Utah's Most Wanted Hermit | L. Cooley
Request: This is literally from JANUARY 8TH... so I hope you're still around - "kesselring saying cooleys new year resolution needs to be leaving the house more but really cooley is with his girlfriend and anytime the boys wanna go out he’s like “actually me and my girl are watching this new movie” to the point where his girlfriend forces him to go out"
Summary: When your sweet, clingy boyfriend gets forced to loosen up...
Word Count: 7.9k
Pairing: soft/clingy!logan cooley x fem!reader
Warnings: use of alcohol and marijuana, and subsequent panic attack resulting from it, vomiting.
Notes:
this has been sitting in my docs for a while so i thought might as well finish it
my first full length cools fic!
enjoy! mostly proof read...
Logan has always been a little skittish in crowds, the kind of boy who looks permanently startled, blue eyes wide and soft behind his pale lashes, hair so blond and fine it flutters around his temples like spun silk. You swear half the time he resembles a wet cat caught in a rainstorm—especially when Michael’s booming voice is echoing through the condo, telling him for the fifth time this week that his New Year’s resolution needs to be something simple like “get out of the damn house.”
But Logan just smiles that crooked, bashful smile, a shy crescent that tugs at the corners of his mouth until the edges of his teeth peek through, and then he rubs the back of his neck like he’s apologizing for existing. He’s got a hundred excuses tucked into the sleeves of his oversized hoodies—the ones he always shrugs into when the team is going out to celebrate a win or to just feel young and invincible in some overpriced club downtown. He’ll mumble that he’s tired or that he has a phone call with you, which, to his credit, is rarely a lie. You’re the one constant thread in all his tangled nerves, the one place he can let himself unravel without fear of anyone picking apart the pieces.
Every time the guys pile into Ubers with their cologne sharp as fresh-cut pine, you’ll find Logan still sitting on the sofa, long legs folded up under him, phone in hand, face lit by the gentle glow of your texts. He’s the kind of boyfriend who would rather spend a Saturday night on Facetime with you than in any bar on earth. He’ll fall asleep there, cheek pressed to the screen, breathing soft and even. It makes Michael roll his eyes so hard you’d think they’d get stuck.
“Jesus Christ, man,” Michael will say, exasperation slathered all over his voice as he watches Logan smile dopily at the picture you sent of your dinner. “You’re domesticated. You’re like a pet bunny. You know that?”
Logan only lifts his head, pink rising under his cheekbones. “I just…like being home.”
He never says it out loud, but the truth is simpler than that. He likes being where you are—even if “you” is just a warm little rectangle of a phone screen some nights. He likes the safety of it, the predictability of you loving him back. There’s no music too loud to hear his thoughts, no hands clapping him on the shoulders until they ache. Just your voice drifting to him soft as the snowfall piling up outside the window.
He’s the boyfriend who writes you long messages when he’s on the road, thumbs flying over his screen because he’s afraid if he doesn’t tell you every detail—how the bus smelled like stale energy drinks and the arena lights were too bright and he forgot his good luck charm in his hotel room—you’ll somehow slip further away. He sends you blurry photos of hotel carpets and the skyline from his window and the little coffee cup with your initial he found at a souvenir shop, because he can’t help but think of you wherever he is.
His teammates call him whipped. They say it with affection but with that brand of teasing that slides under your skin if you let it. Clayton will bump his shoulder and tell him he should at least pretend to have a life outside your little cocoon. Sean and John will threaten to come drag him out themselves. Barrett jokes he’s going to steal your number and send you a restraining order as a prank.
But Logan just shrinks a little into the collar of his hoodie, hair drifting over his forehead as he blushes and tries not to look too smug about it. Because he knows it’s true—he is completely, hopelessly yours.
He’s the boyfriend who remembers the tiny things you say offhand—that you were craving the salted caramel hot chocolate from the cafe by the rink, that you’d been meaning to watch a certain movie, that you felt too tired to cook. He’ll slip out between practices and drive across town to bring you what you mentioned, then act like it was no big deal when he shows up, sneakers wet with melted snow. You’ll thank him, and he’ll look like he’s trying not to combust with happiness, cheeks pink, eyes darting anywhere but your face.
When he does agree to go out with the guys, it’s never for long. He tries—God, he tries—to look like he’s enjoying it, standing a little apart with his drink clutched in both hands, eyes flickering to the door every few minutes like he’s memorizing the escape route. Eventually, someone will catch him texting you, thumbs working frantically, and Sean will come over to ruffle his hair and tease him until he ducks his head and mumbles something about checking in.
The second he can leave, he does. He doesn’t even care about the goodbyes anymore—he’ll text the group chat his apologies as he slips out into the cold night, breath fogging the air. He’s the boyfriend who walks home with his hands in his pockets, thinking about how soft your hair will feel under his chin when he pulls you into bed, how you’ll smell like that lotion he likes, how your sleepy voice will wrap around his heart like the gentlest fist.
Michael will tell him he’s pathetic, that he’s twenty-one and acting like some lovesick teenager. But Logan doesn’t mind. He’s always been a little afraid of everything—the crowds, the noise, the unknown. Loving you is the one thing that never scares him. It’s the one thing that feels as natural as breathing, as inevitable as the snowfall dusting the rooftops.
So he doesn’t make a New Year’s resolution to change. He thinks maybe this is exactly who he wants to be: the boy who would rather be yours than be anything else.
It had been one of those evenings that felt stitched from a fairytale—the snow outside falling in fat, lazy flakes, the lamplight turning everything amber and hushed. Logan had you tangled up with him on the couch, his arms circled tight around your waist, his chin hooked over your shoulder. He smelled like clean laundry and the faintest trace of his cologne, that gentle cedar that made you want to breathe him in forever.
He mumbled love-drunk confessions into your hair like he couldn't help it, voice quiet and cracking with the weight of it. "You have no idea how much I love you," he whispered, pressing kiss after kiss along your temple, your cheekbone, the tip of your nose. "Can't even think straight when you're this close."
You giggled, trying to duck away from his relentless mouth, but he only shifted, pinning you back against the cushions as he trailed his lips down your jaw. His hands were everywhere—splayed over your ribs, thumbs brushing under your sweater, fingertips tracing mindless patterns over the skin of your hip as though he was mapping out the places you made him feel safe. Your laughter spilled out in squeaks as he nuzzled your neck, breathing you in like you were oxygen. "Logan, you're ridiculous!"
"Yours," he insisted, voice rough with sincerity. "All yours. Don't want to be anywhere else. Ever."
You were about to say something back—something equally mushy, knowing you'd both end up a pile of sighs and kisses—when the door to the condo practically exploded open.
"SURPRISE, LOVEBIRDS!" Michael's voice boomed in like an avalanche, so loud it actually made Logan jolt and smack his forehead off yours with a dull thud. You both yelped. Logan's arms shot around you protectively like you were under attack.
And then there was Hank. A giant tangle of fur and slobber, bounding in on his leash, yanking Josh half off his feet. The dog went straight for the couch with singular purpose, tail whipping the air. He practically body-slammed you both, giant paws thudding onto Logan's chest while his drool splattered everything in a three-foot radius.
"HANK!" Josh cackled, trying to haul him back, but it was hopeless. Hank's tongue was everywhere, hot and wet on your cheek while Logan sputtered and tried to hold him off with one hand, the other shielding your face.
Michael was doubled over laughing, actually wiping tears from his eyes. "Oh my God. I told you, Josh! He's whipped as fuck. Look at him!"
Josh's shit-eating grin could've powered a small city. He kicked the door shut behind them with one boot. "I dunno, man," he drawled, gray eyes gleaming. "I thought you guys were exaggerating. But this is pathetic even for him."
Logan was bright red, hair mussed, hoodie riding up so you could see the pale stripe of his stomach. He let out a strangled noise of horror. "Get out! We were—this was private!"
"Private?" Michael repeated, scandalized. "Buddy, you're literally cuddling like a koala in heat. You don't do private anymore."
Hank gave an enthusiastic bark, knocking a lamp askew with his tail. Josh whistled low. "Nice place, though. Really roomy. You know what I'm thinking?"
Michael slapped him on the back. "New Year's party venue!"
Logan's eyes widened in abject terror. "Absolutely not!"
Josh ignored him entirely, flopping onto the armchair and throwing his feet up on Logan's coffee table. "I'm serious. We move the coffee table, keg in the corner, DJ playlist, maybe those twinkly lights you got for Christmas? Boom. Vibes."
Michael was already scrolling on his phone. "Making the guest list right now. I'm telling you, this is happening. He can't stop us."
Logan turned to you, wild-eyed, one arm still loosely around you even as he gestured frantically at his so-called friends. "Tell them no. Tell them this is our space. They can't just... invade like this."
You tried—tried so hard—not to laugh. But you were shaking with it, biting your lip as you looked at his flushed, scandalized face. Hank chose that moment to lay his giant head in Logan's lap, drooling happily all over the pale fabric of his sweatpants.
You wiped a tear from your eye and squeezed Logan's knee. "Babe," you said, barely keeping it together. "Maybe you should loosen up a little. It's just one party."
Logan's jaw dropped. "You traitor."
For two solid days, the Utah Mammoth groupchat has been blowing up with plans for this ridiculous party. Michael renamed the chat "Cools’s House Party" and refused to change it back, even after Logan threatened to leave. Every few hours someone drops in with a new idea—Sean wanting to bring his own speaker system, Clayton offering to DJ, Barrett insisting they have to do a midnight toast to ring in the new year. Even John, the so-called responsible one, is texting about how many folding chairs they might need.
They all keep tagging Logan with excited thank you messages. "Thanks for hosting, man!" "You’re the best, bro." "Can’t wait to trash your living room lol." Logan has read none of it. His phone is face-down on the coffee table, vibrating periodically with fresh notifications he pointedly ignores while burrowed into your side. He hasn’t moved for hours except to shift even closer, whining under his breath every time you so much as lean away to get up for water.
Every time the chat dings he just makes this low, despairing groan in your ear. "They’re not really going to do it, right? Tell me they’re not serious." And you have to pat his hair and soothe him with your voice, pretending you’re not amused by how deeply betrayed he seems. It’s like watching a man mourn his own funeral.
By the time the night of the party actually comes around, the entire apartment feels like it’s buzzing with impending doom. You’re in the bathroom getting ready, applying makeup in the mirror—not anything fancy, but enough to feel cute. There’s music playing on your phone, something upbeat to keep your nerves in check. Logan is nowhere in sight at first—you assume he's sulking on the couch—until you hear the soft scuff of socks on the tile and he stumbles in behind you.
His arms go around your waist immediately, pulling you back into the solid wall of his chest. He’s unshaven, blond hair messy like he’s been raking his fingers through it all day. He smells like...well, nothing good. A little bit of sweat and stale hoodie. You wrinkle your nose but his arms just tighten, chin hooking over your shoulder as he peers at your reflection in the mirror with bleary devotion.
"You look so pretty," he mumbles against your neck, voice wrecked with exhaustion. "Stay here with me. Don’t go out there."
You squirm in his grip, trying not to laugh as you wiggle away just enough to breathe. "Logan. You need to shower. Seriously."
He sighs dramatically, pressing his forehead to your hair. "What’s the point? I’m not going downstairs. I’m not going to that...that den of sin."
You snort. "Sure, babe. Just humor me and get clean? For me?"
He groans but finally lets you go, stepping back with his hair sticking out in every direction, hoodie rumpled. "Fine. For you. But I’m coming right back up here after."
"Sure you are," you say breezily, smacking his butt as he walks past. He yelps like an affronted cat before pulling off his hoodie in one swoop, revealing the pale stripe of his back and the waistband of his worn sweats that he shucks off with a huff. He shoots you a scandalized look when you giggle.
"Stop staring," he mumbles, cheeks flushed.
"Stop being cute," you shoot back.
He flips you off half-heartedly before pulling the shower curtain closed. You can hear the spray start up, the hiss of hot water filling the room and the steam starting to gather. You lean against the counter, touching up your lipstick, the two of you bantering back and forth through the curtain.
"Bet you're regretting inviting them now," you call sweetly.
A wet slap of hand against tile. "I. Didn’t. Invite. Them."
"Mmm, okay, host with the most."
"You're a traitor."
"Love you too."
He huffs, water pattering around him. After a minute you start to smell your own shampoo—that floral, creamy scent that is unmistakably yours—and pause mid-swipe of eyeliner.
"Logan," you say slowly, suspiciously. "What the hell are you using in there?"
There's a guilty silence. Then, meekly: "...Your shampoo."
You groan, rolling your eyes even as you smile, utterly charmed. "Logan. That stuff is expensive."
Another pause. Then a muffled, petulant whine from behind the curtain: "It smells like you."
The steam is billowing so thick you can barely see your own reflection in the mirror, curling in soft, languid ribbons around your shoulders as you lean in, squinting through the fog to reapply your lipstick. Behind the faded floral curtain, there’s the slosh of water and the occasional clatter of Logan’s clumsy elbows smacking into the tiled walls. He’s muttering curses under his breath, voice muffled by the spray.
"You better not be using all my conditioner too," you call out, dragging the crimson color across your bottom lip, smacking it experimentally.
There’s a scandalized squeak from the other side. "I’m not a monster! Just the shampoo. And—maybe the face wash. It’s nice. Smells like you. Makes me feel...calm."
You roll your eyes so hard it aches, but you’re smiling anyway. The steam beads along your lashes, makes your hair start to frizz at the ends. You wipe your palm across the mirror to see better, leaving a squeaky streak. "Logan. Baby. You need to be more independent, you know. Like a big boy."
A strangled sound of outrage. You can picture him in there, long, pale limbs tangled up like a baby giraffe trying to stand, soap suds everywhere. "I am independent!" he protests shrilly. "I live alone!"
You snort, dabbing at your eyeliner. "You live alone but you use all my expensive products, text me 47 times a day, and act like the world is ending if I go out without you."
A sulky silence. Then a petulant, grudging: "That’s...not fair."
"Oh it’s absolutely fair," you sing-song, delighted. You lean against the counter, breathing in the lush scent of your own stolen shampoo wafting through the humid air, that creamy floral note that always made him bury his face in your neck. "You’re a total barnacle. An adorable, clingy, whiny barnacle."
There’s the sound of wet slapping as he presumably pounds a fist on the tile in protest. "Take it back."
You laugh, loud and bright, the sound bouncing off the tile. "Nope. Barnacle Logan. That’s your new contact name."
He groans, and the water hisses louder as he moves directly under the spray to sulk. "I hate you."
"You love me."
Silence. Then, quieter, raw and unguarded: "Yeah. I really do."
Your breath catches a little, the air thick and damp and heady with shampoo and soap and Logan’s ridiculous honesty. You glance down at the sink, pressing your lips together to keep from letting the giddy, swoony feeling show too much. "Yeah," you say, voice gentler. "I know."
There’s another pause, then a rustle of movement. "Hey. Come here."
You snort. "Logan. You’re naked."
"And?" he shoots back, indignant and muffled. "Nothing you haven’t seen before. I wanna see you."
You roll your eyes but your cheeks flush. You push off the counter, steam coiling around your legs like cats, and step closer to the tub. Your hand lands on the edge of the curtain. "Behave."
"No promises."
You peel it back just enough to see him—dripping wet, hair plastered to his forehead in dark gold strands, eyes huge and blue and so open it actually hurts to look at. He’s squinting through the steam at you like you’re the only thing that matters. Water traces the slope of his collarbone, pools in the sharp hollow of his throat.
He looks ridiculous. And beautiful. And so, so yours.
You lean over the edge of the tub, the steam curling thick and warm between you, and cup his flushed, wet face in both hands. He startles a little at the sudden closeness, those wide blue eyes blinking under the drizzle of the shower, darkened blond strands of hair plastered to his forehead in a dripping halo. He opens his mouth to protest—maybe to tease you back, maybe to tell you you're going to get your clothes wet—but you don’t give him the chance. You surge forward, kissing him hard.
He makes a startled, muffled sound that vibrates into your lips, arms coming up automatically to wrap around your waist and pull you even closer. Water splashes over the edge of the tub, soaking into your socks, but you don’t care. His mouth is so warm, so desperate. He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that can save him, like every exhale is your name. One hand scrabbles at your hip, slick with water and soap, trying to keep you from pulling away even as you both break to breathe, your noses brushing, breath mingling in the humid air.
"Logan," you whisper against his lips, voice breathless. "You’re gonna make me soak through my clothes."
"Good," he huffs, stubborn and so painfully sincere. "Stay. Don’t go anywhere."
You give him another quick, hard kiss, biting at his bottom lip until he groans and tilts his head back to bare his throat, those pale lashes fluttering shut. You pull away with a soft, wet smack and press your forehead to his, both of you panting, the sound of the shower still roaring around you. "I have to go greet everyone," you murmur, fingers stroking the slippery strands of hair back from his forehead. "They’re going to be here any minute."
He lets out the most pitiful whine you’ve ever heard—a real, guttural, full-bodied sound of protest that makes you snort and slap a hand over your mouth. His grip on your waist tightens, like he's about to haul you in with him fully clothed. "No," he moans. "Tell them to fuck off. Tell them the party’s canceled. Tell them you’re mine."
Your heart flips at that—because even when he’s being the clingiest, sulkiest barnacle on earth, he’s yours, and he’s so earnest about it. But you manage to push at his chest, gently but firmly, feeling the wet heat of his bare skin under your palms. "I’ll come back," you promise. "But you need to hurry up. Please, for me. Clean up. Put on something decent."
He groans again, slumping under the spray, water rivuleting down the planes of his chest. "Hate this. Hate them. Hate you."
You roll your eyes. "I love you too."
You slip out of the bathroom with one last look—he’s pouting like an angry, damp cat, hair dripping in his eyes, water sheeting over his narrow shoulders. You shake your head fondly, pulling the door closed behind you and padding down the hall. The music is still going on your phone, something bass-heavy and cheerful, and you hum along despite your own nerves buzzing like static under your skin.
Then—the doorbell rings.
You freeze for half a second before cursing softly and rushing down the stairs. The apartment is already in disarray: furniture scooted back to make room for dancing, twinkle lights strung haphazardly over the curtain rods, a folding table in the corner that Michael insisted would make a perfect bar. You smooth down your hair, wipe the lingering steam-sweat from your forehead, and put on your brightest, fakest host smile as you unlock and swing open the door.
Michael bursts in first, arms thrown wide like he’s entering a wrestling ring, a grin splitting his face. "THE PARTY HAS ARRIVED!" he bellows, loud enough to make you wince. Behind him, Sean and John pile in carrying bags of chips, solo cups, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire case of cheap beer. Clayton is fiddling with a portable speaker in one arm, waving at you distractedly with the other. Barrett comes last, toting a bottle of champagne and wearing a smug grin, his girlfriend tucked under his arm, rolling her eyes at the chaos but smiling anyway.
The cold night air spills in behind them, smelling of frost and car exhaust. You stumble back a step as the whole Mammoth horde pours in, stomping snow off their boots, laughing, shouting greetings. Someone shoves a case of seltzers into your hands. Another flicks on the living room lamp so hard it rattles.
"Welcome to Cools’s house, where the drinks are free and the host is MIA!" Michael crows, earning a round of hoots and cheers. Sean is already throwing his coat on the back of your armchair, cramming bags of chips into Logan’s kitchen cabinets like he's moving in for good.
Sean’s girlfriend leans in to kiss your cheek in greeting, her perfume warm and powdery. "You look cute," she says conspiratorially over the din. "Brave woman, hosting this circus."
You grin back, frazzled but game. "I think Logan's planning to hide in the bathroom the entire night."
Michael catches that, snorting as he cracks open a beer. "He fuckin' better not. I'm getting him drunk tonight if it kills me."
You wince, casting a glance over your shoulder toward the dark hallway. Somewhere up there, Logan is probably listening in horror, hair still wet, face buried in his hoodie like it can save him from this social Armageddon.
And you’re pretty sure you can hear him groan from all the way upstairs.
Logan finally slouched downstairs after your pleading, hair still damp, face sulky and flushed from the too-hot shower, hoodie hanging off his sharp collarbones. He tried to sneak past Michael like a hunted animal, but Michael was on him in seconds, slinging an arm around his shoulders with all the subtlety of a bear trap.
“THE MAN OF THE HOUR!” Michael roared, nearly toppling them both as the entire room whooped. Logan gave you a look of naked betrayal as you half-laughed, half-cringed. The Mammoth boys chanted his name, loud enough to rattle the twinkle lights. Logan muttered something vicious under his breath—something that sounded suspiciously like "I hate all of you"—but they ignored it entirely, someone pressing a red Solo cup into his hand before he could escape.
He clutched it like it might bite him. You watched him sniff it warily, lips curling in distaste. “What is this?”
“Vodka-cran, easy starter,” Sean assured him with mock-sincerity. “It’s basically juice.”
Logan narrowed his eyes at it like it had insulted his mother. But everyone was watching, Barrett recording on his phone while Michael and Josh jeered, so he raised it to his lips with the kind of solemn resignation most people reserved for signing organ donation papers. He winced as he swallowed. The room exploded in cheers.
That first drink went straight to his ears, turning them a brilliant pink. He tried to retreat, but Michael physically herded him back to the makeshift bar. “Oh no. Oh no no no. We’re just getting started.”
You tried to intervene, grabbing Logan’s wrist, feeling the fine tremor under your fingers. He wouldn’t quite meet your eyes. "You don't have to—"
“Gotta,” he mumbled, voice cracking. “They’ll never shut up.”
Shot number two was tequila. Someone poured salt onto the back of his hand with excessive ceremony, Barrett shoving a lime wedge between his fingers. Logan gave you the most pathetic, beseeching look you’d ever seen in your life as the salt burned against his pale skin. You tried to hold it together, but your grin cracked wide. He glared at you the entire time he licked it off, slammed the shot, and bit the lime so hard the juice squirted down his chin.
By shot number three—some unholy cinnamon whiskey—his eyes had gone glazed, pupils blown wide. He was leaning on the counter, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair falling in damp, unruly waves around his face. He giggled at something Michael said that wasn't even remotely funny, nose scrunching, teeth showing in that dopey way that made your heart ache. You were buzzing yourself, three drinks in and warm all over, but nothing compared to Logan. He was gone.
At some point, the music changed to something filthy, bass so deep it shook your ribs. The living room morphed into a writhing mess of limbs and laughter and glitter from someone's spilled craft bin. You lost track of Logan until you found him in the kitchen, slumped against the fridge, blinking at nothing.
“Hey,” you laughed, voice sticky with sugar and booze. “You alive?”
He startled violently, hitting the fridge so hard the magnets clattered to the floor. Then he focused on you. And lit up like the goddamn sunrise.
“BABE,” he crowed, flinging his arms out. You nearly toppled as he grabbed you, mashing his mouth to yours with all the grace of a drunk toddler. His lips were hot and wet and eager, tongue clumsy and greedy. You squeaked against him as his hands fumbled under your shirt, icy from holding his cup, making you arch away with a breathless shriek.
“Logan, oh my God—”
He just whined, chasing your mouth, trying to press you back against the fridge door so hard it rattled. The whole time he muttered nonsense, slurred and urgent: “So pretty. Fuck, so pretty. Mine. You’re mine. Don’t wanna share. Hate them. Hate this. Just wanna—wanna be—fuck—”
You were breathless, laughing helplessly even as you kissed him back, his hair sticking to your lips with sweat. Someone wolf-whistled from the doorway and Logan actually growled at them, clamping both arms around your waist possessively. He was shaking with it, chest heaving, pupils blown so wide there was barely any blue left.
“Baby,” you tried, voice soft despite your giggles. “You’re so drunk.”
He shook his head violently. “’M fine. More shots.”
“Absolutely not.”
But Michael was there, devil on his shoulder, pressing another tequila shot into Logan’s wavering hand. You watched, horrified and delighted, as he tried to throw it back and ended up gagging halfway through, coughing so hard he nearly doubled over. He shoved the glass at Michael, glaring like he’d been personally betrayed. Then he turned back to you, eyes wet, lip trembling. “They’re mean.”
You snorted. “They’re your friends.”
He lunged forward again, pressing his nose into your neck, inhaling so hard it was obscene. “Just wanna smell you,” he slurred. “Smell so good. Better than them. Better than anything.”
You were so drunk you just cradled his head, carding your fingers through his damp hair. “Okay, okay. Calm down. We’ll get water.”
But he refused to let you go. He pressed you into the fridge so firmly your breath hitched, kissing your neck sloppily, moaning in your ear like he couldn’t help himself. You could barely breathe for laughter and heat, aware of your friends cackling and cheering behind you. Somewhere in the din Michael shouted, “Get a room!” and Logan gave them the finger without looking up, too busy dragging his mouth across your collarbone.
Eventually you managed to pry him off with promises of more kisses if he drank some water. He went, whining the whole time, clutching your hand like a lifeline. When you entered the living room for the countdown to midnight and another sloppy kiss, he flipped off Sean with both hands and shouted something incoherent about "stealing his girl" even though Sean was dancing with John and his girlfriend and had never looked more unimpressed.
***
It’s well past midnight, the apartment a humid, chaotic mess of music and half-shouted jokes and the sticky tang of spilled liquor on laminate. You’re trying to catch your breath in the kitchen, plastic cup sweating in your hand, when you hear the hooting and cackling from the living room.
You peer around the corner, and there he is. Logan. Your Logan. Wedged into the battered sectional with half the team draped around him, a joint passing lazily between them. Barrett is narrating something absolutely unhinged, voice pitching up and down, while Michael hoots with laughter. Clayton is half-asleep on the floor, eyes glassy and red. And in the middle of it all is Logan, his long body slouched deep into the couch cushions, hoodie sliding off one shoulder. His hair is messy, flattened where someone ruffled it, his cheeks flushed crimson and eyes glassy, dilated so wide they’re all pupil. He’s giggling like he can’t stop, mouth wet and shiny, hand fluttering to his chest every time someone passes him the joint.
When he brings it to his lips, he misses the first try. Michael roars with laughter, slapping Logan’s knee hard enough to make him yelp and nearly drop it. He fumbles for it with shaking fingers, eyes so wide they look alien, a scared little animal in a snare trap. But then he takes the hit, cheeks hollowing, eyes closing in bliss. The exhale is ragged, smoky, and when he opens his eyes he’s not even seeing them—just staring at nothing, mouth slack.
You feel a cold dread pool in your gut. That’s too much. He’s too gone. You shove your drink onto the counter, stalking forward with your pulse hammering in your ears. When you reach the couch, he doesn’t even notice you at first. He’s blinking slowly, breathing shallow, fingers twitching like he’s forgotten how to hold them still.
"Logan," you say sharply, voice slicing through the din. His head jerks, eyes struggling to focus. He blinks at you with a slack, confused smile, as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re real. "Hey. Hey, baby. Come on. Get up."
He tries. He really does. His legs kick uselessly against the floor, his arms flailing for purchase. You take his hands, feeling them clammy and limp in yours, and tug. He slumps forward onto you with a groan, forehead knocking into your collarbone. His hair is damp with sweat, the scent of cheap weed clinging to him like a second skin.
"Nnnnn—where’re we goin’?" he slurs against your shirt. His breath is warm and reeks of smoke. Someone hoots from the couch—Michael, probably—but you don’t look back. You just wind an arm tight around his ribs, feeling them flex as he breathes shallow and ragged. "I’m—I’m chillin’, s’good. S’fine."
"It’s not fine," you mutter, voice low but urgent as you push your shoulder under his and haul. He whines, resisting at first, but his knees buckle easily. His weight collapses into you. "We’re going somewhere quiet. Come on."
He’s mumbling the entire way down the hall, limp and boneless, forehead pressing into your temple, breath hot and panting. "Don’—don’ wanna go. S’party. M’partyyyyy…" His voice cracks into a pitiful whine, and your heart twists painfully. You hush him gently, hand smoothing over his side, feeling the tremor under your palm.
You drag him—nearly carrying him—into his little den. His so-called man cave. But really it’s this absurdly gentle space, all warm throws and oversized pillows and three different candles in vanilla and sandalwood that he only lights when it’s just the two of you. There’s a tiny bookshelf in the corner with all the paperbacks he actually finishes, battered spines and dog-eared pages. A battered record player humming with faint static, the pile of vinyls arranged so carefully by mood.
You kick the door shut with your foot and lower him onto the couch. He collapses like a marionette with cut strings, arms falling limp at his sides. His head rolls to the pillow, blinking slowly up at you, pupils so wide it’s all black, the blue a thin, trembling halo. "S’you," he slurs, voice cracking with wetness. "Babe. Babe I—I can’—feels weird."
Your heart aches so badly it’s a physical pain. You drop to your knees beside him, cupping his flushed, sweaty face in both hands. His skin is so hot. His lashes flutter like he’s fighting sleep, or tears. "I know," you whisper, smoothing your thumb over the wet corner of his eye. "I know, love. Shh. You’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you."
He whimpers, pressing his cheek desperately into your palm. "I don’—I don’ like it," he slurs, voice breaking. His eyes squeeze shut, two tears leaking free and cutting clean tracks through the flush of his cheeks. "’M too high. Feels bad. Don’—make it stop."
You brush the tears away with shaking fingers, your own throat tight. "I know. I know, baby. Just breathe. Just look at me, okay? Just me. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere."
He sobs once, a broken little sound, trying to curl in on himself. You push him gently onto his back, tucking the throw around his shaking shoulders. You reach for the old green candle on his nightstand, the one that smells like cedar and moss, and light it with trembling fingers. The match flares and dies, leaving warm amber glow and soothing scent in the air. The static from the record player hisses and pops like a fire, and you keep petting him, gentle and rhythmic.
"Here," you murmur, pulling his hand to your chest so he can feel your heart beating. "Breathe with me, okay? In… and out…" You exaggerate it, deep and slow, and after a moment, he tries to copy you. It’s shuddery, hitching, but he tries. "That’s it. Sweet boy. So good for me."
His eyes crack open, watery and unfocused, but fixed on you like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth. His fingers flex against your chest, grabbing for you like a lifeline. "Love you," he mumbles, voice shredded and raw.
You bite your lip against the sob threatening your own throat, leaning in to kiss his damp hair, your lips pressed to his temple. "I love you too," you whisper, voice wrecked. "More than anything. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere. Just keep breathing with me, baby. Just keep breathing."
He’s shivering despite the warmth of the room, lashes clumped wetly against his flushed cheeks, eyes struggling to stay open. You can see it building—the way his mouth twists, the soft groan vibrating in his chest. His stomach gives another loud, ominous churn, and he whimpers like a wounded animal.
“Oh God…” he croaks, breath hitching. “I’m gonna—”
You sit bolt upright, looking wildly around the dim little den. Your gaze lands on the battered old trash can tucked by his desk—you lunge for it, dragging it across the carpet with an ugly scraping sound. He barely gets it into his lap before he folds over it with a wet, miserable retch, his whole body curling in on itself. You wince, but your hands move automatically, sliding into that soft, fine hair of his, sweeping it back from his clammy face as he chokes and sputters.
“Shh, breathe—Logan, baby, it’s okay. Let it out, I’ve got you.”
He gags again, fingers scrabbling at the rim of the bin, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes. His shoulders jerk with each heave, the wretched sounds echoing off the walls. You feel the way his spine arches under your hand as you rub slow, steady circles between his shoulder blades, voice dropping to that low, soothing hush you know calms him even at the best of times.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here. Just get it up, okay? Don’t fight it. I’m right here. That’s it—good boy.”
He shudders, spitting weakly into the bin, making a wounded keening sound that tears your heart in half. The candle you lit still burns on the little table, its warm cedar scent wrapping the room in sleepy hush, but it can’t mask the sharp, acrid stink of sick. You try not to breathe it in, focusing instead on Logan’s shivering form. When he lifts his head at last, he looks ruined—eyes red and glassy, drool slicking his chin, blond hair tangled in damp ropes around his ears.
He tries to speak and his voice breaks on a sob. “’M sorry. I’m so—so gross—”
“Stop that,” you whisper fiercely, cupping his hot, damp cheek. “None of that. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
He whines, forehead pressing to your palm, tears leaking freely now, and you press your lips to his temple, feeling the salt on his skin. Your other hand slides down his back, stroking firmly, grounding him. He gives another weak gag and you nudge the bin closer, steadying him as another miserable retch wracks his ribs. You keep your voice steady, calm, even though your own throat feels tight.
“That’s it. Breathe, baby. Just breathe. Good boy…you’re doing so good.”
It feels like forever before he finally slumps back, the trash can tipping sideways onto the carpet. He makes a pitiful sound and wipes at his mouth with the back of his shaking hand, eyes fluttering half-shut. You haul it away quickly, tucking it aside, then sink back onto your knees, gathering him into your arms like you’re scooping up something precious. He doesn’t resist—just melts, all 180 lanky pounds of him draped against you like a boneless cat.
You press kisses into his hair, his temple, the sticky line of his cheekbone. “There we go. That’s better. Shh. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
His fingers twist weakly in your shirt, breath hitching in exhausted sobs. “Don’t go,” he slurs. “Please…stay…”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you promise, voice breaking a little. You shift until you’re half lying on the couch with him, pulling the soft green throw over both of you. He clings to you like a drowning man, nose buried in your throat, the scent of sweat and sick and your stolen shampoo clinging to both of you.
Your fingers card gently through his hair, still damp, the fine strands sliding between them like silk. His breathing evens out slowly, the jerky hitch of sobs tapering into exhausted, damp snuffles. The candle flickers, warm and low, its light dancing on the walls, casting both of you in a sleepy glow.
You can feel the shudder of his ribs as he exhales, voice a hoarse whisper against your skin. “Love you. So—so much. ’M sorry.”
You press another kiss into his hair, squeezing him tight. “Love you more. Nothing to be sorry for. I’ve got you. Always.”
Eventually the tremors in his limbs stop. His fingers relax, curling slack against your side. His breathing deepens, warm and damp against your collarbone. You feel your own eyelids grow heavy, every muscle sinking into the couch beneath you, the hush of the room and the weight of him pressed close lulling you down with him.
You fall asleep like that—tangled together, surrounded by the low glow of candlelight, your fingers still buried in his hair, the scent of cedar and shampoo thick in the air. His cheek is pressed against your neck, breath warm and slow, and even in sleep, his arm is locked around you tight enough that you know he’s never letting go.
You wake to a vicious, throbbing headache that pulses behind your eyes in time with your heartbeat, a relentless pounding that makes you squeeze them shut harder against the early winter light filtering through the blinds. The air is stale with the smell of last night’s spilled beer and extinguished candles, sweet wax clinging in the back of your throat. But worse is the weight draped over you—Logan’s entire lanky form, half on top of you, cheek mashed into your collarbone. He’s drooling, warm and damp, breath hitching in little huffs against your skin.
You groan and shift, and it only makes him grumble in protest. He tightens his arm around you instinctively, long fingers flexing on your ribs, his nose burrowing deeper into your shoulder. A line of cool drool smears wetly along your shirt. You wince, stifling laughter despite the pounding in your skull, and gently card your fingers through his mussed blond hair. It’s soft as silk, damp with sweat at the roots, sticking up in all directions like he’s been electrocuted. When you speak it’s a scratchy rasp: "Logan. Baby. You’re...kind of...soaking me."
He just snuffles wetly, mouth opening with a faint click as more drool leaks out. You sigh, your headache flaring. It takes a careful, painstaking operation to pry him off you—lifting one of his slack arms from around your ribs, shifting his bony knees that have somehow jammed between yours, wincing as he makes sad, wounded sounds the entire time. Finally you ease his head onto the pillow, where he promptly flops with a sleepy whine, lashes fluttering against flushed, tear-stained cheeks. He’s out cold again in seconds.
You take a minute to breathe. Your own mouth tastes like stale vodka and regret. You wipe at your collarbone, grimacing at the sticky damp spot on your shirt, then push yourself up onto shaky legs. The candle is still guttering in its dish on the low table, half its wax melted over the side. You snuff it out with a hiss of your fingers and stand there blinking, pressing your palms to your aching temples. The world seems too bright, too loud, your own pulse a roaring static in your ears.
When you finally push open the door, it’s like stepping into a war zone. The living room is an unholy disaster—cups everywhere, sticky with dried, congealed mixer, beer cans rolling underfoot. Someone’s spilled salsa across the rug in a congealed smear of red and orange. The coffee table is tilted on one leg, with a collapsed folding chair half beneath it like roadkill. There’s a single cowboy boot perched inexplicably on the back of the couch, and the twinkle lights are hanging sad and broken, half of them blinking erratically like a dying star. The air reeks of booze, sweat, and the ghost of weed smoke, stale and sour.
You survey it for a good thirty seconds, lip curled in pure horror. Then you take a single decisive step back. "Nope," you mutter, voice raw. "Not today."
You shuffle back down the hall, ignoring the throbbing behind your eyes, socks scritching on the floor. When you re-enter the little den, Logan hasn’t moved at all—still sprawled sideways on the couch, hair fanned across the pillow in a blond halo, mouth open in a soft, slack O. He’s snoring lightly, one hand curled against his chest like a child clutching a security blanket. Your heart squeezes painfully tight at the sight. Even after everything, he’s so impossibly soft.
You ease back down onto the couch and gently gather his head into your lap. He mumbles something incomprehensible, nose scrunching as his lashes flutter, but he doesn’t wake. You start stroking your fingers through his hair, combing out the snarls carefully, smoothing it back from his flushed, vulnerable face. He lets out a small, broken sigh, sinking deeper against you. The room is quiet except for the hum of the furnace and the low hiss of winter wind outside.
You lose track of time like that—just carding your fingers through the fine strands of his hair, pressing your thumb to the arch of his cheekbone, memorizing every freckle, every faint scar. The doorbell of his phone buzzes against the floor, vibrating loud and obnoxious. Logan flinches in his sleep, letting out a pathetic squeak, and you shush him softly, pulling the phone closer. It lights up with "Michael calling."
You hesitate, then swipe to answer with your free hand, pressing it to your ear. "Yeah?"
There’s a beat of surprised silence. Then Michael’s voice, lower and rougher than usual. "Oh. Shit. It’s you. Uh. Hey. Sorry."
You glance down at Logan, who is drooling anew in your lap, utterly defenseless. You brush his hair off his forehead. "Hey," you rasp back, voice kinder than you mean for it to be. "He’s out. Like...really out."
Michael exhales loudly. You hear the scrape of a chair, a mumbled curse. "Yeah. Fuck. Look...I know we’re assholes. I just...I wanted to say sorry, okay? For pushing him so hard. We just...we just want him around more. He disappears for weeks. Doesn’t answer sometimes. It’s...it’s not the same without him."
You swallow, your throat dry and sore. Your fingers never stop moving in Logan’s hair. He nuzzles closer, smearing spit on your thigh. "I know," you say quietly. "He knows too."
Michael sniffs. He sounds uncharacteristically serious. "I know he’s...like that. I just...look, can you maybe...I dunno...tell him to make that his resolution? To come out sometimes? For us?"
You let out a slow exhale, eyes stinging. Logan’s breathing deepens, lashes fluttering, lips parting on a sleepy sigh. You tighten your fingers in his hair, thumb brushing over the pulse at his temple. "We’ll see," you murmur. "I’ll try."
Michael clears his throat. "Okay. Cool. Uh. Tell him...tell him we love the bastard. Even if he’s a fucking hermit."
You huff a quiet, watery laugh. "Yeah. I will."
You hang up without waiting for anything else, letting the phone fall gently to the carpet. Logan shifts in your lap with a soft whine, blinking blearily up at you. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot, the blue of them watery and shining like sea glass. His lips are chapped, parted on a shallow breath. He looks wrecked. He looks perfect.
"Hi," you whisper, fingers brushing along his cheek. He blinks slowly, confusion melting into sleepy wonder, pupils dilating as he focuses on you. A dopey, adoring smile curves his mouth.
"Hi," he whispers back, voice wrecked and raw. He shifts, burrowing closer, nuzzling into your belly with a pathetic little groan. "Mine."
Your heart twists so hard it hurts. You press a shaking kiss to his forehead, cradling him tighter. "Always," you promise, voice breaking. "Always yours. My little homebody."