3:07 a.m.
john logan x reader
summary: you wake up anxious for no reason you can explain. logan wakes up too.
warnings: anxiety/panic attack, detailed descriptions of physical panic symptoms, fear of abandonment, mentions of being made to feel like a burden, hurt/comfort, soft boyfriend logan, fluff.
The first thing you notice is your heart, slamming against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.
It’s beating too fast, every frantic thud rattling your chest and clawing its way up your throat. For a split second, you’re convinced you must have woken from a nightmare, but there’s nothing—no dream, no echo of shouting, no footsteps creaking across the floorboards. Just the thick, sour taste of fear flooding your mouth for absolutely no reason at all.
Only the dark outline of Logan’s bedroom, the familiar shapes warped by shadows, and the absolute certainty that something is wrong.
The clock on his nightstand reads 3:07 a.m.
Logan is asleep behind you, his arm draped heavy and warm across your waist, his face buried in the pillow so close you can feel his breath stirring the hair at the back of your neck. Most nights, the weight of him is enough to anchor you, to press the world back into place. Tonight, it barely touches the panic crawling beneath your skin.
You drag in a shaky breath through your nose and let it out as slowly as you can, counting the seconds, hoping your body will listen.
Your chest tightens anyway, squeezing until it feels like your ribs might crack.
“Fuck,” you whisper.
Logan shifts, and you freeze. He has practice in a few hours. He’d barely stayed awake through the movie downstairs before pulling you up to bed, and Garrett already considers six-thirty a reasonable time to start yelling at people.
You don’t want to wake him because your brain decided to lose its mind in the middle of the night.
Carefully, you peel Logan’s arm away and push yourself upright. The room tilts, the shadows stretching and warping until nothing feels steady. You press your shaking hands between your knees, knuckles white, and stare at the thin, accusing strip of light beneath the door.
You list off the facts in your head, desperate for something solid. Logan’s room. Dean is probably asleep across the hall, TV flickering blue behind his door. Garrett’s at the end of the hallway. Tucker’s passed out on the couch downstairs. Everyone is exactly where they should be.
You are safe. You repeat it, over and over, as if saying it enough times might make your body believe it.
Your body refuses to listen. Every muscle stays locked, waiting for something awful to happen.
The mattress moves behind you.
“Where’re you going?” Logan’s voice is rough with sleep.
“Nowhere.”
“Why’re you sitting up?”
“I couldn’t sleep. Go back to bed.”
“I am in bed.”
The lamp clicks on. Logan pushes himself against the headboard, hair sticking up and a red pillow mark across his cheek. He looks half asleep until his eyes settle on you.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay.”
You glance over. “Okay?”
“Not okay like I believe you.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Okay like I’m waiting for the real answer.”
Your hands tremble harder beneath the light. “I woke up anxious.”
“How bad?”
“Pretty bad.”
“Panic attack?”
You nod.
Logan reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand and holds it out. “Drink.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Didn’t ask.”
You give him a look but take it. The plastic crackles beneath your grip, water shifting as you raise it to your mouth. Logan places his hand under yours, steadying the bottle without mentioning the shaking.
“Better?” he asks after you swallow.
“No.”
“Worth a try.”
You set the bottle down, fingers still trembling, and pull your knees tight to your chest. Logan shifts closer, his shoulder pressing solid and warm into yours, grounding you with the simple weight of his presence.
“Do you know what started it?”
“No.” Your voice catches, thin and unsteady. “That’s the worst part. I was asleep. I was completely fine, and now it feels like something horrible is happening and I can’t even see it.”
“But you know nothing is?”
“Yes.”
“And it still feels real?”
“Yes, John.”
“I’m asking.”
“I know.”
You press your palm hard against your chest, desperate to quiet the pounding underneath. Logan’s hand closes gently around your wrist, pulling it away before you can leave a mark.
“You’re gonna bruise yourself.”
“Maybe it’ll distract me.”
“Probably not in a helpful way.”
He keeps your hand in his, thumb tracing slow, steady circles over your knuckles. The rhythm is hypnotic, something for your mind to cling to when everything else feels like it’s spinning.
“You want to get up?” he asks. “Walk around? Go downstairs?”
“And do what?”
“Wake Dean and make this everybody’s problem.”
A short laugh escapes you.
Logan smiles. “There we go.”
“That wasn’t funny.”
“You laughed.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.”
The panic doesn’t leave, but the laugh cracks it open just enough to let in a little air.
“Talk to me,” you whisper.
“About what?”
“Anything.”
“That’s dangerous.” Logan leans back against the headboard. “You missed Dean trying to cook chicken.”
You turn toward him. “What?”
“After you came upstairs, he decided he needed protein.”
“At midnight?”
“Apparently his muscles were having an emergency.”
Your mouth twitches.
“Tucker found him holding a raw chicken breast in one hand and a beer in the other.”
“Did he cook it?”
“He tried. Tucker took the pan away.”
“What did Dean do?”
“Called him controlling.”
You laugh again, quieter but real.
Logan keeps talking, filling the room with stories that are so stupid they almost sound made up. Garrett found wet clothes abandoned in the washing machine and threatened to throw everything into the yard. Dean blamed Tucker, even though every single sock was his. Then they argued for twenty minutes about whether cereal actually counts as dinner. It’s ridiculous. It helps.
The stories are stupid.
They help.
The room begins to feel familiar again. You notice the hum of the fan, the smell of detergent on the sheets, and Logan’s warm shoulder against yours. Your heart is still racing, but it has stopped climbing.
Logan reaches for his laptop. “Movie?”
“You need sleep.”
“So do you.”
“You have practice.”
“I’ve played hungover.”
“That’s not a defense.”
“It is technically a fact.”
He finds a comedy you’ve both watched too many times and sets the volume low. Then he pats his thigh.
“Come here.”
“I’m sweating.”
“Hot.”
“John.”
“Still hot.”
“I’m having a panic attack.”
“And somehow you remain attractive. Impressive, really.”
You roll your eyes, but you move anyway, curling up with your head in his lap. Logan tugs the blanket around your shoulders, tucking you in like you might fall apart if he lets go, and runs his fingers gently through your hair.
The movie murmurs quietly from the laptop, barely more than background noise. You focus on the warmth beneath your cheek, the slow, careful movement of his hand through your hair, and the way your breathing finally starts to match his.
“Sorry,” you whisper.
“For what?”
“Waking you.”
“You didn’t.”
“You were asleep.”
“And now I’m awake.”
“That’s what waking someone means.”
Logan looks down at you. “I woke up because you moved. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You pick at a loose thread on his sweatpants. “Still.”
“Stop apologizing every time you need something.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Kind of.”
His hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb brushing softly over your skin. “You’d wake up for me.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because it’s you.”
“And you’re you.”
“That made no sense.”
“It made sense to me.”
The sharp edge of panic has dulled, replaced by something heavier and older. The kind of fear that settles in your bones, built from every time you ever needed comfort and it made someone angry.
“What if you get tired of this?” you ask.
Logan’s hand stills. “Of what?”
“Me waking you up. Needing you. Being difficult.”
His expression sharpens. “You’re not difficult.”
“You say that now.”
“I’ll say it tomorrow.”
“John.”
“Baby, I’m not leaving because you had a bad night.”
“I didn’t say you were leaving.”
“You were thinking it.”
You look away, throat tight, wishing you could hide inside the blanket.
Logan sighs and leans back against the pillows. “I hate seeing you feel like this. I hate that I can’t fix it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His mouth lifts slightly. “Kind of.”
A small laugh slips out.
Logan brushes his thumb beneath your eye, catching a tear before it reaches your cheek. “I’m not tired of you.”
“You’re literally tired.”
“It’s three in the morning.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll recover.”
Your eyes burn again, hot and stinging, and you bury your face in his stomach, hiding from the world for a second.
“Don’t,” you mumble.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to tell you your mascara looks great.”
“I’m not wearing mascara.”
“Then you’re naBy the middle of the movie, your hands have finally stopped shaking. The pressure in your chest is still there, heavy and stubborn, but it doesn’t feel impossible anymore. You can breathe around it.here, but it no longer feels impossible to carry.
“Better?” Logan asks.
“A little.”
“Normal shitty or really shitty?”
“Medium shitty.”
“Progress.”
You take his hand and press it over your heart, needing the weight of him there. His palm is warm through your shirt, thumb moving in slow, steady circles that almost match your heartbeat.
“Love you,” you whisper.
He leans down and kisses your forehead. “Love you too.”
“What if it happens again?”
“Then you wake me again.”
“You have practice.”
“I’ll tell Graham you kept me up all night.”
“He’ll kill me.”
“He’ll kill me first.”
“True.”
Logan slides lower against the pillows, never moving his hand from your chest, as if he can keep your heart steady just by holding it.
“Close your eyes.”
“Bossy.”
“You like it.”
“Sometimes.”
“Good enough.”
The movie continues quietly in the background. Somewhere downstairs, the refrigerator opens, followed by Tucker loudly demanding to know which asshole left an empty milk carton inside.
Logan’s breathing settles into a slow, steady rhythm above you, and, almost without meaning to, your body starts to follow.
The last thing you feel before falling asleep is his hand resting over your heart, holding it as though it has never been too much for him.