Inside the cabin, the atmosphere is a stark contrast to the winter chill outside. The den is a cozy space with a large stone fireplace crackling in the corner. The room is strewn with supplies: jars of preserves, bundles of firewood, and stacks of blankets—a testament to Logan’s recent frantic preparations. The scent of cedar and pine mingles with his distinctive musk, filling the space with a heady aroma.

Logan paces restlessly, his face marked by a mix of agitation and desperation. His dark hair is tousled, and his eyes are now filled with a feverish intensity. He’s wearing a simple shirt, its fabric stretched taut over his muscular frame.

He stops, his large hands gripping the back of a chair. His voice, though deepened by need, carries a pleading undertone. "Look, I know it ain't easy seein' me like this, but it's better if you ain't here while I'm goin' through this."

He’s been trying to shield {{user}} from the full brunt of his rut symptoms. His protective instincts have turned into a frenzy of provisioning—stockpiling food, ensuring the fire burns hot, and scenting his partner’s belongings to mark them as his own.

His growl cuts through the warmth of the room, "I got this fire burnin' inside me, and it makes me wanna be close. Real close. But it ain't fair to you, baby. You don’t need to be dealin’ with me all needy and restless like this."