November 21, 2020—Tel-Aviv, Israel—The Next Day #2
Sasha paused, glancing up from the ink bottles with a faintly amused expression. A slow, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yes,” he said simply. “He’s my husband… and my entire life.”
Logan nodded, feeling a faint pang in his chest. “Sorry about earlier,” he said awkwardly. “I kind of stared at you. I didn’t mean to, it’s just, you know…”
Sasha didn’t respond right away. Instead, he placed the tattoo gun aside, took Logan’s arm in his hands, and gently disinfected the skin.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said at last, his tone calm and measured.
“It happens a lot. There was a time when it bothered me, when I felt ashamed. But… I’ve moved past that.
Now, I don’t let it define me. It’s just a part of me, nothing more. ”
Logan nodded again, his throat tight. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, hesitating for a moment before unlocking it and scrolling to a song.
“This is Adrian,” he said, his voice quieter now.
“My Adrian. Well… if he ever forgives me. He gave me a bracelet once, and I lost it. So…” Logan trailed off, unable to find the words to explain what he was trying to do.
“Yeah. You know.” He already told Sasha about the bracelet, but only in rough details of the image, not the deeper meaning behind it.
Sasha didn’t say anything. He leaned closer as Logan pressed play, and the soft strains of Adrian’s voice filled the room.
Sasha listened, his expression unreadable as the melody unfolded.
When the song ended, he sat back, his piercing blue eye meeting Logan’s.
For a moment, Sasha said nothing, but he gave a small, subtle nod—a gesture that seemed to say, I understand.
The process hurt like hell. Every sharp sting of the needle drove deeper into the skin, resonating with Logan’s guilt and longing. But he welcomed it, embracing the pain as a kind of penance. He deserved it, he told himself, for everything he’d done and for everything he’d lost.
By the time Sasha finished, Logan was exhausted but strangely lighter, the weight on his chest easing as he stared at the finished design. The tattoo was perfect, more than he could’ve hoped for. It wasn’t just art—it was a reminder, a promise, and a piece of Adrian he would carry with him forever.
Sasha cleaned the area carefully, wiping away the last traces of ink.
He reached for a roll of plastic wrap, unspooling it and carefully wrapping it around Logan’s arm.
“This is just to keep it protected for the next few hours,” he explained as he secured the edges.
“Once you get home, take the wrap off and wash it gently with warm water and unscented soap. Don’t scrub, just pat it dry.
After that, use a thin layer of tattoo ointment.
Repeat that process twice a day for about two weeks, and no swimming or direct sunlight for a while. ”
Logan nodded, trying to memorize the instructions through the haze of exhaustion. “Got it. Thanks,” he said, flexing his arm slightly and feeling the slight sting of the fresh ink beneath the wrap.
Sasha gave him a small smile as he cleaned up his station, his movements precise. “Take care of it, and it’ll heal beautifully. And if you have any questions, just call. Or come back in.”
Logan stood, feeling a rush of gratitude and something else he couldn’t quite name. “Thanks… for everything.”
Sasha nodded, his gaze steady. “Good luck, Logan. And take care of yourself, too.”
As Logan left the shop, he stopped at the counter to settle the payment, making sure to hand Lucian a generous tip for Sasha.
As Logan hopped into a cab, he made a mental note to rent a car. Relying on taxis was getting old; it was too slow and too inconvenient. But he didn’t have the time to figure out a car right now. For now, there was only one thing on his mind: Adrian.
Logan was on his way, and this time, he wasn’t leaving without being heard. No more running. No more avoidance. He was ready to fight for the man he loved, no matter how long it took or how hard it would be.
By the time Logan reached Adrian’s door, the sky was bleeding gold into dusk, the sun melting like honey over the Tel Aviv skyline.
He stood there for a breath—maybe three—his knuckles hovering just above the metal.
In seconds, he’d be close to Adrian again, and he knew his heart would go off like a live wire the moment he saw him.
When his knuckles finally found the door, the soft, tentative tap echoed with a delicate flutter, sounding so faint compared to the significance of that moment.
The door opened. And there he was.
Adrian.
A rupture in the world. A face Logan had memorized and forgotten all at once. The shock of seeing Adrian would never dull. It cracked something open in him every time, as if his chest wasn’t made for this kind of reunion. As if memory and reality were fighting for the same space.
He stood there, caught in the gravity of him.
Adrian was light and shadow all at once—exhausted, beautiful, untouchable. Logan let himself bask in it, a man starved of sun finally stepping into morning. He drank in the sight with reverence, the way others might drink holy water, his soul stretching toward its missing half.
In that space, beneath the ruin and regret, beneath all the broken things between them, Logan could only thank the stars—whatever gods or ghosts or faith or streams had stitched this moment together—for letting him stand here. For letting him see him. For letting him try.
His heart whispered what his mouth couldn’t: You’re still mine. Somehow, you’re still mine.
And there, in the pause between heartbeats, they just stood facing each other, silence pooling between them.
Adrian’s eyes were hollow constellations, impossible to read.
He said nothing until he broke their spell and stepped aside, his bare feet softly sliding across the tile.
Logan stepped inside, barely noticing the final click of the door closing behind him, his gaze fixed on Adrian.
Inside, the air carried the ghost of morning coffee despite the late hour and the distant breath of the Mediterranean drifting in through the open window.
Beneath his shirt, the plastic film clung to his wrist, crinkling softly with every movement, the fresh ink beneath it still tender and concealed under the long sleeves of his button-down.
He followed Adrian into the kitchen, feeling both desperate and out of place, his pulse hammering with every step.
Then Logan’s eyes caught movement from the corner of the living room. Someone stood up from the couch, and the sight of him was equivalent to a punch to the gut: Itay.
Adrian’s ex.
Logan froze. An ache within his soul unfurled, weeping silently in anguish.
He found himself caught in a haunting resonance of time, as though the walls had drawn inward, leaving only this stark reality: a figure from the past, suddenly, almost eternally, rooted in the heart of Adrian’s present.
The same Itay they had run into in the Philippines, the same man who had tried to win Adrian back.
He was tall, with unruly blond curls and striking blue eyes, wearing a crisp black button-down and light jeans.
Even now, looking disheveled and a little raw, with puffy eyes and a scowl etched across his face, Itay still managed to look like he belonged in a magazine spread.
But none of that mattered. Logan didn’t care about the magazine-perfect details. What mattered—what thundered in his chest—was that this man was here. In Adrian’s house. On Adrian’s couch. In Adrian’s orbit. Like he belonged. Like he’d never left.
Logan’s mind raced. Had Adrian said anything?
Had he mentioned someone? Had he mentioned…
him? Had Adrian dropped a hint of a second chance with him?
He couldn’t think of a single word Adrian had said about having a boyfriend in the past two days.
No whispers of a lover’s return. No flicker of guilt.
Nothing to brace against. Only this silence now, full of sharp corners. So, what the hell was Itay doing here?
Then Itay looked at him.
The stare was direct and unflinching—eyes bloodshot and shining with something darker than tears. Fury maybe. Or betrayal. Or the kind of pain that turns into fire if left unattended. His gaze sliced through Logan, an accusation without words: You don’t belong here.
Logan clenched his fists at his sides, his entire body vibrating with the urge to yell. To tell Itay to get out. To stand beside Adrian like a guard dog and demand that this man—this audacious, smug reminder of the past—leave his Adrian alone. But Logan didn’t move.
Because he had no right.
He’d made his choice. He’d stood in front of Adrian and married someone else. He’d walked away, and Adrian… Adrian had every right to find comfort in someone else’s arms. Even if that someone was Itay.
Logan’s chest ached, the sharp pain threatening to tear him in two.
His jaw tightened as his gaze flicked to Adrian, who stood silently by the kitchen counter, his face unreadable.
Logan wanted to scream. He wanted to demand an explanation.
But he didn’t. Instead, he swallowed the bitterness rising in his throat, his heart cracking a little more with every second that passed.
This wasn’t how he’d imagined this moment. Not at all.
Itay completely ignored Logan as if he didn’t even exist. He followed Adrian into the kitchen, speaking to him in rapid Hebrew.
Logan stood awkwardly in the middle of the house, sensing the tension thickening around him. Again, he felt left out, like an intruder in a space he had no right to occupy. He could hear Itay’s voice, sharp and insistent, like he was trying to talk sense into Adrian.