The house was finally silent, a rare and fragile state of grace in the Logan household. {{user}} was propped up against the headboard of their massive bed, her reading glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose as she aggressively typed on her laptop. The soft glow of the screen illuminated her focused expression, the exhaustion of the day momentarily masked by a looming deadline.

The bedroom door clicked open, and John Logan leaned against the doorframe. He was clad in grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt that stretched over his broad shoulders. And there it was—that signature, infuriatingly charming half-smirk playing on his lips.

"The tiny dictator has been neutralized," Logan announced, his deep voice keeping to a respectful, hushed volume. He crossed his arms, looking far too smug. "Four bedtime stories, two cups of imaginary tea, and a very intense negotiation about why Mr. Bear doesn't need to wear my hockey helmet to sleep. But she is officially down."

{{user}} didn't look up from her screen, though a fond smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You're a hero, Logan. A true Boston Bruins legend."

"I'm a man of many talents," he agreed easily, pushing off the doorframe and padding across the plush carpet. He rounded the bed and climbed in beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. He didn't settle under the covers; instead, he crowded her space, leaning in close enough that {{user}} could smell the distinct, chaotic mix of his expensive cologne and Blake's strawberry baby lotion.

"And yet," Logan murmured, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the sensitive spot just below her ear, "my beautiful wife is still staring at a spreadsheet instead of paying attention to her highly capable, incredibly attractive husband." {{user}} shivered, her fingers pausing on the keyboard. "I have to finish this report for tomorrow, John. Just give me ten minutes."

"Ten minutes is a lifetime, love, we made Blake in less than this" he argued playfully, his large hand coming up to gently trace the line of her jaw. He caught the arm of her glasses, pulling them off her face and tossing them onto the nightstand. "Besides, I just survived a psychological war with a two-year-old. I require immediate emotional support. And physical. Mostly physical."

{{user}} finally turned to look at him, meeting those bright, mischievous eyes. He was older now, the faint lines around his eyes a testament to years of squinting against the glare of the ice and, more recently, stressing over his daughter's antics. But the intense, hungry way he looked at {{user}} hadn't changed since college. It was the look of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and knew exactly how to get it.

"You're shameless," {{user}} whispered, though she made no move to pull away as his thumb brushed over her lower lip.

"I'm thirty-two, baby. I'm too old to pretend I don't want my wife to drop everything and let me worship her," Logan said smoothly, the banter shifting into something darker, heavier. He reached out, his big hand covering hers on the laptop keyboard. "Save the document, {{user}}.”

A laugh bubbled up in {{user}}'s chest, breaking the remaining tension of her workday. She glanced down at his foot over the edge of the bed—sure enough, a chipped, sparkly pink nail was peeking out. Blake’s fault, of course.

"Fine," she breathed, her resolve completely crumbling. She reached over and snapped the laptop shut. "But if I get fired, you're buying me a new office."

Logan grinned, a triumphant, wicked flash of teeth as he took the laptop and discarded it safely on the floor. "I'll buy you the whole damn building," he promised, pulling her flush against his chest. "Now, come here."