leaning back on you

You hadn’t come around to changing it. And if you’re really being honest—something you only do on Wednesdays at 4 pm with your therapist—you hadn’t changed it because you hoped that you wouldn’t have to.

You hoped that maybe keeping him as your hockey boy meant that he’d come back into your life and stay that way.

Now, as the sky continued to rumble and weep above, you prayed that Logan’s generosity was not limited to your relationship. And tonight, you were going to test that.

The phone rang three times before the call connected.

“Hello?” His voice was raspy, laced with more perplexity than anything else.

You closed your eyes. You hadn’t heard his voice in a year. “Hey, Logan?”

He could hear the faint yet rhythmic thuds of rain hitting your car window through the speaker. You had gone back inside your car to make this phone call.

“Is everything okay?”

He sounded concerned. That’s good, you thought. That means he cares.

You took a deep breath, “No, I…I’m not okay. My car stopped working and I’m stuck in the middle of this rain storm.”

“You’re in Hastings?” He asked.

You swallowed. “Boston.”

The line went so quiet you had to check your screen to make sure you hadn’t been disconnected.

Then, “You’re here in Boston?”

You bit your bottom lip, “Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Boston Common.”

You heard the soft metallic jingle of keys and your heart skipped a beat at the implication. You almost wanted to take it back, undo this call, pretend it never happened.

“Listen, Logan, I don’t know where you live. You could be miles away from where I am, but I didn’t know who else to call—”

“I will be there in 10 minutes. Do not leave your car, alright?”

Your heartbeat spiked. For a moment, you felt like a selfish monster—making him leave his home, reopening a chapter in his life he might’ve wanted to close, clawing your way back in on your terms. Logan had always been too kind for his own good.

He called your name softly and you snapped out of it.

“You hear me?” He repeated.

“Yes, I won’t leave my car.”

“And lock your doors.”

You pressed the button on your car door.

After he hung up, you did nothing but stare out your window. You put the windshield wipers to tedious work, watching as they slid water across the glass in futile efforts.

You didn’t notice the time passing. And you certainly didn’t notice Logan’s figure until his knock on your window made you jump out of your skin.

You quickly unlocked and pushed your door open. Logan was drenched. His cotton t-shirt clung to his torso, catching the ridges enough to leave an imprint of his abs. Droplets of rain dripped from his brown locks, falling and sticking to his forehead. He looked like a vision.

Logan helped you out your car, guiding you with a strong arm behind your back—not touching—towards his jeep. He opened the passenger door and made sure you settled inside before closing it and going around to his side of the car.

You were breathing heavily, still recovering from the heavy downpour. When Logan got in and shut the door behind him, you looked over.

He threw his head back to push the wet strands of hair out of his face. When he turned to face you, you felt a dip in your stomach.

“I’m really sorry,” you said right away.

He held his hand up to stop your apology. “Are you alright? Did you leave anything important in your car?”

You shook your head. Phone, wallet, keys. All tucked safely—albeit sodden—in your deep coat pockets.

He shifted the gear out of park mode and drove the two of you away from the street.

The car ride was silent. The ambience of the outside storm filled enough gaps that should have been packed with conversation.

God, when was the last time you had a conversation with Logan?

It must’ve been junior year for you. He had just moved to Boston after being drafted by the Bruins, got a place of his own, playing hockey professionally like he always wanted. And you were back at Briar, studying hard, doing long distance with him, sharing dreams whenever he came to visit you on campus.

“It needs to be a loft apartment.”

“Why a loft?” Logan furrowed his brows.

“Fun downstairs, cozy upstairs,” you replied.

He smiled and nodded along, “Okay.”

“With floor to ceiling windows, so we can always have a view.”

His arms wrapped around you, “And what view is that?”

“Fenway Park.”

Logan rolled his eyes and buried his face in your neck, making you squeal. “You baseball brat! I can’t believe you’re choosing that over hockey.”

The stubble on his handsome face made you ticklish, squirming in his hold. “I never even heard of the Bruins before I met you!”

He gasped in mock betrayal, “Oh you’re gonna pay for that, Red Sox masshole!”

Your laughter filled the air as Logan attacked your neck with kisses and tickles.

It had been going so well.

Until it wasn’t.

Long distance was hard. It wasn’t gracious or patient, not easy on fragile hearts such as yours. It wasn’t the type to harbor kindness that saved you from the rain despite everything.

No, it was cruel, and you never wanted your love for Logan to be that. He was a rising star in the hockey world. He deserved so much. So much more than a college girlfriend who lived away, more than FaceTimes every night and short weekend trips whenever your schedules aligned—like the sun and moon trying to meet.

You blinked out the passenger window when Logan drove onto a familiar freeway. “Wait, why are we—”

“I live down the block.”

You finally tore your gaze out the window and towards him for the first time since he started driving. Logan’s eyes remained steady on the road ahead, his grip on the steering wheel unwavering.

You didn’t say anything else as he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, or when the two of you walked into the lobby where the doorman greeted Logan with ease, or when you took the elevator upstairs to the 21st floor where he lived.

When he unlocked his door, he held it open for you to step in first. You entered with hesitant steps, like an elephant finding home inside a mouse’s hole in the wall. You pulled your coat off—now damp thanks to his car heater—and hung it up on the coat rack.

Logan’s apartment was beautiful. Polished with exquisite furniture—from the fine leather couches, to the shiny marble island, even the brick veneer fireplace in the living room. The deeper you ventured in, the more you were left in awe.

The floor to ceiling windows.

Your footsteps paused as you reached the far end of the room. You peered out the glass, coming face-to-face with the same Fenway Park the pair of you just drove by on the way here. The one you almost asked Logan about.

You turned around and met his eyes. He stood behind the couch, holding onto the cushions to keep him upright.

Your eyes glanced to the side of the apartment, where the floating staircase led to his quaint upper deck bedroom. Your eyes flicked back to his.

An unspoken exchange lingered between you.

“How’d you know where my car was?”

Logan pursed his lips before shrugging, “I just looked for the blue Toyota Camry.”

You nodded, “Of course you did.”

Logan walked over to his open kitchen, pulling out a bottle of something. “Reliable car,” he remarked.

You let out a huff of amusement, “Oh, for sure. Except when it’s pouring, right?”

Logan popped open the cork, “Cars don’t like water. They’re like cats.”

You sauntered your way into his kitchen. “Wish I knew that before I bought it.”

“I told you that when you bought it.”

Right. Logan had been the one who accompanied you to the dealership when you finally saved enough money to put a payment down for a car. He had spoken to the salesperson, checked out everything, told you all that you needed to know about cars. He was the reason you got a Camry because he said it wouldn’t let you down unless you let it down.

Perhaps that applied to more than just cars.

He held out a glass of wine towards you. You accepted it with a grateful smile, taking a sip.

Logan watched you over the rim of his own wine glass. “I’d give you the house tour but…this is pretty much it.”

“No, it’s nice,” you responded, looking around.

He nodded, “I’m glad you think so.”

Neither of you were willing to acknowledge his influence on your car preferences and your influence on his architectural choices.

You cleared your throat, “Thank you. Really. For saving me. You didn’t have to.”

Logan tilted his head, “No, I kinda had to.”

Your smile faded away.

He leaned against the kitchen island, “I told you if you ever had car troubles, I’m your guy.”

Your guy.

“Yeah, I know.” You replied. “I just…I wasn’t sure if you still meant that. After…everything.”

Logan looked away, finding sudden interest in the ceiling chandelier. “I’m gonna change out of this,” he pointed to his clothes.

You nodded, putting your glass down.

“You’re welcome to stay.” He told you, meeting your eyes once again. “We can go get your car in the morning—if it isn’t still raining—and I’ll fix it up for you.”

You wanted to decline his benevolent offer. Why was he so nice to you after you broke up with him? You didn’t deserve this—

Logan tugged you by your hand, his touch was electric after all the time apart. “C’mon, let me get you a change of clothes, too.”

He led you upstairs to the loft bedroom. The room was warmer, literally and figuratively. It wasn’t as chic as the downstairs, but definitely more homey.

Logan pulled open his dresser drawer and took out a t-shirt and pair of boxers. “These should still fit you,” he commented as he tossed them over to you.

You held them up. It was your favorite shirt of his, the one you always stole because of how soft the fabric felt. And the boxers, they had hockey sticks on them, something you bought him for his birthday one year.

He pointed to the en suite bathroom, “You can change in there, wash your face, whatever you want.”

You watched him for a moment as he pulled out his own change of clothes. Your mouth ran out of apologies and words of gratitude, so you simply nodded and made your way inside his bathroom.

By the time you stepped out in his apparel, Logan had already dressed in a fresh set of sweatpants sitting low on his waist and a white wife beater.

He paused when he saw you, needing to reintroduce the image of you in his shirt and boxers, as though it were a long-lost language he once spoke fluently.

He cleared his throat after a moment, “You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, Logan, it’s your place.” You argued.

“It’s fine, you’re my guest—”

“No, really, you should—”

“I insist—”

“But I—”

“Babe.”

You both froze when the word slipped out Logan’s lips so effortlessly. Your eyes met in a loaded exchange, but at least it got you to shut up about the bed. He cursed himself internally for allowing that to happen, and even more so when it felt so right doing it.

Logan let out a sigh and picked up a pillow and blanket, “Just…sleep on the bed. Please.”

This time, you didn’t shoot out a retort. You simply observed as Logan went down the stairs with his bedding.

You tried.

You really did.

But sleep would not find you no matter how many times you tossed and turned on Logan’s smooth sheets. Your mind replayed memories of him instead of dreams.

“Why are you doing this?” Logan’s voice was equal parts exasperation and anguish.

You sniffled, “Logan, I want what’s best for you. That’s all I want.”

“You’re what’s best for me!”

“No, I’m not—”

“You don’t get to decide that!” He held your arms with a desperate grip. “I’ve been making hard decisions my whole life. And this? You? It’s the easiest choice I ever made; it’s the only one I know that’s right.”

“You’ll change your mind, you’ll meet so many wonderful people in Boston. And I don’t want you to resent me for keeping you.”

“Resent you?” He repeated. “I love you. You’re it for me, baby. Don’t you get that?”

You sat up on his bed, your heart beating faster than normal. When you stood up and leaned forward on the loft’s railing, you spotted Logan sitting by the tall apartment window, staring out into the nighttime view.

“Since when do you like baseball?”

Logan turned his head and saw you at the bottom of the staircase. He huffed, “Boston brainwashed me.”

You smiled and sat across from him, your knees brushed against each other but neither of you pulled away. You followed his gaze out the window and towards Fenway Park.

“You been to any of their games?”

“One or two,” he answered.

“You a Red Sox fan now?” You teased.

“I have to be or else I’d get beat up on the streets,” Logan quipped.

You chuckled quietly. “What a waste of real estate.”

His expression sobered. He fiddled with his fingers before looking at you. “I only got this place because it’s what you always wanted.”

Your eyes darted to him.

He shrugged like the confession was helpless, inevitable, even. Logan wasn’t ashamed nor did he regret it.

“Logan,” you called softly.

“What do I have to do to show you that I want this? That I want us.”

Your chest tightened, “Logan.”

“It’s been a year, baby. I haven’t seen anyone else. I can’t. They’re not you.”

“Logan—”

“And you can try to tell me that this is what’s best for us, or whatever bullshit mature answer you have, but I won’t buy that. Nothing you say will change how I feel about you. I meant what I said when I told you that you were it for me.”

You kissed him.

He wouldn’t shut up if you hadn’t.

Neither of you complained.

Logan groaned against your lips like you were the first drop of rain in the midst of a drought. His hands buried themselves into your hair, pulling you closer until you settled onto his lap.

You found purchase on his broad shoulders, bringing your chests flush together. Your fingers tips brushed against the hairs on the nape of his neck, remembering what it felt like to tug on them.

As if he could read your thoughts, Logan pulled back enough to ask: “Please, baby, can I eat you out? I haven’t tasted you in so long.”

You must’ve looked pathetic when you nodded so quickly.

Logan pushed you to lay on your back. He lifted your shirt up enough so he could admire your bare chest. The sound that escaped him was even more pathetic than your eager consent.

His lips latched onto one of your nipples, flicking the bud and wetting it with fervor. His free hand kneaded your other breast with ample attention.

Your breath came out in shaky puffs. You closed your eyes and sighed, “Fuck, Logan.”

Your voice went straight to his groin. He switched to the other breast and showered it with the same affection.

You blinked down at him in a daze, weakly tugging at his top. He sat up immediately and pulled it off his frame, chucking it aside. Your eyes wandered over the bare expanse of his torso. His defined pecks and abdomen, the blooming bruises he earned from hockey slowly fading into yellow-green patches.

You didn’t have time to admire him in the way he deserved because Logan impatiently hooked his restless fingers under his boxers that you wore.

“Raise your hips for me, baby.”

You complied without hesitation. When your bottom half was left exposed, Logan sat back on his haunches and stared. His eyes glazed over with a subtle sheen and you almost worried that he’d start crying.

“You’re unfair,” he mumbled with softly arched brows. He reached down and propped your legs over his shoulders.

You cried out when his tongue slid between your folds in a tantalizingly slow glide. You weren’t sure if the sound you heard came out of your own mouth or Logan’s.

“Tastes better than I remember,” he said.

His lips left a small peck on your clit before he sucked on it. Your hips flinched upwards, but Logan’s strong arms held you down.

“Reactive, huh? Did you miss my mouth?”

You huffed, “Yes.”

He smirked. So smug.

“Yeah, I bet you did. I can tell.” His fingers swiped against you and gathered your slick.

“You’re so wet for me.”

“Don’t tease.”

Logan’s smile widened. He leaned forward so his face hovered over yours. “I can do whatever I want, baby. I earned it.”

Fuck was he right.

He devoured you. He left your legs shaking and heart racing. His tongue prodded your hole so skillfully, just the right amount of pressure that made you yank at his hair.

“Right there,” you gasped out.

Logan doubled down on his ministrations. His hands lifted your ass up so he could bury his face deeper between your thighs.

Your eyes rolled back, “Baby, I’m close.”

Baby.

Logan hadn’t heard that name of endearment from you in a year and it made him grind down on his erection to relieve some tension.

“You’re so pretty when you’re about to cum,” he said, admiring the view of you. He could always tell when you were close to finishing.

He dove back in, rapidly shaking his head from side to side, resulting in a crude squelching noise to echo in the air. You shrieked, arching up towards him.

“Let me have it, angel. I need it. I deserve it.”

His words were enough to send you over. When you came, you both let out a moan. Logan held you through it, working his tongue to ride out your wave of pleasure. You had to shakily push his head away when it became too much to bear.

Logan threw his head back and sat down. You both panted, forcing air back into your lungs, holding eye contact. When your gaze dragged downwards, you spotted the dark stain on the crotch of his sweatpants.

Your eyes widened.

Logan let out a small chuckle.

“It’s been a while,” is what he said.

“Since you ate a girl out?” You queried.

His adam’s apple bobbed, “Since I came.”

The room went quiet.

The thought of Logan being celibate since the two of you broke up did dangerous things to your heart. It weaved precarious hopes that you feared would blossom into something neither of you could promise.

Logan pulled one of your legs into his lap and started caressing your foot. He stared down at your skin, allowing the moment to settle. You watched him, biting your lip in thought.

“Let me take care of you,” you offered.

“It’ll take a while,” he said.

Your eyes automatically glanced between his legs.

Logan let out another amused laugh that faded into a deep sigh. His expression shifted into something more thoughtful as he looked at your face.

“Come back to me, baby.” He murmured.

Your heart ached at the pleading tone.

“We can live here,” he gestured around the apartment. “Sleep in our loft, have dinner on the kitchen island, make love on the couch, look out at Fenway Park at night…”

That was the life you wanted with Logan.

It was perfect.

He was perfect.

He did everything perfectly.

And you had let your fears ruin that.

But not anymore.

You reached for his hands and pulled him closer. Your foreheads rested against each other. He closed his eyes for a second before looking deep into yours.

“You’ll have to go to every Red Sox game with me,” you whispered.

Logan’s chuckle came out sounding like a breath of relief. He nodded slowly.

“Whatever you want,” he murmured.

You tilted your head, “You. I want you.”

Logan squeezed your hands, “You have me.”

And that was the easiest decision you ever made, too.