#DEADPOOL AND WOLVERINE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

logaenhowlett · 2 days ago

Text

I THINK THEY CALL THIS LOVE - L.H.

Summary: A flat tire, a blinding snowstorm, and a mix-up leads you to Logan's cabin. Things happen after another, and before you know it, Christmas means being snowed in with a complete stranger.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: 6.0k of pure fluff, Mutual pining (even Logan isn’t immune to cupid’s arrow), Sickeningly sweet slow burn, Major ‘just kiss already’ energy, How the Grinch Stole Christmas reference (pretend it exists in the 80s)

A/N: Can this happen to me please? And yes, it's inspired by The Holiday. Title creds to Elliot James Reay. Enjoy and happy holidays everyone, may your dreams be blessed with this beautiful man!

MASTERLIST

Nestled amidst snow-kissed pine trees, our cozy cabin offers a serene escape. Simply a perfect winter retreat overlooking breathtaking valleys and stunning mountain ranges, where you can unwind or explore our charming town just a short drive away.

Light cascades over his features, the glow harsh and bright as he squints at your phone, reading the brief description. Gusts of wind whip past as you wait expectantly, shifting your weight from one foot to another to keep warm.

"You got the wrong place," he says, peering out from behind the partially opened door.

Mouth agape, cold breaths misting in the chilly night air, you stare at him in disbelief. "This is the address they gave me," you reply desperately. It's a pointless attempt, you're not sure why you even bother trying. Clearly, you've ended up in the wrong place and arguing with this stranger won't change that.

"Well, they made a mistake, alright?" Brows creasing in mild annoyance, he leans forward, "S'my house. I live here.” The words hang in the air, heavy and final, punctuated by the squelch of your boots slightly sinking into the snow.

With a defeated sigh, you shuffle away from his front porch, the biting wind nipping at your exposed skin. Gloved fingers stiff from the cold, you fumble with the near-frozen handle of your car, the metallic hinges protesting as you wrench it open with a grunt. The thought of finding someplace to at least spend the night fills you with dread. Surely, scrambling at the last minute is bound to leave very few and certainly overpriced options.

Glancing back, you trace his figure silhouetted against the amber glow radiating from behind. "You wouldn't happen to know if there's a motel around, would you?" you ask, blinking tiredly against the glare.

"Closest one's 'bout an hour away." His expression remains unreadable, though, a flicker of something - perhaps sympathy - crosses his face. Just as you're sliding into the driver's seat, his voice cuts across the distance. "Hey - wait," he calls out, emerging from his house.

The collar of his flannel flaps from the breeze, and glimpses of the dark curls on his chest peek through the unbuttoned top. You wonder how the hell he's not shivering as he trudges through the snow, hands merely shoved deep into his pockets. He stops near your window, breath fogging up the glass as he looks at you hesitantly. "S'not safe to drive right now," he murmurs, weighing his next words, "Look, why don't you stay here tonight and figure somethin' out tomorrow?"

His offer takes you by surprise. The memory of his earlier dismissiveness stings, making the shift more jarring. Incoherent murmurs tumble from your throat, eyes widening at the thought of spending the night at this stranger's house. A ridiculously attractive stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. Sensing your unease, he sighs softly. "I get it, you don't know me. But, you're not gonna find anythin' this late anyway," he shrugs, taking a small step backwards, "S'up to you, just sayin'."

The rhythmic tapping of your fingers against the steering wheel echoes within the car. Doubt creeps into your mind as you study him, and eventually, the faint, encouraging smile he returns draws a shaky exhale. With a slight nod, you kill the engine.

Logan - as you learn shortly after - is a rather simple man. The interior of his cabin is minimal, almost sterile in nature and devoid of any personal touches. Yet, the warmth of the fireplace bathes the space in a cozy, inviting light. Scattered beer bottles and a couple of well-worn paperbacks lay on the coffee table, along with a radio humming a smooth jazz tune. A vague scent of pine lingers in the air, mingling with the smokiness of the aged wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling. Shockingly, there isn't a single festive ornament in sight unlike the heavily decorated neighbourhoods you drove through to get here. And honestly, the longer you spend in his company, the more questions arise.

"Quiet night in, huh?" you note, trailing after him.

"Usually how it goes," he replies with a huff, the muscles of his back straining against his flannel as he wheels your suitcase towards the single door at the end of the hallway.

"Oh. I can sleep on the couch, you don’t need to–"

Despite your protests, Logan gestures inside, stepping back for you to enter. "Take the bed, I'll be out there." And there's absolutely no room for a debate; the set of his jaw and the determined glint in his eyes make that painstakingly clear. Still, he can't contain his amusement as you open your mouth again. "Don't fight me on this, alright?" he adds, fixing you with a pointed gaze.

You hold eye contact for a few seconds, the intensity slowly melting your resistance. Reluctantly, you nod and he flicks a switch, a soothing glow casts over the room. The bed, with its crisp white sheets and a pleasantly startling number of pillows, seems so comfy you almost sigh in relief. "If you need anythin', just ask," he continues, hand hovering over the knob.

The door creaks behind him as you call out his name. Pausing his motion, he turns around, eyeing you with patient curiosity. Now, in proper lighting, you spot the flecks of green in his eyes, the perfectly tousled waves of his hair, and the incredibly soft beard you suddenly want to stroke. "Thank you," you rasp, your voice inexplicably thick with surprise.

Logan nods once with a tight-lipped smile. "My pleasure," he whispers, bidding you good night. A beat of silence passes, then the muffled sound of his footsteps receding down the hallway. Grumbling in confusion, you slide under the covers, the blanket enveloping you in a much-needed embrace.

Today was a bad day.

A truly awful, no-good, very bad day. Last night, when you'd impulsively booked this getaway, the possibility of handling flat tires and battling harsh weather only to end up at the wrong place, all because of some mix-up never crossed your mind. It seemed like the perfect escape, a chance to relax and enjoy the Christmas cheer, a well-deserved break from the months of stress and the endless workdays. Unfortunately, luck - the heartless bastard - had other plans. Logan, however, managed to salvage your spirits, at least a little, with his unexpected goodwill.

So maybe, today was a slightly less bad day.

The smoke alarm is moments from a full-blown wail. Logan curses under his breath, beads of sweat trickling down his temple. He'd only wanted to make a simple stack of pancakes, yet the kitchen remains a travesty and the once-promising batter now a charred mess on the griddle.

It's all unchartered territory, having someone over, much less a complete stranger. Save for the rare visit from his lumberjack buddies, which involves more beer than conversation, or the neighbourly kindness of Diane, the elderly woman who regularly presses homemade meals into his hands in exchange for mending broken fences or leaky pipes, he's never had any real company. And so, he doesn't exactly know what compelled him to wake up earlier than usual and rummage through the sparsely stocked shelves to whip up something decent.

Tossing a quick, and almost furtive glance down the hallway, the steady cadence of your breathing filters through the bedroom walls. Logan shakes his head, resignation twisting his lips. Unimpressed with his terrible attempt, he scrapes the burnt food into the trash.

A restless energy thrums beneath his skin, his mind consumed by a nervous current since he'd made the impulsive offer last night. Moving through the cabin like a man possessed, he rearranges the perfectly stacked firewood, dusts the already pristine surfaces, and even opens the refrigerator for the fourth time only to stare blankly at its contents, having gained nothing but a momentary distraction. He's sure the carpet is dented from the sheer number of times he's paced the same worn track, each turn drawing him closer to the bedroom, then away again.

The quietness is deafening for a couple of hours until the soft thumping of your footsteps quirks his ears. Logan stops fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers, then straightens his posture to lean against the kitchen counter.

The fading smell of something wrinkles your nose. "I didn't sleep through a forest fire or anything, right?" you mumble, rubbing your eyes tiredly with the back of your hand.

His eyes involuntarily flick towards the stove, and for a fleeting moment, a sheepish smile touches his lips. "Don't worry 'bout it," he says a little too quickly, "Sleep well?" The steam from his coffee curls upwards as he takes a slow sip.

"I did, and thank you for letting me stay. You didn't have to do that." He nods in response, trying to downplay the gesture.

A charged silence stretches between you, crackling with unspoken thoughts and lingering awkwardness. There's a brief and almost hesitant exchange of glances before you speak at the same time.

"I should get going then–"

"There's a diner nearby–"

Stopping abruptly, a slightly embarrassed chuckle escapes your lips, mirroring the faint grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth. The shared laughter dissipates some of the tension and the atmosphere becomes almost comfortable. Only a second passes before Logan tries again, the words tumbling out a little faster than he intends. "There's a diner nearby if you're hungry."

He doesn't know why he just said that - the thought hadn't been consciously formed at all. Though he feels this strange pull, this unexpected urge to prolong the conversation, a subtle plea for you to stay. He eyes you with barely concealed anticipation, awaiting your reaction with bated breath.

"Okay, I have to ask. What's with the severe lack of Christmas decor?"

Logan watches you swirl the last of your milkshake, the metal spoon clinking against the glass. The diner's fluorescent lights, while unforgiving to most, seem to soften as they trace the delicate curve of your jawline, highlighting the pale flush of your cheeks courtesy of the winter air. Leaning back against the worn leather of the booth, a small smile spreads across his face as he considers your question. His gaze sweeps over the room, noting the strings of twinkling lights haphazardly draped around the tables, the paper snowflakes dangling from the ceiling and a rather lopsided Christmas tree tucked next to the jukebox.

"S'not really my thing," he admits, a faint shrug lifting his broad shoulders.

"Not even a little?" you tease, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

The corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement, his smile widening just a fraction. "Never had a reason," he says with an almost offhand casualness. But the flicker of curiosity, or perhaps even the touch of concern, in your expression doesn't escape him. Logan catches the way your lips press together for a moment, a subtle sign of contemplation as you piece together the sparse details you'd gathered about him. Clearing his throat, he shifts slightly in his seat. "Why'd you pick this town?" he tries, changing the subject.

"It was the cheapest option. Or at least, in comparison."

He chuckles as you groan, "So this was all a spontaneous decision."

"Hey, it's my turn to ask!" you interject, raising a hand in mock protest.

"Wasn't a question," he retorts playfully.

Nearly two hours slip by with this back-and-forth, lighthearted volley of exchanges. The diner empties out slowly, the hectic energy subsiding into a quieter hum as the two of you settle into a pleasant rhythm, taking turns to ask questions. Most of them are silly, designed to elicit a laugh or a quick anecdote - but the tone shifts here and there, venturing into deeper waters. The laughter doesn't disappear entirely, but it's interspersed with moments of thoughtful silence and understanding.

"So, what do you actually do? You know, besides running this bed and breakfast thing?"

Shaking his head, Logan rolls his eyes at your joke. "Work down at the lumberyard just like the next guy 'round here," he says with a vague gesture. "And what do you actually do?" His voice mimicking the same teasing tone you'd used.

The slight downturn of your smile takes him aback. "Journalist." It comes out strained, almost clipped. "I cover a bit of everything - well, whatever my boss throws at me anyway." The last part is delivered with a small, forced chuckle and he can't help but notice the change in your demeanour, the way your shoulders stiffen or how your jaw tightens. And despite not being the cause of it, regret fills him immediately, a sharp pang of guilt that settles in his stomach.

"Sounds... rough."

"Exactly why I needed a break."

Logan understands, with a surprising clarity, that pity is the last thing you want. And so, he steers away from anything of that sort, discarding the sympathetic expression that involuntarily surfaces. "Too bad your plans went to shit, huh?" he offers bluntly, his eyes, however, soften in the slightest.

Something akin to gratefulness shines in your smile, "Tell me about it."

The diffused light of the morning sun seeps through the frosted panes of the bedroom window. You stir awake, still incredibly tired as the remnants of a restless night hover like a persistent fog. Logan's bed had generously provided warm company for hours as you scoured for new accommodations in the area. Of course, with the holiday season, the internet had proven a frustrating dead end, most places booked solid during this time of year. Sleeping in your car was starting to feel like the only option until you stumbled upon a listing for a small lodge on the outskirts of town that had become vacant due to a last-minute cancellation.

The relief had been immense, a great wave washing over you as you secured the reservation. But now, as you slowly surface from sleep, the memory of that frantic search lingers, a dull ache pressing behind your eyes. Stretching out your stiff limbs, you squint at the alarm clock on the bedside table, wincing slightly at the early hour. And despite exhaustion weighing you down, a sense of purpose pushes you out of bed.

The wheels of your suitcase rumble against the wooden floorboards as you emerge from the hallway. Logan stands by the large window, his back a dark silhouette against the stark white landscape beyond. His gaze locks onto yours instantly, a look of sympathy - tinged with wry amusement - softens his features. "Hate to break it to you, but–" he begins, gesturing outside with a tilt of his head.

"Wha– oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me!"

A thick layer of fresh snow blankets the ground. The pine trees, a deep green last night, now laden with a heavy dusting, branches drooping under the weight. The scene is undeniably perfect, picturesque even. But the beauty is utterly lost on you in that moment. Everything is covered with a pristine white expanse that stretches as far as the eye can see. And there's simply no way in hell you can step out without sinking knee-deep, much less move your car even an inch.

"Happened overnight," his voice calm against your rising irritation. "Weather guy said it'll last a few days." Logan senses your distress, the dejected slump of your posture drawing genuine concern. "Listen, don't worry 'bout stayin' here. I don't mind at all, okay?" His reassurance eases your worries by a fraction, the sincerity and sheer honesty in his tone dispelling any hesitation creeping in. "'m serious," he adds gently.

"Thank you... so much, Logan. Really," you manage, the words catching in your throat.

And you are. Deeply, and truly grateful. Your carefully laid plans once again derailed by something beyond your control. Yet, it could have been so much worse. Thanks to Logan's unwavering support, his willingness to welcome a stranger, you're not completely shelterless while the snowstorm continues. The idyllic Christmas getaway you envisioned withers into a distant mirage. But in this moment, surrounded by the warmth of his presence, this feels more than enough.

Hours pass as you drift into a well-deserved nap on the couch, the hushed murmur of the wind outside lulling you into a peaceful slumber. The quiet doesn't last. A sudden bang echoes through the cabin, jolting you awake. "The fuck–" you murmur, disoriented as you stand up. Frowning at the interruption, you pad towards the noise, and eventually, stop dead in your tracks. "Holy shit."

Snow dusts his hair and shoulders, clinging to the rough fabric of his denim jacket. Logan, cheeks flushed red from the cold, wrestles a decent-sized fir tree through the back door. And judging by his grunts, it's evidently too wide for the opening. "Good, you're up. Hold the door, would ya?" he grumbles, muscles flexing against its considerable weight as he inches it further and further inside.

Shock momentarily freezes you in place, but his request snaps you out of your stupor. Rushing forward, you push the door with all your strength, the hinges groaning as you force it open at an awkward angle. With a final, mighty heave and a muttered curse, he manages to carry it fully indoors.

"What... is this?" you ask bewildered. A flurry of snowflakes and pine needles spread onto the floor, the crisp scent of nature filling the space. It's a wild and untamed thing, the sight of it so random and yet, somewhat festive.

"S'clearly a tree."

He doesn't cower from your glare. "Yes, I know it's a tree. What's it doing in your living room?"

Logan pauses briefly, and you can’t quite decipher if the deepening flush on his cheeks is solely from the lingering chill or something else entirely. He avoids your direct gaze for a second. "Figured since you're stuck here, might as well decorate a little." A studied nonchalance masks his attitude as if lugging a six-foot tree into his cabin during a raging blizzard is the most normal thing in the world.

Stunned doesn't even begin to capture the whirlwind of emotions churning within. Logan had already opened his home to you, and now, he's gone to the trouble of dragging this laughably enormous tree inside, all in an effort to cheer you up. Something spreads through your chest in an almost overwhelming capacity and the air suddenly feels intimate. And expressing the full extent of your appreciation feels too vulnerable, so you deflect instead. "Thought it wasn't really your thing."

"Yeah well, 'm runnin' a bed and breakfast as you said. Gotta keep my only guest happy, right?" His smile nearly melts you. The effect immediate and surprisingly potent. One that speaks of pure kindness and his quiet, unassuming warmth. One that makes the absurdity of a giant tree propped in the middle of his living room not only reasonable, but somehow perfectly right.

"I'll make sure to leave a four-star rating."

"Four?"

"I know you burnt something yesterday."

The evening comes quickly and time flies, surprisingly so, as you and Logan get to decorating. The lack of traditional ornaments proves to be only a minor obstacle because with a little creativity, colourful ribbons from old packages become tinsel, pinecones transform into rustic baubles, and even a string of spare light bulbs is carefully wrapped around the branches.

A natural rhythm falls into place as you work. You talk about random things: childhood memories, neighbours, and his startling lack of Christmas movie knowledge - a revelation that elicits a gasp of mock horror. There are moments when you stand close, brushing fingertips as you reach for the same thing. A shared look lasts a fraction too long, a breath catches in quiet air before one of you shyly steps aside. And strangely, despite the unusual circumstances that brought you together, despite the fact that you're practically strangers, it feels easy.

Fuck.

The shovel bites into the heavy snow with a satisfying crunch, lifting a thick slab that Logan heaves to the side of Diane's driveway. Earlier, her voice, tinged with desperation, had come through the answering machine, asking if he could possibly clear the mess in exchange for a warm dinner. He'd readily agreed, a gesture so typical in weather like this. But, in the course of the call, he'd let slip that he wasn't alone. And Diane, ever the hospitable and nosy soul, immediately insisted that you join in too.

He keeps a steady and even pace, breath puffing out in small white clouds in the fresh afternoon air. The muscles in his arms and back strain beneath his jacket as he clears a path through the deep drifts. You stand nearby - supposedly helping - bundled in your warmest clothes.

He's about to tease you for your lack of contribution, the words practically forming on his lips, when something cold and wet hits the back of his neck. Whirling around sharply with a surprised expression, he finds you grinning. The evidence is clear: melting remains of a snowball cling to your gloved hands, while a few snowflakes adorn your hair, creating a delicate halo of white around your face. With a few quick swipes, the snow is brushed away, his gaze not straying from yours.

"Now that was a mistake, darlin'."

Before he can retaliate, you turn and bolt. It's a comical attempt at an escape, a sort of waddling run rather than a sprint. Within seconds, he gains distance and tackles you gently, sending you both tumbling into a soft pile of snow. Laughter bubbles up and then fades, leaving Logan staring down at you. Inches apart, noses almost touching. A strange energy hangs in the air, pulling him imperceptibly closer.

"You kids'll catch a cold playing in that!"

He huffs a laugh, the sound a little breathless, a little unsteady, before pushing himself up. "Don't worry Diane, 'm takin' real good care of her," he yells back, extending a hand towards you.

"I'm sure you are," she mutters to herself knowingly. "C'mon in, dinner's ready!"

The kitchen table groans under the weight of the food: a glistening roast chicken sits proudly in the center, surrounded by steaming bowls of creamy mashed potatoes, green beans and thick slices of homemade bread. Diane bustles around the table, refilling your plates, urging you to try the gravy, her face beaming with satisfaction.

She shifts her attention to you, asking about your life, your hobbies, your family. Logan catches himself staring more than once, a faint blush rising as he diverts his gaze to the food. But the pull is undeniable; his eyes keep returning, hooked as if by an invisible thread.

Dinner passes in a warm haze of hearty conversation and fond memories. "Is this your son?" you ask, carrying the dishes to the sink. A framed photograph rests on the bookshelf near the doorway. Light falls onto the glass, reflecting a gentle glow on the smiling faces within.

"Yes, my Charlie. Real sweetheart that boy, calls every week to check in. He works down in the city, busy as can be. I haven't seen him in... it must be nearly two years now." The lines around her eyes crinkle slightly as she dusts the picture. "But Logan's been a blessing, I tell you. Always there for me."

"Don't go spreadin' that 'round. Can't have people thinkin' I give out special treatment," he retorts playfully, leaning against the counter.

"Oh, I think everyone can see who you're sweet on."

Logan shifts slightly, his smile faltering at the comment. A redness creeps up his neck, betraying his composure as he steals a glance at your stunned expression. Clearing his throat a little rougher than normal, he turns abruptly to the front door. "Gonna get some firewood."

A gust of wind, sharp and sudden as a physical blow, smacks against him the moment he steps outside. He gathers a few logs, the rough bark scraping against his fingers, but his mind remains stubbornly elsewhere. As he retraces his steps to the front porch, the gentle lilt of Diane's voice filters through the walls: "Could you get the door, honey?"

The door swings inwards, and his breath hitches immediately. Suspended just inches above, dangling from a slender crimson ribbon, hangs a sprig of mistletoe, its pale berries gleaming. Your gaze follows his, an embarrassed chuckle slipping out. From somewhere behind, Diane hums, a sound that resonates with blatant intention. The weight of the firewood in his arms increases tenfold as he meets your eyes. He can’t quite decipher the expression in them – amusement, a hint of nervousness, and something else he can’t quite place. "You don't... have to–" he mumbles.

Then, your attention dips down to his lips, a fleeting glance that sends a jolt of electricity through his body, momentarily stilling his heartbeat. He feels frozen, every muscle taut, the firewood heavy and forgotten. But at the very last second, you turn your head and press a kiss to his cheek instead.

The cherry of his cigar burns a steady ember. He leans against the rough-hewn logs of his cabin wall, the wood pressing into his back. The ghost of your lips on his cheek persists, a phantom touch that caresses his skin long after you’ve moved away. Logan draws deeply on the cigar, the smoke winding upwards in wisps, obscuring the stars above. He's only known you for a few days. So how could this feeling, this unsettling, foreign tinge of exhilaration, possibly exist?

"Hey."

The single word, soft yet distinct in the quiet night, floats like a whispered secret. Darkness traces the lines of your face, casting delicate shadows that accentuate your features. "Hey."

"Aren't you cold?"

"Run pretty warm," he replies, smoke escaping his mouth as he takes another drag. "Sorry ‘bout Diane. She can get a little–"

"No. That's alright." With a slight, almost languid wave of your hand, you brush aside his apology. "She's quite fond of you," you whisper, accompanied by a subtle upturn of your lips.

Logan huffs lightly as the silence returns. The moonlight, filtered through the branches overhead, creates dappled patterns of light and shadow across the ground. “So,” he begins, his gaze locking onto yours, “this... everythin' you hoped for?”

"No." Your response is immediate. A small, genuine smile blossoms on your face at his reaction, sending a wave of unexpected warmth surging through his chest - a warmth that has nothing to do with the slowly burning cigar held loosely between his fingers. "It's better."

He fights hard to school his expression, to maintain a neutral facade, not wanting to reveal how much your simple happiness affects him. A furrow appears between your brows, and your lips part slightly as if you’re about to speak, then hesitate. "What're you thinkin'?" he asks gently.

"Work. I don't wanna go back," you confess. The heavy sigh that follows speaks volumes. "It's just... not what I thought it would be. It's not what I want anymore." The dejection in your voice is palpable, a sadness that makes him ache to reach out and offer comfort.

Logan sees the weariness etched on your face, the way your gaze drifts towards the dark silhouette of the distant mountains as if seeking solace in the vast landscape. "Then what's keepin' you there?" he wonders aloud, an instinctive pull bringing him a step closer.

You pause almost abruptly, the flow of conversation halting as if it hit an invisible wall. The soft vulnerability that had been present just moments before vanishes, replaced by a guardedness that makes him instantly regret his question. "I should get some rest."

“Wait–”

“Good night, Logan,” you mumble, the door clicking shut behind you.

Hi, Mr. Grinch!

Cindy Lou?! What are you doing up there?

I came to see you. No one should be alone on Christmas.

The scene plays along as you and Logan sit beside each other on the couch. He’d suggested the movie, feigning a sudden interest in Christmas classics. But you knew the real reason. The insistent buzz of work emails had been plaguing your phone all day, and he’d seen the way your eyes kept flicking down to the screen, the shadow of worry that clouded your features. This was his quiet way of offering respite - a gentle distraction.

The light from the television flashes across his profile, illuminating the strong line of his jaw and the curve of his lips. He seems completely absorbed by the movie, but a stillness in his posture tells you he’s not as engrossed as he pretends to be.

A wave of drowsiness washes over you, your eyelids fluttering closed and then snapping open again in a futile attempt to stay awake. But the warmth of the fire, the muted hum of the movie, and Logan's comforting presence prove too much to resist. Your head lolls to the side, almost of its own accord, finding a soft landing against his shoulder.

The sharp clatter of pots and pans colliding rouses you from sleep. Then, a savory blend of garlic, herbs, and something undeniably rich and tomatoey, wafts through the air. As you round the corner to investigate, your jaw drops.

There, stands Logan, putting the final touches on a scene that looks straight out of a romcom. A small, round table has been pulled away from the wall and positioned near the window. Candlelight dances on the polished wood surface, reflecting in the delicate glassware he’d clearly unearthed from some hidden corner of the cabin. Two steaming bowls of pasta sit on either side.

His head lifts as you appear, some kind of hopeful affection shimmering in his eyes much like the flames themselves. He quickly steps back from the table, as if caught in the act of some grand romantic gesture. The glow from your makeshift yet charmingly decorated Christmas tree in the living room spills into the kitchen. It’s all so carefully arranged, so thoughtfully put together, that it takes your breath away.

"What's all this?"

"Nothin' special... just thought it'd be nice. Christmas Eve n' all."

"I'm... impressed," you stammer nervously, but the sentiment feels inadequate on your tongue.

Logan ducks his head rather shyly - a small almost boyish action that flushes his rugged features. He then moves with a newfound purpose, reaching for the back of the chair closest to you and pulling it out in a smooth motion. And in that moment, there’s no world where you’d say no. The thought doesn’t even cross your mind.

The meal had been delicious, but it was the shared conversation, the easy laughter that truly filled you. "Maybe I'll have to bump you up to five stars."

"Hm, that so?"

"I said maybe."

He chuckles, holding your gaze for a beat longer before rising suddenly. Static bursts into the room as he fiddles with the radio, a brief, crackling intrusion before giving way to fragmented voices and snippets of music. He continues turning the dial until a slow melody emerges. Spinning around, Logan extends a hand towards you, his palm facing upwards in a clear invitation. "C'mon, trust me," he whispers.

Hesitantly, you grasp his fingers - his touch gentle and firm. As you draw closer, the scent of woodsmoke and his cologne crowd your lungs. The movement feels surprisingly natural as if you’ve danced a hundred times before.

"This is... the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me."

At your words, Logan’s hand tightens on your waist. The subtle change in his posture, the slight tilt of his head, the way his focus lies solely on you, steal any semblance of logic in your mind, replacing it with a dizzying rush of anticipation.

"Yeah? You deserve it," he murmurs back, his voice low and husky. "I like seein' you happy."

You make me happy. The words tremble on the tip of your tongue, daring to break free. The distance between your lips is almost nonexistent, a hair’s breadth separating you from the building tension. Time seems to slow, each second stretching into an eternity as you both lean in, the promise of a kiss hanging heavy in the air. You can almost taste him, a sweet ache swelling in your chest.

But the jarring tone of an emergency broadcast shatters the moment. “The severe snowstorm warning previously in effect for this region has now been lifted. A true Christmas miracle! Tomorrow will bring clear skies and–”

As you walk side-by-side along a beaten-down path through the mountains, the crisp breeze nipping at your cheeks, he steals glances at you, drinking in the sight of your joy. The moon paints the world in silver, mirroring the pure happiness that had been shining in your eyes. Logan had spent the day showing you around town: the local bakery, the family-owned bookstore. You’d even braved the icy air for a short walk along the frozen lake, nearly slipping until his quick reflexes caught you just in time.

He stops as the path opens up onto a breathtaking vista. The town below sprawls out like a miniature constellation, each house a tiny spark of light against the dark canvas of the valley. Strings of colourful lights crisscross the streets, weaving a tapestry of festive cheer. Logan watches you, a quiet satisfaction settling in his chest. He can see the awe etched on your face as you absorb all the details.

"What'd you think?"

"It's... beautiful," you exhale.

"Thought you'd like it." He shifts closer, subtle yet deliberate as his chest brushes lightly against your shoulder. A wildfire courses through his veins, temptation burning away his doubts. He’d wanted to kiss you - countless times. The impulse had been a constant undercurrent for days, a silent hum beneath the surface of every conversation, every shared look. Leaning in, breath warm against your ear, he whispers your name. "Tell me 'm not crazy. Tell me you don't want this and I'll stop."

"Cause darlin', 'm runnin' out of reasons why I shouldn't," he murmurs.

And then, you turn. The sweetness of your lips becomes almost intoxicating and unlike anything he ever imagined. Logan's hand trails up your side, mapping the curve of your waist. With a soft sigh, he dips his head further, deepening the kiss. All the pent-up tension comes crashing down as you pull away. It's a rush, a torrent that sweeps through him, rendering him breathless and nearly disoriented.

His thumb caresses your cheek, a silent plea that echoes the longing in his tone. "Don't... don't leave."

"Logan... I can't." His heart sinks. It’s not a dramatic plummet, but a slow, agonizing descent. Regret stings your eyes as his hand falls away.

"Why not? You're not happy workin' that job. Stay here, you'll find somethin'," he tries desperately.

"Stop. Please," you whisper, choked with emotion. "Let's just go back."

Heartache keeps Logan tossing and turning all night. Sleep had offered no escape, only a relentless replay of yesterday's conversation. His eyes burn, gritty and heavy as he pushes himself up on his elbows. But a strange unease stirs in his gut. He can't sense your presence. The air feels empty, lacking your familiar warmth and energy.

Panic flares in his mind. Did he push you away? Did you leave in the middle of the night? A cold dread grips his heart. He throws the blanket off, feet hitting the cold wooden floor with a thud.

Nausea rolls over him. A hollow ache in the pit of his stomach inches through his entire body. His hands tremble as he rakes them through his hair, breath catching in his throat. He’s about to give in to the rising despair, the crushing weight of believing you’re gone when a faint scent drifts in through the slightly open window. Relief knocks him hard, so intense his knees almost buckle.

"Fuck, I thought–" he starts, heading towards you.

"I quit."

Logan freezes, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What?"

"I quit my job." The corners of your mouth curve into a smile, and his heart leaps at the sight. "Running out of reasons why I shouldn't," you chuckle softly, fingers lacing together at the nape of his neck, the touch sending a shiver down his spine. "But next year, we're getting real decorations," you add playfully, and he grins.

"I'll buy some today, sweetheart."

415 notes · View notes