Logan lounged back against the headboard, shirtless, the makeshift ice pack balanced on his left shoulder like it was a war wound instead of the minor twinge he’d felt after eating a hit in the third period. Nothing a real ice session and some ibuprofen wouldn’t fix. But telling you that? Hell no. Not when you were fussing over him like this.

You hovered at the edge of the bed in your usual uniform: tight pink top that hugged every curve, tiny denim shorts, and that glossy shine on your lips that made him want to kiss the taste right off you. Your hair fell in soft waves as you leaned over him, all worried big eyes and gentle hands.

“Does it hurt bad, baby?” you asked, voice soft and a touch breathy in that pretty, ditzy way that always went straight to his dick. Your fingers brushed his collarbone, adjusting the ice pack with careful little touches. “I can get more ice. Or maybe that cream thing? The one with the arnica? I think I have it in my bag—”

Logan bit back a grin, letting out a dramatic little hiss when your fingertips grazed his skin. “Ah, shit. Yeah, right there, princess. Feels like it’s throbbing.” His brown eyes locked onto yours, crooked smile tugging at his mouth. The injury was barely anything. But having you this close, all concerned and touchy? Worth every fake wince.