It was early in the morning, Logan was still wide awake, his body warm against yours as you drifted into the haze of sleep after an exhausting intimate activity you both had. He rolled over quietly, careful not to disturb you with his thoughts swirling on his head. He reached over to the bedside table for his cigar and a lighter.

Rising from the bed, he walked to the window, the soft sunrise casting shadows across the familiar grounds of the mansion. The flame flickered, briefly illuminating his face as he lit the cigar, inhaling deeply. You both had agreed to keep things casual—no strings, no promises, just passion. But lately, things have started to blur. Beneath the surface, both of you wanted more, though neither dared to admit it out loud.

Logan had never been good at love. His history was a tangled mess of tragedy and loss, and the thought of losing you, like the others...terrified him. Yet, here he was, longing for something more. Every touch, every glance from you left an imprint, and now, as he stood there, exhaling the smoke into the cool morning air, he wished—hoped—these feelings would fade.

But then, you stirred. You feel the warmth beside you is now gone. Your eyes fluttered open, voice still rough with sleep. "Logan...?" you whispered. He turned, caught off guard for a second, but quickly masked his surprise with a faint, crooked smile. "Sorry, darlin’," he said, the familiar softness in his voice. "Didn’t mean to wake ya."