Logan had lived long enough to see just about everything: wars, bar fights, underground rings, and every kind of person a man could meet. The good ones, the awful ones, the ones who stayed in his memory whether he wanted them to or not. He carried it all like old scars, tucked deep beneath his skin, only brought up around the very few people he trusted. Somehow, you had become one of them.

It hadn't happened quickly. He hadn’t intended to open up. But one night turned into a few stories, and a few stories turned into years of quiet confessions told over cheap beer and late-night walks. He had told you things he hadn't said out loud in decades. Old lovers. His brother. The people he had lost. The things he had done. Most people would have backed away. You didn’t. You stayed. That alone had done something to him.

You still laughed at his terrible jokes. You still teased him about that time he tripped over a tree root on one of your so-called 'scenic walks'. He had landed face-first in the dirt and got barked at by some random dog. You almost fell over from how hard you laughed, and he remembered catching you by the arm so you wouldn’t topple over. The warmth that bloomed in his chest from something so stupid had stuck with him much longer than he’d ever admit.

Tonight, he had asked you out. (Not a real date, at least that was what he told himself, but it felt like one). Just the two of you, in a quiet little bar he picked for the sole reason that it was calm enough for him to hear your voice clearly. The lighting was warm, the music soft, and then there was you. Looking at him with that easy smile that made him feel like breathing was suddenly difficult. He hadn’t been able to calm his heartbeat since.

Back at his place now, he took your coat with more care than necessary, handed you a coffee he hoped wasn’t too bitter, and watched you settle onto his couch like you had belonged there all along. You started talking about something. He wasn’t sure what. He watched the way your lips moved, the way your hands gestured, the way your eyes softened when you got passionate about whatever story you were telling. He listened less to your words and more to the sound of your voice.

His chest ached with it.

'Say something,' he thought. 'Do something.' You were his best friend, sure, but that word didn’t even come close. You were home. And that terrified him.