Logan and writer! reader?
Behind your apartment door, Logan could hear you talking to your mom.
She was on speaker. Like always. So you could do what you needed to do and just put in a comment here or there. And he winced. Christ. That hadn't changed. And probably wouldn't. You could be in labor and she would still be asking you for money or complaining about her neighbors not noticing anything about you.
He had a key. He could let himself in. But he knocked anyway.
You needed to be able to tell him 'no'. That he decided was important. As bad as he needed to talk to you, he couldn't just make you do it. But he wasn't ready when you opened the door.
You look exhausted. Stressed. Drawn. Not the way you should look. The way you used to look even. Or the way you used to look when you looked at him. You drew back away from him, pulling your cardigan closer to your body like it will protect you. "We need to talk," He growled.
"I don't see why," you answer, "You made it clear you didn't want-"
"Don't be stupid," he snapped, anxiety roiling up as he stepped forward. "Y/N you're falling apart-"
"Fuck off," you snap back "God just fuck off. I'm trying okay?" Tears well up and you gesture to the door, "Mission accomplished, you've pointed out that I'm worthless you can go."
"Sweetheart-"
"God, is it ever e-fucking-nough for you? I get it I'm stupid. I'm worthless. I'm a distraction until I'm not. I don't matter. Nothing matters and nothing is ever enough. Okay. Perfect. Point taken I don't need you to keep telling me okay? I ruin everything I touch-" You break off and wipe angry tears off your cheeks and all Logan can do is stand there dumbfounded when you take a swing at him. Catching your wrist to keep you from hurting yourself.
You try to twist out of his grip and he doesn't let you go, pulling you against his chest carefully. Cradling the back of your head. He can hear your heart racing. The anxiety. And the pain you're in is palpable. You're so worked up and upset you don't make any sense but the words just keep coming and you keep struggling uselessly.
"Shhhh," he soothed. "I'm here. You're okay-"
"Why am I never worth changing for?" you stammer. "Why am I always worth leaving."
And he doesn't know what to say. Because he didn't know if it was him you were asking about. He opened the wound, but he didn't make them. All he can do is let you cry. Let you dissolve into a weak, pitiful puddle in his arms.
He gathered you up and let you rest your head on his shoulder. Holding you and rubbing your back, heedless of the snot and the mess as he rocked you on the sofa. "When's the last time you ate?" he asked softly. "Slept?"
"I don't know."
" 's not good, Sweetheart," he said.
"I'm not hungry and I can't sleep, I just keep thinking and it keeps going."
He nodded. He wanted to ask about doctors. About how you were feeling. If you were doing anything to take care of the fact that there was a baby coming. But he didn't know how you would take that and this- he hardly knew how to handle this. All he knew right now was that you needed to eat and you needed to sleep because you were getting sick. Very sick. And if he wanted to make it right with you, he needed to start with getting something to eat in you. Something healthy. And then once you's eaten, it was going to be time for bed.