a series about a young girl who happens to be neighbors with the Mister Howlett, Logan, and has sinful thoughts of him that she wishes for it to be true, but little did she realize, it's all coming together.
warning: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Mostly the series will be smutty, too many unprotected sex, oral female and male receiving, daddykink, dom!logan, sub!reader, bratty!reader, mean!logan, and many more filthy stuff and probably fluffs too, you'll see ;)
this series part's or drabbles (if there are) can be found under "Logan and Peach" tags in my profile 🍑
an: forgot where the divider is from but if you’re the maker, do let me know so i can tag you!
The flaming heat of the mid-summer afternoon sizzled down to tepid embers with the arrival of a pleasant sprinkling of rain. The light pitter-patter of rain on your windshield coupled with the slow, easy jazz that flowed out of the radio made for pleasant company on your drive out to the small shopping center in town. A cool wave of contentment washes over you, you relish it. Finally, you feel as though you’re in a place where the entire world doesn’t feel like it’s crumbling around you. Staring out onto the open road ahead of you, a faded white line divides the smooth tarmac surface. Evergreen trees stand proudly on either side of you, the heady scent of pine is thick in the air, amplified by the rain. A sad, sullen thought slinks through your mind.
Was there even a point to bearing witness to all these beautiful things if you had to see them alone?
Thoughts like these creep up on you sometimes. Getting out of a four-year relationship that had you twisted from the inside out will do that to a person. It took you well over a year to process. Countless hours of gentle parenting yourself and using every crappy, overly marketed self-help tool at your disposal to breathe, and mantra, and journal your way through everything. And it worked, partially at least.
Learning to live with yourself was a little harder than expected, but being out here helped. Perhaps it was because of the mountains. Weathered and different from how they once were- carved and indented by the hands of men… But still strong, still present. And maybe, you thought, you should extend the same grace to yourself. Acknowledge that things inside and around you have changed, but never underestimating the importance of the fact that you are still present. Present despite every setback, disappointment and broken heart- and that is no small feat.
You smile. Fuck yeah, emotional regulation. Just as a small blossom of hope sprouted in your chest, it was crushed by the heavy boot of your car engine sputtering, backfiring and then smoking profusely. No. Sweet, suffering Jesus, no. You were too far from the town to get a signal on your phone and were too unfamiliar with the surrounding area to know where the nearest tow company was. You supposed you could just walk to the grocery store you were heading to and ask someone there- but it was at least five miles and visibility was shit because of the rain.
You pull over and rest your head in your hands for a brief moment, recalling all the choices that led you here. You didn’t even have the luxury of blaming all of this on the impulsivity of a drunken night out, no. You sat, and thought, and researched about all of this. This came to you, bit by bit, with a clear mind. A rasp of wry laughter escapes your parted lips. At the angst of it all, the fucking absurdity.
“Alright.” You mutter to yourself, gathering quiet strength stored deep down and get out of the car. You pop the rain spattered hood of your car and assess the damage- the engine smokes, a great roaring heat hits you as soon as it’s given an escape from the confines of the car. “Shit.” Yeah, shit. You wouldn’t be able to fix this, not without some divine imparting of mechanical wisdom. You wait for a moment, collecting yourself.
Your silent prayer to the heavens is interrupted by the distant rumble of an engine. As the sound grows louder, you look up, hoping for a good Samaritan that could aid your current predicament. A red truck makes its way into your vision, an oasis in the desert of your despair. The pickup rolls to a stop, and your eyes move through the rain to see the figure stepping out.
He is a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and rugged. The brown plaid of his shirt is muted by years of wear- muscles bulge under the fabric. His hair is a warm chestnut, framing his face perfectly. He’s a few feet away, eyeing you with a mix of curiosity and what you took to be mild annoyance- as if this situation was an inconvenience to him. The silence he shrouded himself in was almost tactile. It fills his immediate surroundings with an unspoken reserve that suggested a man chained in solitude. As he approaches, brows furrowed and lips set in a solid line, you notice the shining hazel of his eyes- they’re soft. Surrounded by harsh lines and weighed down by his sullen expression, but soft, nonetheless.
“You alright?” The stranger enquires, eyebrows raising a hair in concern. He looks behind you, almost through you, and lays his sights on the wispy, darkened smoke rising from your engine.
“Yeah- I mean… No. Not really. Stupid fucking car just gave out on me.” You sigh out, exasperated.
He grunts and steps closer. “Want me to take a look?”
A smile graces your features at his offer, “Please. Yeah, go ahead. You know a lot about cars?” You sidestep the vehicle to give him access to your disaster of an engine.
“Some.” He responds, eyes downcast.
He surveys the scene with an air of practiced detachment, “Yeah. It’s fucked. I can tow it into town, if you want.” he offers, his tone carrying a hint of reluctance.
You manage a wry smile, relief flooding you. “That’d be great. Thanks. I couldn’t get a signal out here either so, uh, you’re kind of saving my ass.”
“I’m Logan.” he states plainly, not bothering to shake your hand. He keeps himself away, not allowing the hands that caused so much hurt and pain to taint you with their touch. An invisible border closes him off from you- maybe from everyone, you theorise. He closes the trunk with little regard and turns to you.
“Y/N, pleasure to meet you.” You wipe your clammy palms on your pants, unsure of what to do. His head bows only a little, only for a moment. If his presence wasn’t so encapsulating, you’re sure you would’ve missed it.
He works with an efficient precision, unhooking your car from its spot and securing it to his truck. The heavy clink of the tow hitch falling into place was oddly reassuring, a small promise of resolution to come.
Logan moves to the passenger side of his truck and opens the door for you, extending his arm as a gesture for you to get in. You do so wordlessly, a tight smile flung his way as a measure of gratitude.
As you climb into his truck, the faint scent of blended tobacco and leather wafts its way into your nose. It provides you with an odd sense of comfort. You take in the interior- the brown seats are worn, the dashboard cluttered with pinecones and other forest finds. Odd, you think, but refrain from asking about it. Instead, you ask the only thing you could think of- it comes out sputtered and unkempt, “So, uh, have you lived here long?”
“A while.” His eyes don’t leave the road, his knuckles tighten slightly around the dark expanse of the steering wheel.
Am I annoying him? You think to yourself, but quickly shut it down remembering how he offered to help you. Perhaps this is just his nature, it fits with the gruff woodsman aesthetic he’s wrapped himself in.
“You don’t talk much, do you, Logan?” You peer over at him. Jesus fucking Christ this man is so beautiful. Maybe you’d be more annoyed by his shitty attitude if he wasn’t so goddamn pretty.
“Not if I can help it, angel.”
“Angel? Ah come on, Logan. Don’t tell me you’ve resorted to that because you’ve already forgotten my name.” You jest, a small ring of laughter coming from you.
There is the tiniest uptick of his lips, you note it. “Didn’t forget it.”
“So you say.” You smile at him once again, subconsciously willing him to look at you again. He does, but only for a moment. Just enough to indulge the butterflies inhabiting your belly. Logan drives with focus, intensity. You were sure he applied the same intent to everything else in his life.
The truck glides steadily along the winding road. The landscape remains breathtaking, even as you get closer to civilisation. The towering pines, strong and evergreen; the lake shimmering like a million sapphires, and the mountains looming majestically with peaks partially veiled by mist. You suck in a deep breath, letting the serenity of the outside make its way inside you. Logan is not blind to this; he checks on you periodically. It takes every fibre of his willpower to not look at you. He wants to drink you in, satiate himself on the divine radiance of your presence. So bright, so beautiful. He wouldn’t dare risk casting a shadow over that.
Your attempts to make conversation with the burly plaid-clad man feel like an exercise in persistence. “So… Is it a habit of yours come to the rescue of beautiful, stranded motorists?”
He lets out a non-committal grunt. You sigh, deflating into the seat slightly. He notes the pang he feels in his chest at disappointing you. He means to crush it under his heel, with the force and might of a tank, but he can’t seem to bring himself to. Logan shakes it off, reminding himself that he is, at his core, stone and adamantium, sharp edges and an impenetrable centre. The world breaks against him.
He glances at you briefly before focusing on the road, stealing seconds of you for himself. Logan supposes he could indulge you, just this once. “Not always. Just when it’s hard to ignore.”
“I have been told I light up a room. Maybe that same mechanism made me look like the world’s prettiest, most devastated road flare.”
Logan lets out a scoff, it’s half-hearted and something close to a show of amusement. The corners of his mouth ascend as he turns onto the road leading into town. You witness it, photograph it, and frame it in your mind.
The truck rumbles down the road as the mechanic shop comes into view. It was the kind of place you wouldn’t notice unless you sook it out. It is a dingy, slightly crooked building with a battered, sun-bleached sign that reads "Ricky’s Auto" just barely clinging on to the wall. A sad collection of vehicles lay scattered around the lot, most of them looking like they were long past saving.
You sigh deeply, eyeing your pathetic excuse of a car that’s still hitched to the back of Logan’s truck. This is not how I imagined my day going, you think to yourself. You had envisioned picking up some cherries from the greengrocer and making a pie, maybe getting some reading done with a hot cup of tea. But here you were, courtesy of Mr Sex on Legs, who so far had spoken about fifteen words to you.
As soon as Logan parks the car, he exits and moves around the vehicle in an imperceptibly swift motion and opens the door for you. You hop down from the slightly raised surface and give him an easy smile, coupled with a genuine, albeit slightly surprised, “Thank you.” You doubt he hears you though, because he’s already moving to unhitch your car. And, by God, you try not to stare, but it seems like the world’s most impossible task. Seeing the way his muscles moved under the lines of his plaid shirt makes your mouth water. With the same quiet efficiency as before, he unlatches the tether between the two vehicles.
Before you think too much about how incredibly strong he looks, a man in oil-stained overalls emerges from the garage. He has a crescent moon hairline and thin, wire framed glasses. Splotches of grease stain his fingers as well as the cloth clasped in his left hand. “Logan m’boy!” he calls out, slapping his rag down on a pile of neatly stacked tyres. “Haven’t seen you ‘round here in a goddamn minute.” The grey-haired man stands a few feet away from us, a half-smoked cigarette dangles from his lips. His blue overalls are stained from decades of oil changes and brake jobs. A canvas upon which he painted his years of experience.
“Been busy,” Logan mutters, his voice gruff as all hell, but you notice the faintest flicker of a smile tug at his lips.
The mechanic turns to you, putting his hands on his hips. “And who might you be, Miss?”
“Oh- I’m Y/N. My car decided today would be a good day to give out on me and, um, Logan here so generously offered me a tow.” You flash him a half-smile.
“He did, eh?” Ricky peers over his glasses to assess Logan, standing with his arms folded over his chest. Logan furrows his brows, a silent conversation occurring between the two men. You shift on your feet awkwardly, unsure of what to do.
Ricky shrugs his shoulders and walks over to the car. The bespeckled man leans over, scratching his chin. “Alright Miss Y/N. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” He pops the hood and squints, practiced eyes examining the situation. “Yeah, looks like the radiator’s shot. I can fix it, but it’ll take a day or two for parts.”
A day or two? Fuck me, you think to yourself. You make an attempt to shirk your disappointment, but it is as evident as the light of day upon your face. “Right. Okay. I suppose if that’s the only way…”
Before you could dwell on it, Logan speaks up. “Ricky’s the best. He’ll get it done, angel.” Your eyes meet momentarily, sincerity evident behind his hazel irises. “If you need a ride or anything… I can, uh… I’m around.” He curses himself out mentally. Now why the fuck would I say that? He thinks, clenching his fists slightly.
Your eyebrows raise in surprise, the butterflies in your stomach flutter wildly. Considering how he behaved like simply towing your car into town was a chore, you hadn’t expected an offer like this. “Uh, yeah. That’s really sweet of you, Logan, but I wouldn’t want to put you out…” you fiddle with the rings on your fingers, hoping he sees through your feigned polite declination.
Ricky, however, wasn’t about to let this moment slide. He interjects, leaning against your car. “Don’t be silly, Miss. ‘Course he’ll take you.” An air of finality surrounds his words.
Logan shoots him a look, jaw clenching in the most delicious way. This, however, just causes an even wider grin to spread across Ricky’s wrinkled features. “Young miss, you were headin’ into town, weren’t you? Logan here would be more than delighted to take you ‘round and bring you home after.”
You glance over to Logan, eyes wide, curious, pleading. He nods his head, albeit begrudgingly. You let of a smooth sigh of relief, thank God. After giving Ricky your details, you exit the well-loved repair shop to see Logan with his hands shoved deep into his jean pockets.
“C’mon then angel.” He rumbles, tilting his head in the direction of his truck. He opens the door for you once again and waits until you’re strapped up before he shuts it.
You couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound breaking the tension the tiniest bit. “So, I wanted to go to the grocery store to pick up some cherries. I was going to bake a pie tonight.”
He hums in response, eyes focused on the road. “You bake often?” It comes out gritted, restrained. Knuckles whiten around the worn steering wheel.
“When I can. I thought I’d bake as much as I could before the school year starts. I’m, uh- I’m starting work at Oak Haven High School in the fall.”
He nods slowly- soaking in the bright, melodious nature of your voice. He could listen to you talk about nothing forever, he thinks to himself. He wants to hear you laugh; he wants your smiles to come about because of him. He wants to hear you whimper under him while he- No. No. Can’t think about that, Logan scolds himself for allowing his mind to wander.
“You know I-” You pause for a moment, thinking about how to say this. He glances over as you stop speaking, brows raising a fraction of an inch, egging you on.
“Well… it’s just that you’ve been so kind to me, and I’d like to repay your favours.”
“Don’t need to, angel.”
“No, but I want to. I don’t know if you’re busy later but maybe you could come to mine for dinner? I was going to cook Chicken Adobo and uh, and the pie, obviously.” You smile, teeth flashing from under painted lips. And his heart catches in his chest. Every ounce of better judgement is silenced by the screaming of every cell in his body, telling him to say yes. It’s beyond desire, beyond want. It’s necessity. He must see you again.
“You don’t- no. That’s not necessary.”
“Aw c’mon, I can’t say the food will be anything to write home about, but I can promise some good company.” You bat your lashes at him and smile and for the first time in a long time, Logan feels weak.
“Alright.” He drawls out, the faintest whisper of a smile graces his face.
“Really?” You beam, all sunshine and warmth. It lights something up inside him, a fire he’s kept covered since he moved out here. He nods, loosening his grip on the steering wheel. It’s surprising to him, how easily he lost this battle of wills with you. And maybe, he thought, he should allow you to win again and again.
The drive into town is pleasant, less tense than before. You glance at Logan from the corner of your eye, mind reeling at the sight of the beautiful behemoth of a man to your right. He is clearly a man of few words, his stony exterior surely aids in his want for solitude. Every now and then, you’d catch him looking at you, infinitesimal moments that he took for himself. Neither of you comment on it.
“So… you and Ricky go way back?” you enquired finally, breaking the seemingly never-ending silence.
Logan shrugs nonchalantly, keeping his eyes trained on the road. As if he knew that if he allowed himself to look at you properly, he’d never be able to look away. “Knew him from town. He’s good people.”
You nod, eagerly awaiting more from him. When he doesn’t give you anything else, you decide to press a little. “He seemed to enjoy teasing you back there.”
Logan huffs, something resembling a laugh escaping his perfect lips. “Ricky’s a pain in the ass, but he means well.”
That, right there—that tiny hint of humour hidden under his stony exterior, it makes you smile. “Seems like everyone in this town’s got a lot of… uh… personality.”
He glances at you, his gaze lingering just a second longer than before. “Guess so.”
Subtle as it may have been, there’s something a touch different about the way he gazes upon you now. A hairline fracture appears in the brick-and-mortar walls that surround him, letting the slightest sliver of something out, something real and tactile and intoxicating.
Strolling into the little greengrocers, you glance down at the shopping list in your hand. The air in the small space is fresh, produce is lined up in neat piles sprawling across the aisles. Logan is pushing the cart with squared shoulders, he’s tense. He glances moves past the fresh vegetables receiving a light misting from the sprinklers above. His hazel eyes scan the surroundings, as if he’s waiting for something- or someone to pop up.
“Are you always this tense when you go shopping?” you ask, a vain attempt to lighten the mood, raising an eyebrow at him as you stop in front of the baking section.
Logan looks over at you, his expression hard, unreadable. “What do you mean?”
“You know, some people find this relaxing,” you said, grabbing a bag of sugar and tossing it into the cart. “But you look like you’re being hunted for sport.”
He snickers, shaking his head. “I just like getting in and out. Not a fan of lingering.”
“Not a fan of lingering,” you repeat with a smirk, eyeing him as you reach for a small bottle of almond extract. “I guess I shouldn’t ask for your opinion on pie spices, then? Too much lingering involved.”
He gives you a slight shrug, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “As long as it’s edible, I don’t have a strong opinion.”
“High praise, Logan,” you jest, rolling your eyes playfully. “I’ll be sure to aim for ‘edible’.”
Logan remains silent, giving you the sweet nothing you’d become slightly accustomed to. You could, however, see the tiniest bit of amusement flicker in his eyes. He isn’t exactly chatty, but there is something oddly comforting about his presence. He’s grounded, solid. Reminds you of the mountains- he smells like them, too. Fresh, earthy, safe.
As you reach the fruit aisle, you glance at the cherries, bright and shiny under the fluorescent lights. You grab a bag and hand it to him, watching as he weighs them in his large, calloused hands.
“Do you even like cherry pie?” you asked, sliding your hands into your back pockets as you lean against the cart.
He paused for a second, looking down at the cherries, then up at you. “Never had it.”
Your eyes widen in blatant disbelief, “You’ve never had cherry pie?”
Logan shakes his head, his expression still neutral, though you notice the faintest trace of amusement behind his eyes. “Nope.”
“Well, now I feel like I’m under immense pressure,” you said, mock serious. “I’m taking your cherry pie virginity, Logan. What if I mess it up?”
He raises an eyebrow, his voice teasing. “Didn’t you say somethin’ about aiming for edible?”
You snort, shaking your head. “Shut it.”
He shrugged again, his lips twitching into a near-smile. “Just holding you to your own standards, angel.”
“So, that’s how it’s going to be?” you shoot back, unable to keep the grin off your face. “Alright then, tough guy, let’s see if you can handle the next critical decision.” You gestured grandly to the dairy section. “Butter or margarine?”
Logan drinks you in, sizes you up, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly. “Butter. Always butter.”
You clap your hands together and sigh dreamily. “A man after my own heart.”
The gruff lumberjack feels his cheeks heating, he needs to look away from you- you’re too goddamn beautiful, even under the harsh fluorescent lights. He feels as if he’s going to combust, but he cannot bring himself to tear his gaze from you. So, he smiles. It’s bright and big and you catch a glimpse of his sharp canines.
The banter continues as you wander through the aisles, each small decision becoming a chance for you to tease him, and for Logan to surprise you with his dry, understated responses.
At one point, you reach for a carton of eggs, only for him to pluck it off the shelf before you can. “I’ve got it,” he said, placing it carefully in the cart.
You tilt your head, pretending to size him up. “You’re surprisingly helpful for someone who looks like they’d rather wrestle a bear than be in here.”
He lets out a low chuckle, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not that bad.”
You grin, leaning in a little. “Oh? You sure about that? Because the guy I met a few hours ago...” You raise your eyebrows and suck in a breath through your teeth.
Logan’s jaw clenches, there is no anger behind it though- more like he is deciding how much to give away. You decide to leave it alone, best not to press him, you thought as you see him shift, like he isn’t used to being called out.
“I guess you caught me on a rough morning,” he says finally, his voice quiet but sincere.
You soften at that, watching him for a second longer than you intended. There is something vulnerable in his honesty, and it throws you off guard. You want to watch him unravel next to you- you want to kiss the scars on his hands and shield him from the world.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” you hum, your tone lighter again, “I, um, I didn’t mean to pry.”
Logan shook his head, dismissing it easily. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”
You let the silence hang between you for a second before deciding to break it. “Well, in that case, I think you’ve earned the right to pick the ice cream.”
He glanced down at the freezer section in front of you, clearly aware of your attempt to steer things back to neutral territory. “Vanilla.”
You groaned, dramatically covering your face with your hand. “Vanilla? Really?”
Logan’ lips twitched again. “What’s wrong with vanilla?”
“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head as if you were gravely disappointed, “It’s good. Classic.”
“You seem surprised.” He adds, eyebrows raised in faux surprise.
“Yeah,” you reply, a concealed smile on your face. “I had you pegged as… like a… mint chocolate chip man.”
He smirked—a full-on, unmistakable smirk. “Mint chocolate chip.” Logan swirls the words around in his mouth He kisses his teeth and shakes his head, playing disappointed. “That’s… certainly something, angel.”
You throw your hands up in defeat. “What do you mean? Mint chocolate chip is a perfectly respectable flavour to enjoy!” He grunts in response, picking up the vanilla ice cream and dropping it into the little trolley.
As you make your way to the checkout, you can’t help but sneak glances- actually, scratch that... You cannot help but full-on stare at him, eyes trained to his pretty face or his rippling muscles the entire time- shamelessly. There is just something about the way he carries himself—strong and steady, but there’s also faint whisps of humor peeking through his tough exterior. It made you feel like you’d been graced with a glimpse of the real Logan.
And maybe, no… Definitely. You definitely like what you see.
The drive back to your house is quiet, as you anticipated. Not an awkward silence- more like the kind that settles in when two people are comfortable. Logan’s prized red truck rumbles steadily along the road, the low hum of the engine filling the gaps in conversation. You stare out the window, watching the trees blur into a mix of greens and browns as the slightly parted clouds give way to balmy rays of mild, yellow sunlight.
“This is me,” you state, a pointed finger directing him toward a small, cozy house nestled between the trees. You could already see your porch light flickering on, casting a warm, yellow glow over the front steps. As Logan slows to a stop, the tires crunching on gravel, you feel a little flutter of nervousness again. I should’ve mowed the goddamn lawn, you chastise yourself internally.
Logan put the truck in park, glancing around as if taking mental inventory of the place. You observe his hazel eyes sweeping over the porch, the old oak rocking chair in the corner, the hanging ferns swaying slightly in the breeze. He doesn’t say much, but you can tell he is taking it all in- just like he’d taken in the details of you back in the store. Quiet, observant.
“You moved into Sixty-Seven?” he enquires, his voice low, almost like he was talking to himself.
You blink, looking at him as you fumbled for your seatbelt. “Yeah, it was- uh- I just fell in love with it, y’know? It’s got this bay window out front, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful the view would be from there when it snowed.”
Logan gives you a small nod, his hands still resting on the steering wheel, gaze lingering on your abode. His heart clenches in his chest- this, all of this and you- so beautiful, so perfect. His eyes catch the flicker of the porch light, and for a second, you wonder what he is thinking. Surely nothing about how goddamn unkempt your lawn looks. Surely.
“You live nearby, Logan?” you ask quickly, a flailing attempt to fill the quiet.
“Yeah. Not far from here.” His voice is gruff, but there was something almost... tentative about it. Like he hadn’t really expected to say that out loud. “Just, uh, down the street actually.”
You hum and give him a smile, looking out the window again. “So… I guess, uh, I should get going?”
Logans lips twitch slightly, though his eyes remain fixed on your house. “Guess so.” He almost seems lost in thought. You couldn’t possibly fathom that he was lost in a fantasy, so long passed that he never thought he could reach it again. He imagines love flowing out of your house, music playing softly in the living room. His mind wanders to you: you who should not have such an immense hold on him this soon; you with your dazzling smile and bright eyes, with that sweet fuckin’ ass and those perfect tits- Logan blinks and suddenly the domestic fantasy is dragged away from him. The prospect of warmth like that is stolen and an icy reality washes over him. The reality that he is alone- and perhaps it was best for everyone if it stayed that way.
For a moment, neither of you move. You feel the weight of the day settle between you, meeting one another, the shared shopping trip, the easy banter, the way he had quietly helped with everything without making a fuss. And now here you are, sitting in his truck, only a few feet from your front door, and it feels like you are still... suspended. Like neither of you quite want the moment to end.
You catch him glancing at you again—just a quick, fleeting look, but enough for you to notice. He has this way of looking at you like he isn’t sure what to do with you, as if you are simultaneously the most innocent and dangerous thing in the world.
“I, uh, appreciate the help today,” you say finally, your voice resounding melodically in the quiet cab of the truck. “And the ride. I really do. Thank you, Logan.”
His fingers flex on the steering wheel, his knuckles brushing against the worn leather. “Not a big deal,” he mutters, his hazel eyes finding yours before looking away again. He finds it hard to breathe, even with the windows of the car open. You shine and radiate and fill up the space with your insurmountable beauty. He doesn’t know how he’ll ever be able to look away.
Isn’t a big deal? You smile to yourself. Perhaps this is just his way? Saying something isn’t a big deal when he’d gone out of his way to make sure it was sorted out. Like when he stayed with you at the mechanic, or when he let you tease him about lingering in the grocery store without getting defensive. Every little thing about today had shown you more of who he was beneath the gruff exterior. And you want more.
“Well, it is to me,” you said softly, your fingers brushing the door handle as you hesitated. “So… thanks.”
He nods, still not looking at you directly, but you can feel the weight of what isn’t being said between you. You weren’t sure if it was the quiet of the woods surrounding you, or the warmth that lingered from the setting sun, but something about the moment felt... heavier. Like it wasn’t just about the grocery run or the ride home.
He shakes his head, as if clearing his mind from the thoughts he is having about you and moves to open your door. His tan boots crunch heavily on the gravel. The cool afternoon air engulfs around you, a chill runs up your spine. You turn back to face Logan, who was still here, leaning against the side of his truck. He watches you in that way of his—silent, steady, almost unreadable.
“So, um… I’ll see you tonight around seven?” you query, a genuine lightness in your tone.
Logan nods slowly, his gaze shifting between you and the house, like he was still sizing up the situation. “Yeah. You sure you don’t need help takin’ all that inside?”
“I’m a big girl, Logan. I think I can manage carrying two shopping bags twenty feet into my kitchen.” You jest, but your hands feel clammy, and your belly constricts at the thought of him coming into your absolute mess of a house. It horrifies you, boxes sprawled across the floor, clothes haphazardly strewn on the backs of your chairs, dishes piled in the sink left with the promise of fixing it up after your ‘quick run into town.’ Not exactly the best circumstances for a… what even was this? A date? A thank you dinner? God knows.
But before you could take another step, he calls out, his voice a little softer than before. “Angel. Thanks, uh, for the invite.”
You turn back to him, your heart doing cartwheels at the sound of that nickname in his mouth. You wanted to hear it over and over, every second of every day, sung out in pleasure and joy.
“Yeah,” you said, your voice softer than you intend. “Of course.”
He nods once, like that is all he needed to hear, before turning around and hopping into his car. As you watch him pull away, the truck’s rumbling engine cutting through the serenity of the street, you cannot shake the feeling that something is shifting. Inside you, perhaps inside him. It could be nothing. Or maybe it is everything.
~
You didn’t think that you’d live to see the apocalypse, yet here you were standing in what can only be described as a catastrophe-riddled kitchen. Bombs of flour litter your immediate vicinity. It’s on the counters, the floor, it even managed to get on the potted fern by the window it’s leaves dusted white like a winter’s morning. The air smells of sugar, sweet cherries and the buttery pie crust, which was about the only thing that was going well at this point.
Oh God. Why did I think this was a good idea?you think to yourself, contemplating why you didn’t just offer to invite him to dinner tomorrow.
Inviting Logan over for dinner seemed like such a simple, kind gesture at the time. A little thank you for all his help with the car, perhaps a little excuse to indulge in his presence once more. But now, standing in the middle of this culinary battlefield, your confidence is crumbling faster than the edges of your pie crust.
You flail around attempting to make your house seem presentable, shoving clothes into your laundry basket and wiping up the remnants of flour and sugar and pie crust that had somehow spawned all over your kitchen.
The clock on the wall ticks louder than usual, reminding you that time is running out. Fifteen minutes until he arrives. You glance at the mirror by the door and cringe slightly at the sight. Flour streaked your cheek, your hair is dishevelled, your teal apron is muddied from its time on the aforementioned culinary battlefield.
Your heart does a little flip, and you immediately scolded yourself for it. Why are you nervous? It’s just a friendly thank you dinner. A friendly thank-you dinner with a pretty, brooding, unimaginably sexy man. You suck in a few deep breaths before changing into something appropriate for dinner.
The setting of the table is interrupted by three sharp raps on your front door. You swing the door open, and there he is, standing on your porch in all his glory. His broad shoulders fill the doorway, a fresh red flannel shirt stretches taut across his defined chest, and his boots are coated in a fine layer of dust, a bottle of red wine is clasped in his right hand. For a moment, the world outside seems to fade into the background, and it was just the two of you, standing in this strange, unspoken space between strangers and something else… something more.
His hazel eyes meet yours, flicking quickly to the warmly lit living room behind you. You see a brief flash of ardour in his gaze before his face settles into its usual unreadable expression.
“Hey,” you sing out, a big smile gracing your features. You step aside and extend your arm in invitation. “Come on in.”
Logan nods and steps inside, moving slowly, as if he isn’t entirely sure if he belongs here. He glances around, taking in the varnished wooden floors, the cosy linen couches, the scent of sugar and cherry hanging in the air. His eyes settle on the antique record player in the corner of the living room, and for a second, you think you see his lips twitch, the ghost of a smile. It feels unfamiliar to him, but it was good, he thought. Something about this cosy space, with its cluttered charm and lingering warmth, made him feel less out of place than he expected.
He watches you move, your hands fidgeting as you finish setting the table. There was something... endearing about it, Logan thought. Something about the way you hold yourself that makes him feel warm inside. An almost indefinable quality that tells him that this is you, unabashed and unashamed of your nature. He yearns for that.
“Uh, I hope you’re hungry,” you said, your voice a shining as you gesture to the table. “I’ve got the chicken stewing, and the pie’s almost ready... sort of.”
Logan gives you a low grunt of approval, his eyes flicking to the pie cooling by the window. “Smells good,” he said, his voice rougher than usual, like he’s trying to find his footing in this strange, domestic moment.
You smile awkwardly, fiddling with your fingers. “It’s my first pie in, well, uh... years. Let’s just hope it tastes better than it looks.”
She’s nervous, Logan realizes, watching the way your delicate hands tremble slightly. He’s used to people being nervous around him, he’s an intimidating man, but most just avoid him altogether. But here you are, standing in front of him, your eyes bright with uncertainty, trying to make the best of this impromptu dinner.
He takes a seat at the small kitchen table, the polished chair creaking slightly under his weight. The space feels too small for him—too cozy, too... personal. But he notices the little things, the details that make it feel like a home: the way the warm porch light slants through the window, catching the edges of the remnants of flour on the counter, the faint hum of the adobo bubbling on the stove, the warmth that seemed to fill every corner of the room. It is a place he could never have imagined for himself, but in this moment, it feels like he’s supposed to be here.
You shuffle around the kitchen, stirring the stew, checking the pie. But you can feel his eyes on you- those sharp, quiet eyes that seem to view more than they let on. You weren’t sure if he’s judging your messy kitchen or just observing, but either way, the awareness of his gaze makes your heart race.
“So, do you cook often?” Logan enquires, breaking the silence, his voice low and steady.
You let out a breathy laugh, gesturing to the flour-covered counter. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it, but I promise I do.” You rub the back of your neck sheepishly.
He tilted his head slightly, a hint of playfulness flickering in his eyes. “No, it- uh- it smells good, angel. Want me to open the wine?”
You chuckle, nodding your head. “Yeah, let me- I’ll just get some glasses. Thank you for this, by the way. I thought I was supposed to be making it up to you for everything you did, and here you go adding to the list.”
“Couldn’t help myself.” Logan said, leaning back in the chair, arms crossed. He didn’t smile, but there was a softness in his tone that surprised you.
You dished out the stew, setting a bowl in front of him. Your fingers brushed his as you passed the bowl, and the warmth of his skin sent a tiny spark up your arm, more surprising than you wanted to admit. He retracts his hand, causing the stew to drip down from the side of the bowl, “Shit. Sorry.” He quickly grabs the cloth napkin that the cutlery was laid down upon and wipes up the stray droplets.
As you sit across from him, you try to relax, but every time you look up, there Logan is, sitting at your kitchen table like he belonged there, like this wasn’t the most surreal thing that had happened since you moved here. He eats in silence, his movements slow and deliberate, the way someone eats when they’ve learned to savour every bite. Why does he have to be so... solid? you wonder, watching him out of the corner of your eye. There is something grounding about him, something steady. Even though he barely said a word, his presence filled the room, making it feel smaller, warmer.
“So,” you said, breaking the silence, “what do you do when you’re not out chopping trees? Any hobbies besides... lumberjacking?”
Logan raises an eyebrow, his mouth morphing into some kind of reserved smirk. “I’m not that interesting.”
“Oh, come on,” you tease, leaning forward slightly. “There has to be something.”
He shrugs, honey eyes drifting to the window. “Just take care of the land. Fix things up. Keeps me busy. I’m up on Lot 48- it’s lakeside. I, uh, started redoing the house when I moved out here.”
You nod, picturing him out in the woods, working with his hands, surrounded by nothing but the sound of nature. It was such a different life from anything you knew, and you couldn’t help but wonder what had led him to choose that kind of isolation.
“Must get lonely,” you coo softly, not quite sure why the words slip out.
Logan’s jaw tightens slightly, his gaze still fixed on the window. “Sometimes. But it’s better that way.”
The silence that follows is heavier this time, charged with something unspoken. You want to ask more, to understand why he kept himself so closed off, but before you could say anything, Logan smiles at you. His eyes are soft, mellow pools of gold that you want to lose yourself in. The smile catches him by surprise, but he can’t help it- you’re so fucking gorgeous, and you put so much effort into this meal. Things of beauty, such as this, seem foreign to Logan.
The rest of the meal passes in quiet conversation, the tension from earlier slowly melting into something softer. You serve the cherry pie and wait in eager anticipation for his feedback. Logan takes his first bite, fork passing through his soft, pink lips. His eyes widen slightly, just enough for you to catch the flicker of approval. He lets out the most delicious low moan.
“This is so fucking good,” he said, his voice rough, sincere.
You smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the wine or the steaming hot cherry pie. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you’d done something right. Truly right. Completely right.
“Really?”
He lets out a muffled “Mhm.” Mouth still stuffed with vanilla ice cream and cherry pie. “I, uh… I don’t usually have a sweet tooth- but you’re- uh, this is incredible, angel.”
"That's mighty high praise, Logan. Would you go so far as to say it's edible?"
A laugh rings out from him, more joyful than a thousand church bells, sweeter than all the combs of honey the world has to offer. "Fuck yeah."
~
The scrape of chairs across the floor feels almost too loud, punctuating the end of dinner with a finality that leaves your heart beating just a touch faster. As you stack the plates and glance toward Logan, the room feels smaller somehow, heavy with the weight of something unsaid, something hanging in the air between the two of you. Nobody comments on it, neither of you have the courage to.
Logan so moves easily, like he’d done this a thousand times before, confident in every movement, every stride. Taking the plates from your hands without so much as a word, his fingers brush yours again, but he doesn’t flinch away from it this time. Even though it’s just for a second, it sends a spark of electricity up your arm—a reminder of the tension that has been simmering since he came into your house.
“I’ll take care of this,” he murmurs, already heading to the sink. His voice is low, gruff as always, but there’s something softer beneath it tonight. He rolls up his sleeves, exposing his forearms—strong, tanned, with just the right amount of scruff. You have to physically stop your jaw from dropping. You can’t help but stare, and apparently, you aren’t as subtle about it as you think because he catches you looking and raises an eyebrow.
“You alright over there?” he asks, a teasing edge to his tone.
“Fine,” you say, too quickly, reaching for a towel. “Just... uh, trying to figure out how you’ve made washing dishes look like some kind of art form.”
“That all?” He chuckles, the low rumble of his voice makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
“Yeah, I just… I can’t remember the last time someone did the dishes for me.”
“Don’t be too impressed. I can clean up after myself.” He winks, leaning over the sink.
You dry the dishes after he rinses them, the comfortable silence between you filled only by the clinking of plates and the soft hum of the evening beyond the window. Every now and then, you catch him sneaking a glance your way, and each time, it makes your pulse quicken just a little. There’s something brewing here, something that neither of you seem ready to name just yet.
When the last dish is dried and put away, Logan leans back against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck—a gesture you weren’t sure you’d ever see, a sign of nervousness. “Mind if I step outside? Thought I’d smoke a cigar.”
You blink, not half surprised. The idea of him standing on the porch with a cigar seems... right. You nod, suddenly feeling like you need fresh air yourself. “Sure, uh, I’ll come with you.”
The evening air is cool, a light breeze carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. The sky is splattered with deep purples and oranges, with the final rays of sunlight slowly dipping behind the mountains, casting a beautiful golden glow over everything. The porch creaks slightly underfoot as you both step outside, the world around you settling into a soft hush.
Logan reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a thick Cuban cigar, lighting it with slow, practiced ease. The flare of the lighter illuminates his face for a brief moment, highlighting the strong lines of his jaw and the hazel of his eyes that caught the fading light just right. He takes a slow drag, the scent of tobacco mixing with the pine-scented air. You’re drunk on him. Gulping down every facet of the strong man available to you.
You lean against the railing, pretending to watch the sunset but feel the weight of his gaze on you, that unspoken tension still simmering. “Hey Logan?” you enquire, breaking the quiet, “what’s with all the pinecones on your dashboard?”
He lets out a low chuckle, glancing sideways at you, cigar puffing between his lips. “Noticed that, did you?”
“Hard not to,” you reply, teasing. “You’ve got a whole collection. I thought maybe you were some kind of weird tree fruit enthusiast.”
“Not quite,” he quips, tapping the ash from his cigar. “Those... well, they’re gifts.”
You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Gifts?”
“Yeah.” He shifts slightly, looking a little embarrassed, which only made you more curious. “From my cat.”
Your eyes widen, a surprised laugh bubbling up before you can stop it. “Your cat brings you pinecones?”
He nods, taking another slow drag of his cigar. “She’s a stray I took in. Started bringin’ me little ‘presents’—pinecones, rocks, she found a… a, uh, whole stem of Harebells once. Couldn’t bring myself to throw them out, so... they ended up on the dash.”
“That’s... fucking adorable,” you said, biting back a grin. “You’re a big softie underneath everything, aren’t you, Logan?”
He gives you a half-smile, his hazel eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place. “Guess I’m a bit sentimental.”
You tilt your head, looking at him in a new light, a softer light. “Sentimental, huh? Never would’ve guessed that about you.”
He shrugs, blowing out another stream of smoke, his gaze flicking back toward the mountains. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, angel.”
The way he says your name—soft, low, with just a touch of something deeper—sends a shiver down your spine. You turned slightly, leaning against the railing, your arm brushing his as you did. “So dramatic, Logan. Maybe you should start filling in the gaps, then.”
Logan looks down at you, his eyes locking onto yours in a way that makes your breath catch in your throat. The air between you feels charged, the fading sunlight casting great, sweeping shadows across his face, making everything feel more intimate, more immediate. For a moment, you are sure he is going to say something—something important—but then he just smiles, that quiet, secretive smile that makes you wonder what exactly is going on inside his head.
“You really wanna know?”
You nod, biting your lip. “I do.”
For a moment, the world seems to narrow to just the two of you, the fading light, the soft breeze, and the shared space on that old porch. You don’t say anything else, and neither of you move away from the other. Instead, you simply stand there, side by side, feeling the tension thrum between you like something alive, waiting to be acknowledged.
And then, in a quiet voice that is almost drowned out by the sound of the crickets, Logan whispers, “I like this. Being here.” With you, he omits.
Your heart skips a beat, your breath catching in your throat as you turn to look at him. He isn’t smiling, not exactly, but there is something softer in his expression, something that makes your chest feel too tight, your thoughts too scattered.
“I like it too.” you grin, not trusting yourself to say more.
He doesn’t reply, he just nods slightly, taking one last drag from his cigar before putting it out against the heel of his shoe, a practiced movement. And even though he doesn’t say anything else, the way he looks at you in that moment- his eyes dark and warm, his posture more relaxed than before but still stony- says everything you need to hear. And it scares him. It scares the fuck out of him. The whole reason he came out here was to get away from people- if no one knew him and no one wanted to know him, then there was absolutely no chance of people getting hurt because of him. But here you were, fresh faced and pure, weaseling your way into the stone walls he’d built up over so many years.
“I should, uh, I should get goin’, angel.” He sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets, closing the solid barrier between you and him.
“Oh,” The word comes out involuntarily, sadness lacing the singular syllable. “No, yeah. Of course. It’s getting late.”
He clears his throat, stepping down the stairs one by one, “Thank you, again, for dinner. It was really good. Don’t put yourself down so much.”
You chuckle, nodding at his praise. You let it drip down you and warm your entire body. It feels good. The moonlight casts a pale glow over him, illuminating his features and encasing him in an angelic glow. God, he’s so fucking beautiful. You don’t want him to go, you want him to stay and light a fire for the two of you, you want him to sit and talk more about his cat and his house and everything else he’d be willing to tell you.
“I left my number on that notepad in your kitchen. Call me if you need somethin’ angel. I’m sure I’ll- uh- I’ll see you around.”
You wave him off as his headlights illuminate the road leading away from your house. As soon as he’s in the confines of his car, and far enough away for you not to hear- he lets out a long, “Fuck!” And another, and one more for good measure. He runs a hand through his hair, a maelstrom of emotions swirl through his chest. He shouldn’t feel this much for someone, not this soon, anyways. But it is the most intoxicating feeling in the world, being near you gives him a high people could only dream of; his head is a mess- his heart more so.
For now, Logan only knows two things for certain: that he absolutely should not see you again, and that he 100% would be seeing you again.
Part 2 >>>
Hi hi! So this is part one to my Lumberjack!Logan series. It's going to be a bit of a slow burn, but please let me know what you think of the story so far!
One thing that the Get Mystique arc (Wolverine v3 #62-65) does really well is the glow in Mystique's eyes. In so many issues of Marvel the colourist doesn't do their job properly and just renders them as a flat yellow, but in that arc Jason Keith does a great job rendering them like lamps.
