Chapter 22 Logan
LOGAN
Iroll onto my side for what has to be the ninth time of the night.
The sheets are twisted around my legs, and I’m pretty sure I’ve punched the pillow into oblivion. I flip it again anyway, trying to find the one square inch that doesn’t feel like it’s been microwaved.
It’s useless. Everything is too hot. My room is too quiet. My brain won’t shut the hell up.
I groan into the pillow, reach blindly for my phone on the nightstand, and check the time.
11:45 p.m.
I toss the phone onto the bed and drag a hand through my hair, then sit up with a grunt and grab the gummy worms sitting open on my nightstand, shoving a few into my mouth.
I’m bored as fuck. Probably because instead of doing what I’d normally be doing—getting ready to go out, picking which hoodie I’ll inevitably lose at someone’s house—I’m here. Being a good boy. Behaving. All that crap.
And all I can think about is Nathan fucking Hayes.
I thought living with the guy I’m secretly hooking up with would be fun as hell.
I had plans. Fantasies of sneaking into his room late. Him sneaking into mine. Sneaky kisses in the hallway. Stealing him into closets. Dropping innuendos at the breakfast table while the guys are completely clueless to what’s going on.
Turns out? Not that fun.
Because Nathan won’t let me touch him when there are people around. And there are always people around.
Isabella basically lives here at this point, always sleeping in Ryan’s room, and Austin’s around most nights unless he’s crashing at Maisie’s. Even Aurora was crashing on the couch the other day. It’s like a damn frat house. I can’t seem to get a moment alone.
So I get why he doesn’t risk it. I do.
Still doesn’t stop me from being extremely sexually frustrated.
I kick off the blanket—again—because I’m too hot and too tense and too—
I stare at the ceiling. Then at the wall that separates my room from Nathan’s.
I debate it for all of two seconds before I shove off the bed and nudge the laptop aside with my foot, still open from earlier when I was watching a random movie to get my mind off him, and head out of my room.
Nathan’s door is closed, but light is spilling out under the edge, so I know he’s still awake.
I drag a hand through my hair, and knock, just once, in case he’s asleep.
“Yeah?” his voice comes through.
I push the door open and glance inside. His room’s lit only by the lamp on his desk, and there’s a movie playing on his laptop, the volume low enough that I can hear the scratch of his pencil over it.
He’s sitting on his bed, his hair still damp from the shower, a gray T-shirt hanging loose on his shoulders.
And he’s wearing glasses.
Oh, fuck. That is so unfair.
He looks at me, raising his eyebrow. “Couldn’t sleep?” he guesses.
I shrug. “Starving,” I lie. “Got any snacks?”
He scoffs, shaking his head, but reaches across his nightstand and grabs a pizza box. “There’s still a couple slices left.”
I open it up, take a slice, and flop down at the end of his bed, bending a leg underneath me. Nathan goes back to drawing, but I catch him sneaking glances at me.
“What are you doing here?” he asks. “Thought you’d be out tonight.”
I stretch out my legs, leaning back on my hands. “Kinda wanted to stay in with my babysitter instead.”
That gets me a look over the rim of those glasses. “I’m not your babysitter.”
“Oh right.” I tilt my head. “You’re just my baby.”
He doesn’t answer, but his ears go pink, which is victory enough.
I chuckle, swallowing down the bite of pizza as I watch him work. His brows knit when he’s focused, lips pressed together while he sketches.
I take another bite of pizza, then nod toward his sketchbook. “What are you working on?”
He hesitates, his fingers drumming the edge of the page. “It’s not done.”
I smirk, nudging his foot with mine. “C’mon. Show me. Don’t be a coward.”
He glares at me, but I just grin wider, waiting him out. Eventually, with a sigh, he flips the sketchbook around so I can see.
I shift closer until our shoulders are brushing, unable to take my eyes off the page. It’s so fucking cool. The dark red and purple colors catch my attention, stretching across the page in some kind of post-apocalyptic world, surrounded by collapsed buildings in the background.
“It’s not finished.”
He sounds a little embarrassed which I’d tease him about if I wasn’t so invested and amazed by what I’m looking at. I used to love comics as a kid but this is… Fuck. It’s dark and grungy and interesting as hell.
My eyes move across the page, from one panel to the next.
The main character is crouched on a rooftop, overlooking the broken-down city.
He seems to be figuring out his powers if the orange glow on his hands is anything to go by, and the expression on his face is drawn with so much emotion I’m amazed that this was drawn by Nathan Hayes.
And the more I look, the more familiar the guy looks.
Blond hair. Green eyes.
I blink at the page, then look up.
“Hold up,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “Is this guy based on me?”
“No.” He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… maybe?” He lets out a quiet sigh. “I started sketching him before I realized he looked like you.”
“Before you realized you were obsessed with me, you mean?” I tease, expecting the usual eye roll, or maybe for him to mutter you’re an idiot—which, let’s be honest, is just foreplay at this point—but he just holds my gaze and says the last thing I expect him to.
“Yeah.”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry as fuck, and drop my gaze back to the pages because… Jesus. I don’t know what the hell just happened. Or what to do with it.
So, of course, I do what I always do when I’m spiraling.
I talk.
“Have you ever thought about publishing these?”
Nathan lets out this low, dismissive scoff, shaking his head. “Nah. I just draw when I can’t sleep,” he says, grabbing the sketchbook back. “It’s dumb.”
“Dumb?” I shoot him a look, nudging his side with my elbow until he glances over. “Nathan, this is the coolest shit I’ve seen in forever. Why have you never shown anyone?”
He gives me a shrug. “I dunno. I guess it’s just…mine, you know? Something that’s not about hockey.”
I nod slowly, watching his fingers brush over the edge of the page. “Makes sense. You need an escape. Especially when your dad’s up your ass twenty-four-seven.”
He grimaces. “Never say that again.”
“Oh, right.” I grin, leaning in closer. “Only I’m up your ass.”
His cheeks flush immediately, his eyes flicking away.
He leans his head back against the wall, letting his eyes drift half-shut. “Sometimes I think I don’t even like hockey anymore.”
That catches me off guard and my brows shoot up. “Wait. Seriously?”
He sighs, glancing up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. It’s just… a lot. And I think I only do it because it’s what I’ve always done. Because I’m good at it. Because he expects me to.”
The pencil on his sketchpad rolls a little, bumping against my leg.
I nudge it back toward him, then set the pizza box aside, wiping my hands on a napkin. “You ever tell him that?”
Nathan scoffs. “Are you kidding? All he talks about is hockey. About me going pro. Lifting a Cup. Coaching when I’m done. He’s already planned my whole life for me.” He swallows hard. “How the hell am I supposed to tell him I don’t want any of it?”
“So… what do you want?”
His breath escapes in a low exhale. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “I used to think it was hockey. That it had to be hockey. But now I—” He cuts off, jaw tight, something stuck behind his teeth. “Now I think maybe I just want to draw.”
I glance down at the sketchbook between us, seeing how much emotion is in every little line. “So why don’t you?” I ask.
Nathan’s lips twitch faintly. “Because you can’t major in doodling.”
“Not true,” I say, bumping his knee. “You can major in art. Or animation. Or graphic novels or whatever the hell this insanely cool shit is. You’ve got talent, Hayes. It’d be a waste to bury it just because you’re a little scared.”
He lets out a breathy, humorless laugh. “You make everything sound so simple.”
“It’s a gift,” I say, flashing him a grin. “That and being devastatingly handsome.”
He snorts, closing the sketchbook. “You should really work on your humility.”
“Can’t. It’s part of my charm. It’s also why you’re hopelessly attracted to me.”
Nathan lifts his eyes, and something shifts. He doesn’t roll them. Doesn’t scoff. Just looks at me for a long time before his mouth lifts in a crooked smile.
“I was attracted to you way before you opened your mouth.”
I blink. “Wait. You were?”
My pulse races because this guy, who barely talks about anything that isn’t hockey, is suddenly dropping that on me like it’s nothing.
I’d assumed this whole exploration thing was new. A recent realization. But now…
Nathan nods, flicking his eyes away from mine. “You walked into the rink at tryouts, surrounded by other freshmen, and I couldn’t stop looking at you.”
My pulse skips. Holy shit.
“I didn’t know what it meant,” he says. “I’d never looked at a guy like that before. Never looked at anyone like that.” He rubs the back of his neck. “But then you moved in, and you were always—” He glances at me with a small, reluctant smirk. “—fucking shirtless.”
I laugh, because it’s either that or forget how to breathe.
“And the attraction just kept getting worse,” he continues, holding my gaze. “Until I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there anymore.”
He flicks his eyes down like he’s said too much. My brain is still trying to catch up as I keep my eyes on him, because Nathan Hayes has apparently been into me since day one.
And he’s sitting here telling me that, like it’s a casual fact instead of something that’s going to ruin my ability to sleep for the rest of my life.
“So you’ve been secretly pining for me this whole time,” I say finally, with a smirk. “And you’re only telling me now?”
He rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t pining.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, grinning as I nudge his knee with mine. “You can’t lie to me now, Hayes. You just admitted you were into me the second you saw me.”
He lets out a soft huff of a laugh, and I lean back against the wall like I’m not reeling.
“Well,” I say, “guess that explains why you kept glaring at me during drills. I thought you were just annoyed I existed.”
His mouth quirks. “It was… a bit of both.”
That grin pulls something in my chest tight, and before I can think better of it, I shift a little closer, until our knees brush again. “You could’ve saved us a lot of time, you know.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t know what it was. I figured it’d go away.”
“Did it?” I ask.
Nathan gives me a look that’s almost shy. “You’re sitting on my bed right now. What do you think?”
That knocks the breath out of me a little. I stare at him, my heart thudding, and let out a shaky laugh. “Fuck, I’m glad it didn’t.”
“Yeah,” he says, his eyes searching mine. He exhales and leans against the headboard again, the soft glow of the desk lamp catching on the curve of his jaw and the hollow of his throat. “Me too.”
His gaze lingers on mine, in a way that makes it hard to breathe. My chest goes tight and I can’t help but shift closer, lean toward him, letting my knee brush against his again.
I lean forward and press a kiss to his shoulder over the fabric of his shirt.
He lets out a soft sigh, and it makes my heart flip.
I follow the line of his neck, brushing my lips against his jaw.
He exhales, his breath catching slightly, and when I pull back just enough to meet his eyes again, his mouth is already tilting up toward mine.
Our lips meet in a slow, soft kiss. It’s the softest fucking kiss of my life.
And I’ve never felt anything better. It’s somehow so much better than the hard, desperate kisses we usually have.
It’s not rushed or because we’re horny, but because I can’t sit here and look at him and not want to kiss him.
His hand finds my thigh, his fingers curling lightly against the fabric of my sweatpants, like he needs something to hold onto. I lift my hand, cupping his face, my fingers getting lost in his hair and kiss him once more, then again, before resting my forehead against his for a second.
He leans back, a little dazed, his mouth curved in a sleepy, kiss-drunk smile. His hair’s all messed up from my fingers and he looks so goddamn hot I have to look away just to stop myself from climbing into his lap and making out with him for the next five hours.
So I blink down at the box of pizza and grab another slice.
Nathan watches me take a bite and lifts his brow. “Really?”
“What?” I say around a mouthful.
He shakes his head, but I catch the smirk tugging at his lips.
I grin back and take another bite. “I’m still a growing boy, Hayes.”
He lets out a quiet laugh and leans back again.
We fall quiet for a while, watching the movie still playing in the background as he sketches another page.
When the credits start to roll, he asks if I want to stay, and I say hell yes—because his presence is addictive as fuck. I want to be here even if we don’t say a word. Even if he’s just sketching, lost in his own world.
I steal a glance at him, completely zoned in, passion bleeding into every line he draws. I’ve seen him guarded. Angry. Horny. But this version of Nathan is the best yet.
Eventually, his eyes start to flutter heavier between strokes. The pencil goes slack in his grip before slipping from his hand and dropping onto the comforter with a soft thud.
I let out a quiet chuckle and reach over, pulling off the glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose before gently nudging his shoulder until he tips sideways onto the pillow.
His sketchbook is half-sliding off his chest, so I ease it away, careful not to smudge the last panel as I close the book and set it on the nightstand.
I just sit there for a second, watching him. Watching the way his chest rises and falls. The way his mouth stays parted just slightly in sleep, his lashes fanned out against his cheekbones.
Kissing the guy I live with—who’s also my teammate—was dangerous as hell.
But this? These quiet moments and the soft fucking ache in my chest every time he looks at me like I’m not annoying the shit out of him? This might be the thing that kills me.
I should go. I should get up and crash in my own bed before someone notices I’m not in it.
But I don’t want to.
I reach over and brush my thumb across his cheek, smiling when he snores softly in response. Then I kill the lamp, slide down beside him, and let myself stay.
Just for tonight.