Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
Logan half-carried, half-dragged Ethan up the narrow stairwell to his apartment.
Each step was a battle against gravity, Ethan’s weight dragging him down like a drunken anchor.
Even the stairs seemed to conspire against them, Logan’s boots scuffing the worn treads, the dull clump echoing in the tight space, while Ethan’s boots scraped along behind, lifeless and uncooperative.
The smell of stale beer clung to his skin, mingling with the faint tang of cold air that seeped through the cracked window at the landing.
Outside, the city simmered in its nocturnal state. The night pressed, trying to get in, the dim glow of the streetlights spidering across the glass.
Bright orange streaks slashed jagged patterns across Logan’s face as he paused at the landing, catching a breath and shifting Ethan’s weight higher onto his shoulder.
“Jeez,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and taut. “You’re heavier than you look.”
A wheezy puff of air escaped Ethan’s lips, hot against Logan’s neck, carrying a slurred mumble that might have been words— or just noise—and he glanced down at the unconscious man’s face, flushed and slack, his eyelids drooping like shades barely clinging to their frames. “You better not puke, or so help me…”
The hall to Ethan’s apartment loomed above them, dim and uninviting. The fluorescent lights buzzed intermittently, and the air smelled of old takeout—egg rolls and curry, he guessed.
Ethan swayed, his legs giving way as he sagged against Logan’s side. His head lolled forward, his glassy eyes barely able to focus as he let out a weak laugh that dissolved into incomprehensible mumbling.
“Whoa there,” Logan said, throwing out a steadying arm for support. “Ethan,” he said firmly, shaking him lightly by the shoulder. “Keys? Where are your keys?”
He waited for a response but got only another garbled sound. “Of course,” he muttered dryly, pinning Ethan to the wall with one hand while digging through his pockets with the other. His fingers brushed past crumpled receipts, a stray coin and something sticky that he didn’t want to consider before they finally closed around a keyring.
“Jackpot.” He pulled it free with a triumphant jangle and held it up to inspect in the light. His thumb sorted quickly—his truck, some battered fob that looked like it belonged to a gym locker, and one that seemed apartment-shaped.
He slid it into the lock and with a sharp click, the door swung open.
“Alright,” Logan said as he turned back, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Home sweet home.” But before he could maneuver Ethan through the door, he crumpled, sliding down the wall into an unceremonious heap on the floor.
“Shit,” Logan muttered then crouched down beside him.
Ethan’s legs were sprawled at awkward angles, his head slumped against the baseboard while a low groan rumbled from deep in his chest.
For a moment, Logan just stared at him—this ridiculous mess of a man who somehow managed to look both pitiful and endearing all at once. “Brick… you’re so gonna answer for this,” he grumbled as he slipped an arm under Ethan’s shoulders and hoisted him upright again. “How the hell did you let him get this smashed?”
Muscles strained as he hefted the limp body over one shoulder, adjusting carefully so that his arms dangled down Logan’s side instead of flopping dangerously close to his face.
The apartment greeted them with silence, and as Logan stepped inside, he kicked the door shut behind him.
The living room could generously be described as ‘lived-in.’ A sagging couch huddled against one wall, its gray fabric worn in spots and an abandoned blanket tangled with crumbs from who-knew-what snack.
Logan wrinkled his nose at the blend of pizza box grease and old coffee grounds forgotten in some corner of the kitchen.
“You really know how to roll out the red carpet,” he muttered sarcastically as he lowered Ethan against the couch, then adjusted the pillows behind him. “Hey,” he said softly but firmly. “You good? Still breathing?”
Ethan cracked one eye and let out a soft grunt that sounded vaguely affirmative before slipping back into whatever half-sleep drunkenness afforded him.
“Yeah, thought so.” Logan pushed up from the floor with a groan and ran a hand through his disheveled hair, mussing it further as his eyes swept over the chaos surrounding him.
The room was a war zone of empty bottles and takeout boxes stacked precariously. A stray sports sock was draped over the back of the couch like a sad flag of surrender. He inhaled sharply through his nose, hands propped on his hips. “You owe me big time for this,” he grumbled, more to himself than to Ethan, who was still sprawled on the couch, another casualty of the tequila assassin.
“Coffee,” he declared to no one in particular. “We need lots and lots of coffee.”
He turned for the kitchen when a loud thud echoed behind him. He froze, head snapping around just in time to see Ethan sliding off the couch in slow motion, limbs tangling awkwardly before he hit the floor with another unceremonious crash. He groaned, a low, pitiful sound that barely qualified as human but at least confirmed he was alive.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Logan hissed under his breath as he rubbed his temple with two fingers.
Shaking his head, he left Ethan where he was and continued to the kitchen. The space wasn’t much better—small with dingy linoleum floors and countertops buried under a week’s worth of accumulated clutter. Dishes were stacked haphazardly next to a sink overflowing with mismatched mugs, as a faint plink-plink echoed from the leaky faucet.
He shoved aside a loaf of stale bread that looked like it might’ve been there since Christmas and grabbed the coffee jug wedged behind it. Filling the tank with water, he then reached for the dented canister of coffee grounds perched on the counter and scooped a generous amount—precision be damned—before slamming it shut.
The machine sputtered to life with a gurgling hiss, steam curling into the air as it began to brew.
When it finished, Logan poured coffee into two mugs—black as night and bitter enough to peel paint. No cream, no sugar; this wasn’t about enjoyment.
Steam curled from the mugs in lazy tendrils as he carried them back to the lounge. Ethan hadn’t moved even an inch from where he’d fallen against the side of the couch, one arm flung dramatically over his face like some tragic Shakespearean hero.
Logan set both mugs down on the battered coffee table before he crouched beside Ethan.
“Hey,” he barked sharply, giving Ethan’s cheek a couple of light slaps. “Wake up!” When that didn’t get a reaction, he slapped harder—this time enough to sting.
Ethan blinked, sluggishly, as Logan hauled him into a sitting position. He grimaced and rubbed his head, a groan rumbling out before it drooped forward again. “Mmm... get off me... I don’t... stop,” he slurred, words a jumbled mess.
“Drink this,” Logan shoved the mug against his mouth. “We need to sober you up before you start puking all over the rug.”
The bitter and scalding liquid hit Ethan’s tongue, and he made a noise somewhere between a groan and a whine. The first sip hit like a slap in the face and was enough to make him gag. “Ughhh...” he grimaced, pulling away as if Logan had just tried to poison him. “What the fuck is that?”
“Black coffee,” Logan deadpanned, setting the mug down before Ethan could spill it all over himself—or worse, throw it at him in some drunken fit of rebellion. “And if you don’t drink it, I’ll waterboard you with it.”
Ethan groaned again, his words slurring together incoherently, something about “getting off” and “don’t wanna” mixed with unintelligible grumbles that sounded vaguely like protests.
Logan pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience was wearing thin by the second. “Alright,” he finally said, his voice clipped and decisive as he pushed back to his feet. “That’s it—UP!”
Grabbing Ethan under the arms, he hauled him upright with considerable effort. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered through gritted teeth as he adjusted his grip to keep Ethan from face-planting again. “You weigh more than you look, and that’s saying something.”
Ethan’s head lolled against Logan’s shoulder as they stumbled toward the bathroom like participants in some bizarre three-legged race.
The bathroom was just as shabby as the rest of the place—a single bulb casting dim yellow light over white tiles and grout stained gray with mold. The faint scent of mildew lingered despite half-hearted attempts to mask it with cheap lemon-scented cleaner.
Logan maneuvered Ethan toward the shower. “Alright,” he said briskly as he leaned over to turn on the water. The faucet squealed in protest before roaring to life with an icy spray that quickly began misting up the little space there was. “Time for you to join the land of the living.”
When Ethan didn’t respond—aside from another incomprehensible groan—Logan snapped his fingers sharply in front of his face. “Ethan! Take your clothes off! Now!”
Ethan blinked, shaking his head in protest. “Nooo... too cold...”
Logan clenched his teeth, then grabbed Ethan’s sweat-soaked T-shirt and without permission yanked it free. He tossed it into a soggy heap on the floor.
“Jeans next,” he commanded as he reached for Ethan’s waistband, zero fanfare or ceremony. The words were an order, not a suggestion, and his hands moved with the same precision he used in the field—swift, no-nonsense, and unrelenting.
The denim resisted for a while, clinging to Ethan’s legs in protest, still damp from spilled beer and sweat. But everyone breaks in the end.
Logan grimaced, his jaw tight, his focus razor-sharp on the task at hand. This wasn’t about dignity; it was about necessity.
Ethan whined, but unlike the jeans, he didn’t resist—mostly because he lacked both coordination and energy—as Logan wrestled the denim down his thighs, letting them pool on the floor alongside his boots.
“Logan…” Ethan mumbled, a petulant edge creeping in. “I can do it myself…”
“Yeah?” Logan shot back dryly, barely sparing a glance upward as he hauled the jeans past Ethan’s knees. “Because you’re doing a great job so far.”
Ethan’s thighs—solid muscle under smooth skin—were left exposed to the chilly air, and despite telling himself not to, Logan’s eyes flicked up. It was half a second before he forced them away again, focusing on kicking the discarded clothing aside.
He ignored everything else and shoved Ethan under the water without warning.
“Fuucckk!” Ethan roared, his reaction visceral as the icy spray hit his skin. He instinctively stumbled back, slamming against the tiled wall with enough force to rattle the glass door. “What the hell, man?!”
The yell that followed could’ve woken the dead, echoing off the tiles like a primal howl. His voice cracked halfway through, devolving into a sputtering gasp as he fumbled against Logan’s grip, his body jerking under the relentless assault of cold water.
“This is torture,” he hissed through chattering teeth, trying to twist away but finding no way to escape.
Logan didn’t flinch at the outburst; he’d expected it.
“Yeah… Well, trust me, you’ll thank me laters,” Logan countered sharply, his exasperation undercut by a thread of something softer—concern buried beneath layers of gruffness.
His hands gripped Ethan’s biceps, steadying him, before he could slip. It wasn’t easy; he might be smaller and shorter, but he was all dead weight and uncoordinated limbs. “Stand up,” he barked, though his tone lacked any venom and sounded more like someone trying to steady their own nerves than scold someone else.
Ethan let out another groggy groan that might’ve been an apology or just another complaint, but he didn’t argue this time. His head dropped forward briefly before snapping back, those hazy eyes half-lidded were searching for Logan’s face like it was some kind of light in a storm.
White fabric dropped with a faint splash, revealing him fully.
The stark light illuminated every sharp line and curve: lean abs tapering into narrow hips, long legs that seemed carved from marble. Vulnerable wasn’t a look Ethan wore often, but here he was, stripped bare in every sense of the word.
He glanced away, but as Ethan stepped free of his shorts, his gaze quickly snagged back. The moment stretched longer than it should have, long enough for Logan to curse himself for noticing anything about Ethan’s body beyond its drunken state.
He felt like an intruder and yet his eyes betrayed him by lingering where they shouldn’t have been: on the curve of Ethan’s collarbone, on droplets of water sliding down his chest before vanishing into shadows lower down, on scars faintly visible across his tanned skin that told stories Logan didn’t know but wanted to ask about someday.
Ethan swayed, then pitched forward, his head thudding softly against Logan’s shoulder, a low “Hmmm” rumbling out.
For one fleeting moment, Logan froze under the unexpected weight of it all: Ethan’s head resting on his shoulder, his warm breath ghosting against his neck, damp skin pressed flush against his shirt.
“Fuck.” He swallowed and closed his eyes. “You’re a mess,” he said—not unkind, but a reminder to himself that someone had to keep things together. Right now that someone was him, whether he liked it or not.
“Logan…” Ethan mumbled his name like it meant something more than just syllables strung together lazily by drunken lips. Those wide, glazed eyes locked onto Logan’s with desperation, longing, or maybe it was just too much alcohol.
Logan barely had time to process the look when a heartbeat later, Ethan’s lips crashed against his in a hot and messy kiss. It was wild, uncoordinated, teeth scraping against lips as if Ethan didn’t know what he was doing but couldn’t stop himself. His hands fumbled at Logan’s sides, clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.
For a long moment, Logan didn’t move. He was caught completely off guard and overwhelmed by it all. Then instinct kicked in. He gripped Ethan’s shoulders firmly, feeling the hard lines of muscle beneath his palms, and pushed him back.
“Stop it!” he rasped, voice strained. His heart stuttered and heat spiked through him, along with a surge of adrenaline and something darker, something dangerous that curled low in his gut.
Ethan stumbled, swaying on unsteady feet as Logan held him at arm’s length. His pupils were blown wide now, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. He didn’t resist as Logan twisted the shower and adjusted the temperature.
Warm steam billowed up instantly, curling around them like ghostly tendrils as droplets began to patter against the tiles.
The moment the spray hit, Ethan slumped against the wall with a groan that was equal parts relief and exhaustion. Rivulets of water streamed down his body, tracing every ridge of hard muscle, glistening across his chest and carving paths down his abdomen.
The glass door fogged up almost immediately, obscuring him in a haze, but it wasn’t enough to hide him entirely.
Logan’s throat tightened and he stepped back as if burned by proximity alone. He perched on the toilet lid and let out a long breath. The cold porcelain seeped through his jeans, grounding him just enough to stop his head from spinning.
He dragged both hands through his hair roughly and exhaled again—longer this time. His pulse was erratic, thudding heavily like his heart was trying to escape.
Behind the fogged-up glass came the muffled sound of water, each splash and drip amplifying the tension coiled in his stomach and each time Ethan’s form shifted, Logan’s gut clenched.
It shouldn’t have affected him. But it did.
Fuck.
Logan shut his eyes as if that might erase the image now seared into his mind—the way Ethan had looked when their lips collided moments ago: flushed cheeks, mussed curls sticking damply to his forehead, those wide eyes full of something that was much too dangerous to name.
“You okay?” He managed, though it came out rougher than he intended.
There was a extremely long pause before Ethan’s voice floated out from behind the glass—groggy but clearer. “Yeah...” He groaned, not in pain but more like someone shaking off a heavy fog. “Thanks.”
Logan remained where he was despite every instinct screaming at him to put distance between himself and whatever this was before it unraveled completely.
He raked his hands through his hair again and stared at the tiled floor beneath him. The room felt unbearably warm, a cloying heat that clung to his skin even though he wasn’t under the spray himself. He took deep breaths to steady himself, but only succeeded in conjuring up an even sharper image behind his closed lids: Ethan’s body glistening wet, every line etched so vividly it was seared into his memory.
I can’t do this. The thought came hard and fast, like a slap across the face. I can’t do this with him. That rule—that wall he’d built so carefully over years of discipline—wasn’t just for show, it was there because he needed it to be there.
This wasn’t just wrong, it was reckless. Crossing into that world with a team member wasn’t just a bad idea, it was a catastrophe waiting to happen.
And yet... Ethan pulled him in ways no one else ever had. In a way that left Logan off-balance at every turn. Even at work amidst barked orders and grueling drills there’d been moments where he’d caught himself staring for too long... noticing too much.
Now? Now it was worse—ten fucking times worse—because Ethan wasn’t just beautiful, he was vulnerable: drunk and hurting and looking at Logan with eyes that begged for something he couldn’t give without breaking everything apart.
Devon’s words from earlier echoed in his mind like a taunt: “Ethan’s gonna get hurt if you’re not careful—and you’re damn good at that, aren’t you? Hurting, then shutting down...”
Logan clenched his jaw. As much as he hated to admit it, Devon was right—he had a history of walking away when things got complicated. But this was different. This wasn’t just about him, or even about Ethan. This was about the team, about responsibility. He couldn’t afford to blur those lines, no matter how tempting that blur might be.
“Stay there,” he said abruptly, forcing steel back into his tone as he stood up. He didn’t wait for a response before turning toward the door. “I’m making more coffee.”