”
You glanced up briefly. “Homework from my therapist.”
His brow furrowed. “You’re… seeing her again?”
“Yeah.” Your tone was even, unbothered. “Started last week.”
He hesitated. “You didn’t tell me.”
You looked at him then, eyes steady. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”
The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t cruel. But they landed like a blade anyway.
He stood there a moment longer, wanting to say I do notice — but the truth was, he hadn’t. Not until now.
He lingered in the doorway longer than he should have, like maybe standing there long enough would make you turn back into the version of yourself who used to look up every time he walked in.
But you didn’t.
You just went back to your notes, underlining something with quiet precision.
He cleared his throat again, softer this time. “So… what do you talk about? In therapy.”
You didn’t look up. “Mostly how I’m feeling. What I’m learning about myself.”
“About us?”
You capped your pen, finally meeting his eyes. “Sometimes.”
A beat passed.
“Mostly about me.”
It was subtle, but he heard what you weren’t saying — that you were building something separate from him now. A space he wasn’t invited into unless you chose to let him in.
Bucky’s chest tightened. He told himself he should be relieved that you were taking care of yourself, that you were getting the help you needed. But the truth was uglier. He felt… replaced. Not by another person, but by your own independence.
—
The next few days, he noticed everything.
The way you started getting up earlier than him, making your own breakfast without offering coffee across the table.
The way your phone buzzed in the evenings — not with his name, but with your friend’s — and you’d slip out to the balcony to talk.
The way you began spending two hours every Wednesday evening out, and didn’t rush home afterward.
He found himself waiting for you without realizing it.
Glancing at the clock.
Listening for your key in the door.
But when you did walk in, your smile was polite, not warm.
One night, he tried again.
“Hey,” he said, when you passed him in the kitchen. “Maybe we could go out tomorrow night? Dinner somewhere. Just us.”
You didn’t stop moving. “I’ve got therapy after work.”
He frowned. “What about the night after?”
You pulled a glass from the cabinet. “Already have plans.”
It wasn’t said with venom — but it was final. The kind of answer that left no room for negotiation.
—
That night, lying in bed, he realized the silence between you felt different now.
It wasn’t cold like before, when you were still trying to pull him closer.
This was quieter.
Still.
Dangerously still.
Because you weren’t reaching for him anymore.
And the part that terrified him most?
You didn’t seem to miss it.
He turned his head to look at you, sleeping on your side, back facing him.
For the first time in months, he reached out, hesitating before letting his hand rest lightly on your hip.
But you didn’t stir.
You didn’t shift toward him.
You didn’t reach back.
And lying there in the dark, he felt the smallest, sharpest truth sink in:
You were still here — but you were already gone.
It was raining that evening, the kind of steady, quiet rain that made the city sound far away.
You were at the kitchen table, finishing an email, when you heard the door open.
Bucky stepped in, shaking water from his hoodie, setting his keys down with a muted clink.
He paused when he saw the boxes.
Not many — just two small ones by the wall, taped shut. But they were enough to make his chest tighten.
“What’s… that?” he asked, voice caught somewhere between casual and wary.
You closed your laptop slowly. “I’m moving out.”
The words weren’t loud. They weren’t cruel.
They were steady — too steady — and that made them hit harder than if you’d yelled them.
His brow furrowed. “Moving out? To where?”
“An old friend’s place. She’s got a spare room.”
He blinked, like the sentence didn’t compute. “For… how long?”
You took a sip of water before answering. “I don’t know.”
Something in his posture shifted — not anger, not yet. Panic, maybe. “So that’s it? You’re just leaving?”
You shook your head gently. “I’ve been leaving for months, Bucky. You just didn’t see it.”
He stepped closer, the rain still clinging to his sleeves. “I see it now.”
You gave a small, tired smile. “Now is too late.”
He dragged a chair out and sat down across from you like planting himself there would anchor you in place. “I can fix this. I’ll—”
“You had months to fix it,” you said, not unkindly. “And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life begging for something you can’t give.”
His jaw flexed. “You’re not begging.”
“I was,” you said softly. “Every time I asked for more than the scraps you were giving me. Every time I reached for you and you stayed still. Every time I called and you didn’t answer.”
He flinched at that. The memory of your friend’s calls. The ringing phone he’d stared at and let go to voicemail.
“I thought we were okay,” he muttered, like saying it out loud might make it true.
You shook your head. “We weren’t. I was just quiet about it.”
The rain tapped against the windows, steady and relentless.
He looked at you then — really looked. Your hair pulled back, your hoodie loose, no makeup, eyes tired but clear.
And for the first time, he saw it: you weren’t bluffing. You weren’t trying to get a reaction.
You had already made peace with leaving.
“What if I come with you?” he asked suddenly, desperation breaking through.
You exhaled a slow, almost sad laugh. “Bucky… this isn’t about a different place. It’s about a different way of being loved. And if you didn’t give me that here, you won’t give it to me anywhere.”
He didn’t have an answer for that.
You stood, sliding your chair back quietly.
“I’ll be gone by the weekend. I’ll send you my new address, in case you need to reach me.”
And before he could stop you — before he could find the right words — you were already walking toward the hallway, the soft sound of your steps mixing with the rain.
The boxes stayed by the wall.
Small, but loud enough to echo in his head all night.
—
It had been five days since you left.
Five days since you carried the last box out of the apartment without looking back.
Five days since you’d slept in the quiet safety of your old friend’s spare room, the air smelling faintly of lavender and coffee instead of the restless silence you’d been living in.
You thought maybe he’d text.
Maybe he’d call once or twice.
But you didn’t expect the pounding on the door that came just after nine on a Thursday night.
Your friend peeked out the window, then shot you a look. “It’s him.”
You felt something twist in your stomach — not hope, not quite dread. Just… a dull ache.
“Let him in,” you said finally, your voice low.
He stepped inside, looking like hell.
Hair a mess, hoodie unzipped over a wrinkled t-shirt, eyes bloodshot like he hadn’t slept.
“Hey,” he breathed, like the word had been pulled out of him.
You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “What do you want, Bucky?”
He flinched at the coolness in your voice.
“I want—” He stopped, raking a hand through his hair. “I want you to come home.”
You almost laughed, but it came out as a sharp exhale. “That’s not my home anymore.”
“I can make it one again,” he said quickly, stepping toward you. “I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll—hell, I’ll go to therapy with you. I’ll listen. I’ll stop shutting you out. Just… don’t give up on me. Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter. It matters to me.”
You studied him — the trembling in his hands, the crack in his voice. He was trying now, but the timing was all wrong.
“You only started caring when I left,” you said quietly.
“That’s not true.”
“It feels true,” you replied, your eyes never leaving his. “And that’s the problem. I begged for you to see me for months, Bucky. And when I finally stopped asking, that’s when you noticed.”
He shook his head, his voice breaking. “I know I fucked up. I know I let things slide and I—God, I hate myself for it. But I’m here now. I’m here.”
You swallowed, forcing yourself to stay steady. “I needed you there then.”
“I was scared,” he admitted, the words tumbling out like they’d been locked away for too long. “Scared of losing you, scared of not being enough. And I thought… if I didn’t look too closely, maybe things wouldn’t hurt so bad.”
Your throat tightened, but you didn’t move toward him.
“That’s the thing, Bucky. Love isn’t about looking away when it gets hard. It’s about staying, even when it’s messy. And you didn’t.”
He stepped closer, desperate now. “Please. Give me another chance. One more. I swear I won’t waste it.”
You shook your head slowly. “I can’t be the one keeping us alive anymore. And I’m not coming back just because you finally feel the panic I’ve been living with for months.”
His breathing hitched, his shoulders sinking. “So that’s it? You’re really done?”
Your eyes softened — not with forgiveness, but with the kind of sadness that comes when you’ve already made peace with the ending.
“I’m not angry, Bucky. I’m just… done bleeding for something that was killing me.”
He stood there, like maybe if he waited long enough you’d change your mind.
But you didn’t.
And when your friend quietly stepped into the room to stand beside you, Bucky finally took the hint.
He backed toward the door, eyes never leaving yours, his voice barely audible.
“I don’t know how to be without you.”
You didn’t answer.
And that silence was the real goodbye.
The apartment was too quiet when he came back.
It had always been quiet — even when you were there — but this was different.
This was the kind of quiet that didn’t have a heartbeat behind it.
Bucky stood in the doorway for a long time before kicking off his boots, letting them thud against the floor. He dropped his keys on the counter, and the sharp clink echoed louder than it should have.
The first thing he noticed was the space.
Your shoes weren’t by the door anymore.
The mug you always used — chipped on the rim from the time you swore it “just fell” in the sink — was gone from the drying rack.
Your jacket wasn’t hanging on the hook.
The place looked the same, but it didn’t feel the same.
He wandered into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge out of habit. The shelf where you kept your oat milk and that overpriced yogurt you liked was empty.
In the living room, the blanket you always wrapped yourself in while reading was folded neatly on the couch — but it was the wrong blanket. The one you took with you was the soft grey one that smelled faintly like your perfume.
That smell was fading already.
He sank onto the couch, elbows braced on his knees, and stared at the coffee table.
There was a ring-shaped water stain there — from the time you’d set down your mug mid-argument, too distracted by your own frustration to grab a coaster.
You’d apologized later, laughing about it, and said, “Now it’s ours forever.”
Now it was just his.
In the bedroom, it was worse.
The bed looked bigger without your side of the pillow dented in.
Your nightstand was bare — no stack of half-read books, no chapstick, no hair tie. Just dust in the shape of the things you used to keep there.
He opened the top drawer out of some stupid, masochistic urge and found one of your old sweaters buried in the back. He pressed it to his face, breathing in whatever scent was left, until the ache in his chest got so tight it felt like a hand squeezing his lungs.
The thing that broke him wasn’t the missing clothes or the cold sheets.
It was the little yellow sticky note he found in the kitchen drawer, the one you’d left months ago as a joke:
Don’t forget milk — and that I love you ♡♡♡
He slid down the cabinet to the floor, the note crushed in his metal hand, his other covering his face.
The truth hit him hard, sharp, and final.
You weren’t coming back.
And now, every single thing in this apartment was a reminder of all the times you had been here — all the times he could have chosen you and didn’t.
All the times you waited for him to see you.
And all the times he didn’t look until it was too late.
@cheekybarnes this isnt happy angst but might have snippet of rollercoaster like i read your proof of return. I'm still not moving on that fic, Ash!!!!
(oneshot/happy angst) (requested) knight AU version
pairing: Knight!Logan x Knight!reader
summary: Amidst smoke and ruin, Logan refuses to let the you walk away, and old wounds resurface as they confront past fears, regrets, and the choices that separated them.
word counts: 2k
warnings/tags: Knight AU, aftermatch war, groom left at the altar, King Xavier mentioned, Rogue cameo at the end
a/n: This is the scratch 1st version request from @vivi-ale i decided to remake into a 2nd version (oldman Logan) hope you love both of the versions Vivi, xoxo
Logan masterlist
The battlefield wasn’t silent, but the worst of it had passed. The clash of steel and the screams had burned themselves out hours ago, leaving only the ragged wheeze of dying fires and the low moan of the wind.
Smoke curled off charred banners, broken lances jutted out of the ground like gravestones, and bodies—too many to count—marked the field in a grotesque constellation.
You pressed your hand to your side where the armor had caved under a blow. Blood seeped, slow and stubborn. Not fatal, not yet. You leaned on your sword to keep upright, every muscle screaming, lungs heaving for air thick with ash.
Behind you, boots crunched on gravel and bone. Heavy. Measured. You knew them without looking.
“Don’t,” you said, voice hoarse. “Turn back.”
A low growl rolled out of the dark. He didn’t stop.
“I’m not lettin’ you walk away this time.”
The words cut sharper than steel. You kept your eyes on the field, unwilling to turn, unwilling to let him see the way your chest trembled.
“You should’ve stayed at the fortress. Someone had to hold the line.”
“Yeah?” His tone bit hard, scarred with fury. “And your plan was what? Get yourself skewered so the rest of us had somethin’ pretty to mourn?”
You spun then, teeth bared. “Better me than the whole damned company!”
Logan stood not ten paces off, armor dented to hell, splashed with gore and soot. His helm dangled from his fist, hair damp with sweat and blood. His eyes—bright, burning, unrelenting—pinned you in place. He looked like a man who’d fought through every nightmare the world could conjure and still found the strength to rage at you.
“You don’t get to decide that,” he said, stepping forward. “Not for me. Not for anyone.”
Your throat burned. You wanted to tell him you’d only been trying to protect him, protect them all. That throwing yourself into the fire had felt like the only way to keep him alive. But the words wouldn’t come, and when his hand came up to touch your face, you flinched.
Gloved fingers brushed ash from your cheek, softer than you deserved. He tilted your chin just enough that you had to meet his eyes.
“You came back,” you breathed, the fight leaving your voice. It wasn’t accusation—it was confession.
A humorless huff rumbled in his chest. “’Course I did. I’ll always come back to you. Doesn’t matter how far you run or how hard you try to shove me off. You think you’re the only knight too stubborn to quit?” His mouth curved into something between a smirk and a plea. “You’re wrong, darlin’.”
The wind shifted, carrying the stink of smoke and iron, but in that small space between you, the world softened. You let yourself lean forward, armor groaning, forehead meeting his. The silence between you was louder than battle, filled with everything you’d never let yourself say.
Logan’s arm came around your waist, holding you steady when your knees threatened to give. For once, you didn’t fight him.
—-
Later, in the wreck of a tent hastily stitched back together, you sat shoulder to shoulder while he bandaged your ribs with hands surprisingly gentle for a man built for war. The candlelight flickered across his face, catching on the scar that cut through his brow, the sweat still clinging to his skin.
“You should be asleep,” you muttered.
He snorted. “You’re bleedin’ through half your kit and you think I’m gonna sleep? Try again.”
You winced as he tightened the bandage, but his thumb lingered against your skin, soothing where he’d pressed too hard. His eyes lifted, catching yours, steady and stubborn. His big, calloused hands were surprisingly careful as he unwound the ruined armor from your ribs and pressed the cloth tight enough to stop the bleeding.
You hissed, teeth gritting. “Could’ve let the healers do it.”
“Yeah, and leave you to some green kid with shaky hands? Not a chance,” he muttered, tugging the knot firm. His eyes flicked up, catching yours. “Besides… I’ve patched you up before.”
You smirked despite yourself. “Usually after I’ve put myself between you and a lance.”
He grunted, not denying it, but the corner of his mouth twitched. When he finally leaned back, satisfied with his work, he stayed close, crouched in front of you, eyes unreadable in the half-light. “I ain’t losin’ you,” he said quietly this time. “Not to the enemy. Not to yourself.”
Your chest tightened, but for once, you didn’t argue. Instead, you let your hand find his, fingers tangling with the same desperation that had carried you through the fight. Two knights, battered and scarred, holding each other up in the ruin of a war neither of you had asked for.
You swallowed, trying to force your voice steady. “How’s King Xavier and the others? Rogue, is she safe?”
Logan’s expression flickered, the harsh edges softening for a heartbeat. He kept his hand on your jaw, thumb brushing grime away like he couldn’t stop touching you.
“They made it back behind the walls,” he said. “Chuck’s got the healers workin’ overtime. Rogue’s banged up, but she’s breathin’. Tougher than the rest of us put together.”
Relief shuddered through you, knees near buckling. You’d been holding the line for them—for her—praying the sacrifice hadn’t been for nothing. Logan felt the shake in you and pulled you closer, armor scraping against armor.
“See?” he muttered into your hair. “You held ‘em long enough. They’re safe. But I’m damned if I let you trade your life for theirs.”
The silence between you stretched, thick with smoke and unspoken words. His hand was still steady on your jaw, his thumb pressing warmth into your skin like it belonged there. You could barely breathe, not from the wounds but from the weight of what you’d never said.
It broke out of you in a ragged whisper.
“I’m sorry… for leaving you at the altar.”
Logan froze, the fury on his face folding into something rawer, sharper. His grip didn’t loosen, but his voice dropped low, rough as gravel.
“You think I gave a damn about a ceremony? About vows spoken in front of courtiers who never fought a day in their lives?”
You blinked, throat tight. “It wasn’t just that. I was afraid. Afraid if I chose you, if I bound myself to you… the war would take you, and it’d be my fault.”
His forehead leaned against yours, heavy and certain, armor scraping as he pulled you closer.
“Darlin’, the war’s gonna take and take no matter what we do. But walkin’ away from me?” His voice broke on a growl. “That hurt worse than any blade I’ve ever taken.”
Tears burned your eyes, shame and relief tangling until you couldn’t tell them apart. “You came back, even after that.”
“Of course I did.” His mouth curved into something almost bitter, almost tender. “You think I wouldn’t? I’ll always come back. Even if you leave me standin’ there again, lookin’ like a damned fool.”
You let out a choked laugh, broken and wet. “You looked furious, not foolish.”
“Both,” he admitted with a huff. Then, softer: “But you’re here now. That’s enough.”
You swallowed, throat tight, eyes burning as you whispered, “Still… I’m sorry for that. For leaving you standing there. For choosing fear over you.”
Logan’s jaw flexed, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, holding you steady so you couldn’t look away. His voice was gravel and vow all at once.
“Then don’t be sorry. Don’t waste breath on the past. Just don’t do it again.” His thumb traced the edge of your jaw, gentle in a way that undid you more than any fury.
“Y’know,” he said slowly, voice rough with something heavier than humor, “I never figured you for the runaway bride type.”
Your head snapped toward him, cheeks burning. “Logan—”
He raised a brow, wolfish smirk tugging at his lips. “What? You think I’m not gonna bring it up? You leave me standin’ there in front of half the court, all the banners flyin’, me in my damned ceremonial armor lookin’ like a fool—”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Gods, don’t remind me.”
He gently pulled your hands down, his grip firm but not unkind. “Darlin’, I remember every detail. ’Cause I thought that was it. Thought you’d made your choice, and it sure as hell wasn’t me.”
Your throat tightened. “I told you—I was afraid.”
“I know.” His smirk softened into something steadier, something that made your chest ache. “But you’re here now. And if you think I’m lettin’ you run a second time…” He leaned in, forehead brushing yours, breath warm against your lips. “Think again.”
For the first time in weeks, you let yourself laugh—small, shaky, but real. “You stubborn bastard.”
“Damn right,” he muttered, pulling you gently into his lap, armor and all. “And now you’re stuck with me. Runaway bride or not.”
You slumped against him, muscles trembling from more than blood loss. Logan shifted, tugging a worn blanket over the both of you, his arms caging you in like he could keep the whole damn world out by sheer will.
“Lie back,” he murmured, guiding you until your head rested against his chest. You could hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat under the leather and sweat, solid and grounding in a way nothing else was tonight.
“I should keep watch,” you muttered, words slurring with fatigue.
“Yeah? And fall over dead on my watch? Not happenin’.” His hand stroked down your back, gentler than you thought him capable of. “Close your eyes. I’ll be right here.”
You wanted to argue, but the weight of the day pressed too heavy. Your fingers fisted in his tunic like a child afraid of the dark.
“Still sorry,” you mumbled, already half under. “For the altar…”
Logan’s chest rumbled with a low sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a growl. He dipped his head, lips brushing the crown of your hair.
“Sleep, runaway bride,” he whispered. “We’ll settle that debt another day.”
Your cheek pressed against his chest, the slow rhythm of his heart pulling you under, when the question slipped out before you could stop it.
“Were you angry? That I left?”
For a long moment, there was only the crackle of the candle and the steady rise of his breathing. His hand, big and warm, stilled on your back.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice rough, quiet enough you almost thought you’d dreamed it. “Angry as hell. Thought I’d never forgive you for it.”
Your throat tightened. You shifted slightly, looking up at him through heavy eyes. “But you did?”
His gaze found yours in the dark, steady and burning like embers that refused to die. He thumbed a streak of ash from your cheek, brushing softer than you deserved.
“I didn’t have a choice,” he murmured. “Anger fades. But wantin’ you? That never did.”
The words undid you, loosening something in your chest that had been locked tight since the day you walked away. You pressed your forehead against his collarbone, eyes stinging.
“Still… I’m sorry,” you whispered again, voice breaking.
He sighed, curling you closer under the blanket until you were wrapped in him entirely. “Yeah, I know. Now shut those pretty eyes before I blindfold ‘em myself.”
His heartbeat thudded steady against your ear, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe him. The last thing you felt ws the press of his hand at your waist, anchoring you, keeping you tethered even as the world slipped away.
Morning came slow, golden light bleeding through the patched canvas walls of the tent. Smoke still lingered faint in the air, but the battlefield’s roar had quieted into the low hum of a camp stirring awake.
You blinked against the light, realizing you hadn’t shifted once in the night. Logan’s arms were still heavy around you, one draped across your waist, the other tucked under your head like a pillow. His chest rose and fell, steady deep in slumber.
You shifted slightly, testing his grip. Immediately, his arms tightened.
“Don’t,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep.
You huffed. “I need to get up. There’ll be a war council, reports, healers—”
“Nope.” His voice was firmer now, gravel cutting through the haze. He cracked one eye open, glaring down at you with the stubbornness of a man who had already decided. “You move, you tear open those cuts below your ribs. You tear open those ribs, I gotta stitch you up myself. Not happenin’.”
You tilted your head to look at him, smirking despite the ache in your body. “You’re bossy in the mornings.”
“Always been,” he grumbled, nuzzling closer into your hair like he had no intention of letting go.
The flap of the tent rustled suddenly. A familiar voice whispered, “They’re in here.”
“Don’t you dare,” Logan barked before the canvas even moved. His grip around you tightened like iron.
The flap cracked open anyway, and Rogue’s face peeked in, her white-streaked hair messy but her grin sharp. “Well, well. Thought I’d find ya both hidin’ in here. King Xavier wants—”
“Out,” Logan snapped, the word edged with a growl.
Rogue snorted, clearly unimpressed, but her eyes softened as they landed on you nestled in his arms. “Guess you’re safe, then. I’ll tell the king you’re… occupied.”
You flushed crimson, burying your face in Logan’s tunic as Rogue ducked out, laughter echoing behind her.
Logan chuckled low in his chest, smug as anything. “See? Even royalty can wait.”
You swatted at him weakly. “You’re insufferable.”
“Yeah,” he said, lips brushing your temple, “but I’m yours. And you’re not runnin’ this time.”
For once, you didn’t argue. You let yourself sink back into him, the world outside the tent forgotten, if only for a little while longer.
i finally got around to send you an ask for your 250 follower event, hope you're still taking them! if so, i'd love to request this for logan!
"i'm not letting you walk away this time"
"you came back"
i'm sure you will turn this into something beautiful. your writing is amazing, you deserve all the support you're receiving and more 🤍
“You thinkin’ of runnin’?” (oneshot/happy angst)(requested) version
pairing: Logan Howlett x reader
summary: You almost left—sitting at the bus stop, watching buses come and go, wondering if leaving would free him or break him.
word counts: 3k
warnings/tags: no warning, just light angst with our old Logan
a/n: Thank you Vivi for joining my event and supporting me 😭, your prompts chosen were very fit for angst vibe. So i decided to write my very first one shot of oldman Logan.
This the 2nd version.. the 1st version is written in Knight AU.
Logan masterlist
He came through the door like he always did—half a ghost, half a man. The smell of iron clung to him, copper sharp under your nose, and the sound of his boots dragging across the floorboards told you everything before you even looked up. His shirt was torn to ribbons, caked in blood that wasn’t all his, and his knuckles were split open, the flesh raw.
He didn’t speak, just dropped his weight onto the chair by the door like his bones had finally given up carrying him. For a second you thought he might not even make it to bed, but then his eyes found yours—yellowed, weary, a warning and an apology rolled into one. You didn’t ask where he’d been. You never did.
You pulled him up, his arm heavy across your shoulders, his heat seeping into you like he’d burn you alive if you held him too long. He winced but didn’t stop you, letting you guide him to the bedroom, peel off what was left of his clothes, clean the cuts that would take days—sometimes weeks now—to knit together. His body wasn’t what it used to be, and you felt every inch of that truth under your hands.
He collapsed into sleep the second you laid him down. Days went by. You learned to move around him, to watch his chest rise and fall, to bring water to his lips when he stirred, to wait. He’d always wake eventually, starved and sore, his eyes softer than they had any right to be after all the carnage he dragged home with him.
You told yourself you were used to this. The blood. The silence. The way he healed slower with every fight. You told yourself you were steel enough to carry it. But every time—every time—you sat beside him, watching his breath hitch in the middle of the night, waiting to be sure he’d wake again, you knew you’d never really be ready for the next time.
Because one day, the bed would stay cold. One day, the blood wouldn’t wash off. And you’d be left with the weight of a man who was never meant to grow old, but did anyway, right there in your arms.
—
Logan left again, early in the morning. You woke up later, do the normal duties, then getting groceries. The air outside bit cold against your face, even though the sun still hung low. The Uber pulled away, leaving you with nothing but the weight of your purse and the weight in your chest. The bus stop sat across the road, quiet, a handful of strangers staring at the timetable, waiting like it was just another day. Your eyes stayed fixed on it, that escape. That door. You thought about how easy it would be—just cross, just sit down, just wait for a bus heading anywhere that wasn’t him.
But your head wouldn’t let go of the loop… Will he be relieved? Maybe he’d wake up, find your side of the bed cold, and finally exhale like he’d been waiting for the inevitable. Maybe he’d think it was mercy, the way you slipped out, no goodbyes, no explanations, just gone. He deserved that peace, didn’t he? A man like him, worn raw, bleeding through the years, didn’t need you tied like an anchor.
Or—maybe he’d be angry. The thought cut sharp. You pictured him standing in the doorway, bloodied still, voice low, gravel thick with betrayal. That look of his, the one that made you feel like he could tear through the world just to drag you back. He’d been abandoned before—by wars, by time, by everyone who ever said they loved him and didn’t mean it enough. To leave would make you one more name in that endless tally.
You clutched your purse tighter, nails biting into the strap. Your chest burned. You’d walked this thought a thousand times, but standing here, the bus stop so close it almost called you—this was different. This was the edge.
The grocery bags heavy on your arm, reminding you of how ordinary it all looked. Just another day. Just another errand. But inside, it felt like the end of everything.
You sat there long enough for the sun to slide lower, burning the horizon with gold and rust. The buses came and went, hissing brakes, doors snapping open and closed, people filing in and out. Every time one pulled up you felt the urge to move, to stand, to take that one step forward that would change everything. But your body never listened.
By the time the last one rolled away, the street had gone quiet. You were still rooted to the bench, purse clutched in your lap like a lifeline, grocery bags resting at your feet. The chill crept in, settling in your bones. You asked the Uber to drop you here instead of home.
Home. The word echoed, cruel and soft at once. Was it his home, the place you kept coming back to, patched up with his silence and your stubbornness? Or had it become yours, too, through the years of waiting out his wounds, of cooking in his battered kitchen, of curling into the warmth of him when he finally let himself sleep?
You didn’t know anymore.
Your throat tightened, that restless ache in your chest clawing to get out. You wanted to go anywhere but there, to vanish into some nameless city where no one bled on your sheets or haunted your dreams. But when you tried to imagine it—walking into some strange room, waking alone—you felt sick.
Your legs refused to move. The streetlamp buzzed above, flickering against the night that had settled in. You realized then—you were waiting. Not for a bus. Not for escape. For him. For the sound of boots scuffing the pavement, for the gravel of his voice when he found you here.
Because deep down, you knew… wherever he was, whatever state he’d come home in, broken and bloodied and barely holding together—he was still the only thing you called home.
You were there for hours.
You heard the rumble before you saw it—the low, familiar growl of his car pulling down the street, chewing up the quiet. The sound slid straight into your chest, curling around your ribs until you couldn’t breathe.
You shut your eyes. Froze.
Every muscle in your body locked up as the headlights swept over the bus stop, catching you in their glare like a deer in the road. Your hands clutched the purse tighter, nails biting leather, while your legs stayed heavy, dead weights that refused to carry you forward or back.
The car slowed. Stopped. Engine idling, a steady thrum that made the night feel alive.
You didn’t have to look to know it was him. The air carried it—the sharp sting of stale smoke, the faint iron tang that never fully left him, the heaviness of a man who always came back more wreck than whole.
The engine whirred off. The door creaked open. Boots hit pavement. Slow, deliberate.
“Darlin’.” His voice cracked through the dark, roughened from disuse, exhaustion, maybe both. Just that one word, and you felt the weight of every mile he’d dragged himself to get to you.
Your heart kicked against your ribs, hard enough to hurt. The part of you that wanted to run screamed louder than ever, but your feet wouldn’t move. You were nailed to that bench, caught between relief and fear, between wanting to vanish and wanting to collapse into him.
He steps closer until the light from the streetlamp catches the lines in his face—more map than face now—each crease a history you can read in a heartbeat. He doesn’t move fast. He never does unless something’s on fire. Instead he kneels a little, as if to make sure he’s level with you, like you’re a scared animal that needs to be seen, not chased. His hand hovers, then lands on the bench near your thigh, not touching you but making the space between you obvious. Grounded.
“You thinkin’ of runnin’?” he asks, voice low and laced with aching concern. It isn’t theatrical—no raised voice, no tirade—just that gravel-and-iron softness that always makes you betray yourself. You want to lie. You want to say no, that you were just getting milk, that you never meant a single one of the flights you rehearsed in your head. But lies are thin here; they peel away under his look. He’s seen everything enough times to know the shape of your leaving before it begins.
You can’t speak; sound catches like blood in your throat. The grocery bags at your feet threaten to spill, mundane treasures of a life you are trying to decide whether you still want. He watches your hands fidget with the purse strap like a seamstress reading the frayed edge of a stubborn fabric.
“You gonna tell me why?” he says, softer now, but there’s steel underneath—an edge that keeps the night from swallowing you both. There’s ownership in that word, not because he wants to own you, but because he’s claimed the right to know when you’re hurting him.
You wonder, absurdly, if he remembers all the other times you thought leaving would be mercy. You remember the first time you nearly walked away—how he’d followed you through the rain, voice hoarse, apologizing for everything and nothing, and how you’d folded back into him because looking at him made the rest of the world blunt. That memory tastes like copper on your tongue.
His fingers find yours before you know he planned to; the contact is small—callused knuckles over your pulse. He doesn’t squeeze; he just keeps his hand there like a lighthouse. “If you think I ain’t gonna notice you gone…” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching toward something like a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “you wrong.”
He lets the sentence hang between you, not accusing but factual, as if he’s cataloguing evidence: you, the purse, the bus stop, the unfinished bread in the bag that will go stale if you leave it.
There’s a weariness to him that makes your chest ache—the kind that says he’s fought enough battles for two lifetimes and still can’t win the one that matters most, keeping you from the inevitable scrape of time. You think of all the nights you sat up, stitching sutures into skin and silence, and how the stitches don’t hold like they used to.
When you finally speak, it’s a blistered thing, words breaking free in a single, small rush. “I can’t keep doing this,” you say, and the confession sounds like both an ending and a plea.
You say it not because you want to leave him—God no—but because you are terrified of the arithmetic: one more fight, one more alone in empty house waiting him to come back, one more time his body won’t answer as fast as his anger.
You tell him about the way you wake at three a.m. thinking the house is too quiet, about how every scar on his hands writes a story you’re tired of reading, about how you’re weary of being steady when he keeps being reckless. The words snag in your throat; he listens like he’s taking inventory. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t flinch because he knows exactly what he puts you through, and the steadiness in his gaze is not denial—it's gratitude laced with shame.
He leans in then, forehead nearly touching yours, breath a harsh compass that points back to him. “You think I like goin’ out like that?” he rasps. “You think I want you sittin’ at home waitin’ for my sorry ass to come drag back in?” The anger is there now, but it’s not for you—it's for the world that keeps slamming him into things, for his own body that betrays him, for the ways he’s failed to be clean enough to spare you. “But you leavin’—that’d be on you,” he says, and the words aren’t a threat so much as a raw, stupid plea.. don’t make me watch you go.
His thumb ghosts over the pulse at your wrist, tentative, afraid to be too gentle and afraid to be anything else. You realize you don’t want to be the woman he chases and catches and loses again; you want to be the one who can stand beside him without having to patch him together every end of the week.
He says your name, low, like a prayer and a claim, and you answer him with the one thing that matters more than the fear or the leaving or the staying. He presses his forehead harder to yours, and for a breath, the world narrows to the two of you, a ragged, stubborn and nosy little town. He stays there, not saying he’ll change—because he knows promises are cheap, but saying, with the roughness of a man who’s lived too long and learned one or two things, that he’s not going anywhere. You let yourself believe it for a second, then another, and though nothing feels fixed—muscles still ache, futures still look uncertain—you fold into him on that bench and let the night keep watch while you decide, again, to try.
“You came back.” The words slip out of your lips like a benediction and an accusation all at once, small and fierce in the hush of the street.
He stares at you for a beat that stretches like wire, that same slow look that can read the tremor at the edge of your voice and the tiny way your fingers curl in the purse strap. Then he lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half broken thing—and it’s so tired it makes the air between you ache.
“Of course I came back,” he rasps, lowering himself until his face is level with yours again, close enough that you can see the flecks of grey where there used to be none, the little tremor at his jaw that wasn’t there ten years ago. “Where the hell else would I go?”
His hand slides from the bench and finds your cheek, thumb brushing a line that might once have been a scar, might be tomorrow’s. It’s clumsy and clinging and impossibly careful, like he’s handling something precious and fragile and also like he’s fending off the thought of losing you before he can tell you the truth.
“You don’t get to run off,” he says, and the firmness in it isn’t ownership so much as entitlement born from the long, stupid love that’s wrapped him up since the beginning. “Not when you've been mine this long.”
He swallows and for a moment the bravado falls away and you see the man behind the claws and the grit—a man who’s scared as hell of waking up and finding you gone.
“God, darlin’,” he whispers, and the way he says it makes something raw in your chest unclench. “I get—” He searches for the word, for the apology he never learned to pronounce without pride in the way. “I get why you thought about leavin’. I get it more than you know. But I’m not askin’ you to be brave for me. I’m askin’ you to stay because you want to, not ‘cause you feel stuck.” His thumb draws a slow circle where your pulse thumps, each rotation a tiny promise that’s not a cure but a vow to try.
You want to tell him that staying is heavy; you want to tell him that every time he walks out the door you feel the house shift and tilt and you pray the foundation holds. Instead you let your forehead rest against his, the contact sending a small electric shock through your tired bones.
“I’m scared,” you admit, because the confession tastes like salt and truth and because if you don’t say it, it eats you. “I’m scared of the next time. Of the time my hands aren’t quick enough. Of the time your eyes don’t find me.”
He doesn’t flinch. He closes his fingers over yours and squeezes like he’s anchoring you both.
“Then we be scared together,” he says simply, as if that solves everything—and maybe it doesn’t, maybe it barely grazes the edges—but the thing that makes you stay is not the solution, it’s the company. “I’ll try to be smarter about goin’ out,” he adds, and there’s no theatrical promise in his words—only the honest, jagged edge of a man who knows his failings and wants to do the work because you matter. “Ain’t gonna be perfect. I ain’t good at perfect.” He lets out a crooked little smile that’s almost sheepish and entirely him. “But I’ll be here.”
He says it again, softer this time but steadier, the words like iron wrapped in wool, "I'm not letting you walk away this time." The sentence lands between you, not a command but a line drawn so you both know where the border is—he won’t let you vanish, and he won’t force you to stay.
He keeps his face level with yours, thumb moving slow circles along your jaw the way he does when he’s trying to be both careful and insistent, and then he adds, voice rough and honest, “But if you want go, i won't stop you. Stay if you want. Don't do it for me, but what your heart and gut tells ya, sweetheart.”
You feel every shade in that sentence—the stubbornness, the fear, the refusal to be pitied—fold under the small, aching promise that he won’t simply watch you walk away without trying.
You let the confession out finally, brittle and true: “I don’t want to go.”
He breathes like the world exhales with him, and for a fragile moment your chest unclenches because his next words aren’t bargains or grand vows; they’re a crooked, steady truth: “Then don’t make me chase you next time. Stay ‘cause you want to, darlin’.”
You take his hand when he offers it, grocery bags bumping against your knees. The grocery bags tangle in the movement and he grumbles, half-joking about how much you buy, but even that noise is a kind of blessing.
The drive home is quiet, but not the kind that bites. His car rattles the way it always has, the low growl of the engine filling in all the places words can’t reach. The grocery bags sit between your feet, pressing into your shins with every turn, grounding you in the ordinariness of it all—like you hadn’t just been sitting at a bus stop trying to decide if you’d leave.
Logan’s hand rests on the wheel, steady, knuckles scarred and healing slow these days. His other hand hovers near the gearshift, but every now and then it brushes against your knee—deliberate, like he’s reminding himself you’re there, or reminding you that he noticed you chose to stay. Streetlights flash over his face, carving him into sharp lines and tired shadows, but his jaw is softer than it was back at the stop. Not loose, not easy—but softer.
You lean your head against the glass, watching the blur of the city give way to smaller streets, quieter ones. Home is up ahead—his home, your home—and the thought twists in your chest. He doesn’t speak, not until the car slows near the turn.
“I meant it,” he mutters, gravel low, not looking at you. “Ain’t lettin’ you walk away this time. But I won’t chain ya here, either. You got a choice. Always.” His hand tightens on the wheel as if saying it costs him something. “Just… glad you stayed.”
The words sit heavy and warm in the space between you. And for once, you don’t feel the need to fill the silence. You just reach across, lay your hand over his on the gearshift, and let the rumble of the car carry you both the rest of the way home.
