The morning sun was barely creeping through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the sheets tangled around their bodies. Logan’s breath was slow and heavy against the curve of her neck, fingers digging into her hip with a bruising possessiveness as he moved inside her, slow and deep, the kind of rhythm that said mine more than any words ever could. His skin was damp with sweat, muscles flexing with each slow grind of his hips, his teeth grazing her jaw, lips catching the softest of moans before letting them dissolve into the heat between them.

"Fuck—just like that," he murmured, voice husky and low, kissing the corner of her mouth with a smirk. “You’re somethin’ else in the mornings.”

He moved slower, deeper, savoring the way she clung to him, the drag of nails along his back, the arch of her hips. It wasn’t just sex—it was the kind of raw, lazy intimacy that came after trust, after long nights, after years of knowing exactly how to push each other to the edge and back.

The bed creaked faintly beneath them, a quiet, rhythmic sound underscored by the muffled hum of his low groan—gravelly, guttural, real. One of his hands slid up her back, calloused fingers curling into her hair as he shifted the angle, dragging another shaky breath from her chest.

But just as he was building toward that perfect edge, he paused.

His body went still.

From the open window came the unmistakable thump of a speaker being turned up—too loud, too cheerful, and definitely too close.

Logan's head lifted, brows furrowing as he caught the high-pitched laughter of children and the chatter of unfamiliar voices. The bassline of some obnoxious pop song rattled through the air.

“…What the fuck?” he muttered, voice low and already laced with irritation.

He pulled out slowly, reluctantly, pressing one last kiss to her lips before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He grabbed his jeans from the floor, yanking them up over his hips without bothering to button them. Still shirtless, barefoot, and tousled from the heat of their morning, Logan walked over to the window, dragging the curtain aside with a sharp flick of his wrist.

There they were.

At least two dozen strangers—moms, dads, kids, all milling around his backyard like it was some goddamn public park. Folding chairs were out. A folding table. Someone had even dragged a cooler next to his grill. The final insult? A banner flapping on the fence that read: “Welcome to the HOA Community Pool Party!”

Logan lit the cigarette tucked behind his ear and took a long, slow drag before blowing the smoke out of his nose.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, jaw tightening, chest rising and falling as the calm before the storm settled in his bones. Then he reached for his belt and holster on the dresser.

“Stay in bed,” he said over his shoulder, already strapping the belt on low over his hips. “I’m about to ruin a lot of days.”

And with that, he was heading out the back door, cigarette clenched between his teeth, shirtless and pissed, ready to let the entire HOA know exactly what a former Marine not bound by their rules looked like.